With my father insisting I marry her, it’s possible they might be working together.
I tell myself I’m only checking on her.
That lie lasts all of ten seconds.
The house is quiet, midnight quiet, the kind where every floorboard sounds louder and every thought has more room than it should. I’ve tried work. Whiskey. Reports. Nothing helps. Every time I close my eyes, I see her in that hospital bed. Or on the sidewalk. Or standing in my hallway telling me the child isn’t mine
So eventually I stop pretending and go to her room.
The door is slightly open. Just enough.
I step inside.
Moonlight cuts across the bed in a pale stripe. She’s on her side, one hand tucked under the pillow, the other resting low on her belly even in sleep. Her breathing is slow. The room smells faintly of her shampoo and the stupid tamarind snacks my mother gave her.
I stand there longer than I should. Just looking.
I don’t touch her. Don’t speak. I just watch to make sure she’s real and here and breathing.
Then she stirs.
Her eyes open slowly, unfocused at first, then finding me in the dark.
“How long have you been there?” she asks, voice rough with sleep.
Too long.“Not long.”
She gives me a look that says she doesn’t believe me, but she doesn’t push. She shifts slightly, making room without meaning to, and that small movement breaks what little restraint I had left.
I go to her.
The bed dips under my weight as I climb in beside her. She doesn’t stop me. Doesn’t move away. I lean over and kiss her before either of us can say something that would make this harder than it already is.
She answers immediately.
Soft at first, then deeper, her hand sliding up to the back of my neck as if she’s been waiting for this too. I move closer, one handat her waist, the other drifting over the curve of her belly with more care than I have ever used on anything in my life.
She stills under my palm.
Not in a bad way. Just enough that I feel it.
I kiss her jaw, her throat, and let my hand stay there, rubbing slowly over the rounded shape of her stomach. The child moves, faint but real, beneath my touch.
Something in me goes quiet.
She inhales sharply. Then I feel it. Wetness against my cheek.
I pull back at once.
She’s crying. Not hard. Not dramatically. Worse. Silent tears, caught before they can become anything louder.
“What?” I say, already tense. “What is it?”
She turns her face away.
I cup her jaw gently and bring her back. “Zatanna.”
Her lips tremble once, then she says it. “What am I to you?”
