He crouches beside us, checking her pulse, her breathing, shining a small light into her eyes as he speaks to her like she can hear him.
“Mrs. Baker, can you hear me?”
Nothing.
My chest tightens.
“Come on, baby,” I press again, quieter now, closer, my forehead nearly touching hers.
Her lashes tremble.
Relief hits so hard it’s almost painful.
“There you are,” I breathe, my voice breaking.
Her eyes open slowly, unfocused at first, confusion clouding them as she tries to orient herself, her gaze drifting before it finally lands on me.
“Trey…?”
“I’m here,” I answer immediately, my hand tightening around hers. “I’m right here.”
The doctor watches her closely, already shifting into questions, his tone calm.
“Do you feel dizzy?”
She swallows, nodding faintly. “A little…”
“Nauseous?”
“Yes.”
“Have you been under significant stress recently?”
A weak, almost humorless breath leaves her, and if the situation were anything else I might laugh, but right now all I feel is the tension coiling tighter in my chest.
The doctor studies her for a moment longer, then asks, almost casually. “Is there any chance you could be pregnant?”
Silence.
It doesn’t just settle over the room—it drops, swallowing everything whole.
My grip on her hand stills.
Her breath catches.
Slowly, almost instinctively, her hand lifts from where it rests against me and drifts down to her stomach.
“No…” she whispers, but it isn’t denial.
It’s realization.
Her gaze snaps back to mine, wide, searching, something fragile and shaken breaking through the fear.
“Johnathon… he said…”
My entire body goes rigid.
“What?”
