***
Later that night, I wake to find Gabriel standing at the window of our bedroom, staring out at the darkness beyond.
This happens sometimes. The nightmares never fully went away—not for him, not for me. Some wounds don't heal; they just become part of you, scar tissue woven into the fabric of who you are.
I slip out of bed and go to him, wrapping my arms around him from behind, pressing my cheek to his back.
"Bad dream?" I ask.
"No. Just thinking."
"About what?"
He's quiet for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is low, contemplative.
"I used to think I was beyond redemption. That the things I'd done, the person I'd become, had put me past the point of no return." He turns, gathering me against his chest. "I was wrong."
"You're not redeemed, Gabriel. You're still dangerous. You're still capable of terrible things."
"I know." He doesn't flinch from the truth. "But I'm also capable of this. Of loving you. Of wanting to be better. Of looking at the future and seeing something worth protecting instead of just threats to be eliminated."
"Is that enough?"
"I don't know." His hand finds my stomach, splaying across the curve where our daughter sleeps. "But it's more than I ever thought I'd have. And I'm grateful for it. Every day, I'm grateful."
I rise on my tiptoes and kiss him—soft, tender, full of promise.
"Come back to bed," I whisper. "We have a few more weeks before everything changes. Let's not waste them standing in the dark."
He lets me lead him back to bed, lets me curl against him under the covers, lets me hold him the way he so often holds me.
Outside, the night is vast and dark and full of unknown dangers. The world hasn't changed just because we have. The Brotherhood still exists. Gabriel's brothers still carry their owndarkness. The legacy of violence and power that shaped him still casts its long shadow over our lives.
But here, in this room, in this bed, with this man—I am not afraid.
I chose this. I chose him. And every day, I choose it again.
That's what love is, I've learned. Not a single decision, but a thousand small ones. A constant choosing, over and over, to stay when leaving would be easier. To trust when doubt would be safer. To hope when despair would be more rational.
I choose Gabriel. I choose our daughter. I choose this complicated, dangerous, beautiful life.
And I will keep choosing it, for as long as I have breath to choose.
***
Three Weeks Later
Her name is Iris.
She comes into the world screaming, red-faced and furious, with a full head of dark hair and her father's gray eyes. Gabriel catches her—he insisted on being the one, and the doctors were too intimidated to argue—and the look on his face when he holds her for the first time is something I will carry with me for the rest of my life.
Wonder. Terror. Love so fierce it's almost violent.
"She's perfect," he breathes.
"She's ours," I manage, exhausted and exhilarated and overwhelmed.
"Ours." He brings her to me, settling her on my chest, and for a moment we just stare at her—this impossible creature we made together, this new life that will reshape everything we thought we knew.
