Feelin Ucey ?

November 3rd, 2024

“Should you be drinking that?”

“You want some?”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“You didn’t answer mine, either.”

For the first time since you two boarded his private jet, Roman flits his gaze from the ceiling over to you. His eye contact has been everywhere and elsewhere for the past almost hour, but this time, he’s not looking at the obsidian bottle you're holding. Fingers spread and splayed over the cream wrapping. What it is, you haven’t a clue. You’d just asked for something “good,” and the nice flight attendant with a pointed nose and freckles spackled over her T-zone honored your request. 

The shit is very good.

Or maybe you’re just that bored.

You can fully understand why Roman asked you almost three times if you were sure you wanted to attend this PLE with him. International travel wasn't unfamiliar. You’d traveled overseas—Jamaica—the summer before your senior year of high school, and while it wasn’t a super long flight, it was the longest one you’d been on. Not the easiest, but not the worst, either. Stupidly, you’d put two completely different examples juxtaposed and were now paying the price. 

Not even an hour in, and you’re already over it.

Doesn’t help that it was such a short turnaround time, either. Granted, the initial plan was to stay an additional day or two. Do some exploring. Despite politics you find egregious, sexist, and misogynistic, Saudi Arabia, geographically speaking, is a beautiful ass country.

It’s also a country Roman was eager to get the fuck out of following the disaster that was Crown Jewel.

Hence the sour ass mood he’s been in since he walked into gorilla, his cousin, Jimmy, flanked on his side attempting to butter him up with toxic positivity that only earned him a glare and silence that extended all the way to their ride back to the hotel.

Even now. 

A part of you wishes that you knew what to say to help him feel better, but on top of still not being completely clear on the full backstory of how his family ended up so fractured and divided, you’re just….not good with that shit anyway.

Blind leading the blind. 

The almost squeaking sound from across drags your eyes from your lap to the man now leaning over and reaching for the bottle. You chuckle and oblige, handing it to him, studying the way he reclines, head tilted back, liquid swimming down his throat. The slight scowl from the aftertaste and brief shake of his head followed by him falling back into that funk.

It’s gotta be the therapy you’ve been surprisingly consistent with the past month paying off that gives you a ridiculous, sudden boost of confidence. A fleeting desire to at least try to lift his spirits. 

“There’s always next time.”

He waits until he’s downed his second swish, glare set on you, the same tone he’d used with his cousin. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“I think we both know there’s nothing that could make you feel better right about now.” You roll your eyes, pulling your legs up to your chest. The sleeve of your shirt—his shirt—hanging off your shoulders, exposing your hot pink bra strap. “You lost that chance when you took that pin.”

Regret immediately fills you at your unfiltered, unintended shot at a man who was already down. Has, in many ways, been down since the night you both met and married him. Some of that down, no doubt, a result of your own actions. 

Though the same could be said for the other way around.

He snorts, placing the bottle down on the tray beside the cream, leather seat. “Surprised you got the terminology right.”

Him not snapping and slinging that mud right back at you is…surprising but appreciated. Maybe those therapy sessions as part of your overall treatment have been helpful for him, too. Or maybe not because if that were the case, his other cousin, Jey, wouldn’t still hold such a level of animosity towards him. So much so that it ultimately played a large role in the disaster that was this match.

But also….if anyone knows that some bridges are burned beyond the point of repair, it’s you.

You know it all too well.

It’s what shifts the tide. Makes something turn in your stomach as you mush your lips, doing your best to string words together in a way that’s helpful vs harmful. 

Lord knows you’d played your role of villain far too well over the past few months.

“You’ll figure all this out.” Roman once again looks over at you. That same guarded, irritated expression unchanging. “The fact that he agreed to even team with you and Jimmy has to mean something, right? He could have just told you to fuck off.”

Roman's reply is almost instantaneous. “He did.” 

Despite the indirect rejection of what’s probably a poor attempt at comforting, it doesn’t deter you. Confuses you initially, sure. But then you realize he’s referring to Jey’s conduct throughout the match. The lack of cooperation. “Maybe.” You shift in your seat, shrugging your shoulders. “But he still showed up. Still tried. In his own way….and so did you.” 

That’s when you see it. The subtle softening of his harsh, sharp features. The flick of his tongue to the corner of his mouth. It encourages you in a way that you can’t quite explain. “Trust me. If anyone knows about this whole fucking everything up and then trying to fix it shit, it’s me.”

Another quick reply, this one with a less austere tone. “Line starts behind me.” 

And for the first time in a while, you smile. Not forced for the camera, a post or video to upload, perpetuating and maintaining a fraud that felt like it’d become your norm. A genuine, fucking smile. 

“Well, make room for me next to you or something.”

And for the first time all night, he smiles. 

You bite down on your bottom lip, lowering your legs to the ground. Eye contact locked as you close the distance between the two of you, assisted by the way he reaches and tugs you onto his lap. Your arms wrap around his neck as his do around your waist, big hands dropping to palm your ass through your thick, gray sweats.

“It’ll all work out,” you repeat, voice softer. “It sucks right now, but….” The swipe of his tongue over that soft, thick bottom lip is all the encouragement that you need with the thought that crossed your mind the minute he pulled you close to him. “Then again….”

Th lines around his eyes make an appearance, deepening and creasing as you climb off his lap. Dragging your palms down his chest, you drop to your knees. A flash of something in his iris when your fingers toy with and snap the band of his own sweats before smoothing over his thighs, gentle force making them part just enough for you to shuffle between them. “Not everything that sucks is bad.” 

May, 2026

Your lips pressed together as you hum quietly to Mari's latest single clashes with the dark flooring as you make your way into the kitchen. But it's a sound that ceases when you’re met with the surprising sight of your husband’s broad back as he stands near the island. 

“Hey, babe.” You kiss him on the cheek, sauntering past and depositing your Gucci bag onto the counter. “I thought you’d still be at the gym.” Because Lord knows this man’s gym sessions are already long as hell, but ever since he won the WHC, they’ve been even more ridiculous. Twice, sometimes up to three times a day. His morning and evening ones are typically done at home, but the afternoon one he gets in at Paragon. The elite, private gym he’s a member of that has a ridiculous monthly membership fee and perks that seem like something out of a movie.

It still blows your mind sometimes just how wealthy he is. You weren’t exactly living in poverty before meeting him, having been one of the luckier ones who makes a decent amount of money off your various platforms. But your manic episodes often included reckless spending, so much so that it’d greatly depleted what was, at one time, a hefty savings account. You’ve built it back up, and then some, since being with Roman. But if not for him….

You shake your head, willing the thoughts away.

It’s best you not go there.

“Finished a lil’ early.” 

In the midst of opening up the refrigerator to pull out the cranberry juice, it’s his tone that immediately ceases your actions. 

Something…something is off.

Bumping the door closed with your hip, bottle in hand, you turn your attention back towards him only to instantly still, ajar mouth frozen in place.

He’s still standing near the island, black, sleeveless Nike fitted shirt clinging to his chest, and while your eyes start to travel the length of his sculpted arms, something else takes precedent.

The bag.

And not even the large TJ Maxx bag on the counter in as much as it is the contents that you immediately make out via the brief, exposed portion of a striped, pink and white onesie sleeve. 

Fuck

But if there’s one thing you’ve always been good at, it’s saving face.

Your hand tightens around the bottle, condensation dripping and melting between your fingers. “Oh.” You clear your throat, opening the closest cabinet to pull out a glass. “That.” You shake your head, back towards him while you fill the cup to the halfway mark. “Yeah, I was clearly in an episode. Hence why it was in the donation pile.”

“Y/N—”

“What? You going through my stuff now?” The teasing tone of your voice is intentional, a smirk on your face as you turn around and take a sip. Licking the rim with a wink. “Making sure I’m not getting rid of any of your memorabilia, old man?”

One look at his unchanged expression, however, tells you everything you need to know. You can’t charm your way out of this one.

A heavy sigh precedes the way you shake your head and place the cup back down on the counter. “Come on, Rome. It’s not a big deal.” Walking over, something tightens in your chest when you reach for the bag, hand hovering over the exposed item. It takes a second for you to push through it. Your eyes lift to his as you shove the onesie back with the rest of the pieces. “Seriously. It’s—”

“Y/N.” His deep voice cuts through your poor attempts at damage control once more. His eyes focused on you, peeling back every protective layer you’d attempted to frantically and desperately create. “This wasn’t just from one episode.” He gestures with a head nod, reaching to open what you wish nothing more to shove and throw away. God, something told you to load up your car before you left for your nail appointment. His hand messes around with the countless number of brand new, tag still on em’ baby clothes before he looks at you. “You’ve been buying this stuff, haven’t you?”

Lying has never done you any good, and you’ve worked so hard to be honest with him. But you also are in no mood to have this conversation. 

“It’s not—“

The hand not gripping a 3 to 6 month white shirt with a rainbow on the front grabs the back of the bar stool. He drags it across the floor and motions with his eyes. A part of you wants to protest, find a reason to leave, to deflect. But you also know your husband. Know that look.

It’s why you decide to not drag this out any longer than need be.

You sit down. 

Smoothing your hands over your exposed thighs, the desire to tuck and play with the hem of your skirt is a hell of a lot more interesting and desirable than focusing on the way he pulls out the chair opposite of you. Places it so that he’s sitting directly across from you. Your attention only subtly shifting to him when he leans over just enough so his elbows are on his knees, hands clasped together. As much as you really don’t want to have this conversation right now—or ever—something about the way he won’t look at you, stares at the ground, is unsettling.

Especially since you know he’s not upset. 

Roman’s anger is never quiet. It’s loud and always makes itself known. Any emotion similar or adjacent to that short, red creature is always visible and never hidden. Even in the early stages of development. 

This is none of that.

Truth be told, you don’t know what this is. 

You just know that you don’t like it.

Shifting in your seat, raking your nails over your thighs, you muster up the courage to break the silence. “Roman—”

“I want to have a child with you, Y/N.”

Acrylic tips wedged into your soft skin, toes curled against the bottoms of your YSL flip-flops, any non-verbal actions that you were in the midst of are immediately paused. Thinking, feeling, existing, and everything else in between also immediately halted to a sudden, abrupt pause in production.

Did he….

No…

He couldn’t have. 

But reality is suddenly turned upside down when he lifts his head, looks you dead in the eye, and doubles down on what you’d thought was imagined. “I want us to have a child together.” 

All you can do is blink. Once. Twice. Thrice. Stare and wait for the other shoe to drop. For him to cut the bullshit on this cruel joke. 

He doesn’t. 

Not even close.

He licks his lips, gaze collapsing once more. His jaw shifting before his words come out slower, quieter even. “You were right when you said I go back and forth. I do.” He shakes his head, rolling his neck. “But it’s not because I don’t know what I want. I do.”

“Roman…”

“I just….” He swallows. “I can handle when you’re manic. It’s not easy. Hell no, but….I’ve learned now what to do. What you need.” 

And you don’t disagree in the slightest. Like many other individuals living with Bipolar 1, when you’re in the midst of a manic episode, one of your symptoms includes a heightened sex drive. And for a man who possesses just that without a mental health diagnosis in his medical chart, that worked just fine for him. Everything else—the lack of sleep, impulsive spending, risky behavior—he’d created parameters to protect you. Ensuring to essentially stay with you at all times, taking and hiding your wallet and car keys. Even your phone during earlier, more extreme episodes. 

Essentially holding you hostage from the dangers that are you when you’re not in the right frame of mind. At the beginning, at the time, you hated it. Hated him. Told—screamed—at him just that.

Now….now, you’ve never been more grateful. 

“What I can’t handle….” Your eyes hone in on the way his voice falters and something indecipherable flashes in his eyes. “—is the other one.” He looks at you once more, displaying it all without any reservation. “When you’re depressed.” 

Your lips press together, hands shifting to the side of the stool. Cool metal under your palm, closing and tightening.

Despite only knowing him for a few years, you’ve probably talked to and with Roman more than anyone else in your life. And not once has he ever expressed anything like this. Despite there being a what and what with your manic and depressive episodes, because the consequences of the former have always been more….drastic, the latter hasn’t really been a thing touched on. 

Not like this.

“You completely shut down,” he continues, licking his lips, voice even but strained. “Shut out everything and everyone, including me, and I don’t know how to get through to you when you get like that.” It’s not until then you realize that the reason the sight of him before you is suddenly blurred is because of the tears forming and brewing in your eyes. Even with the distorted image, there’s no mistaking the frown on his face. “I don’t know how to help you, and it freaks the fuck out of me.” 

For whatever reason, it’s not until then that it hits you. Perhaps for the first time since he started speaking, you see it. Hear it, even. The uncertainty. The anxiety, almost. It’s….disarming, in some ways. Roman has always been the definition of confidence. Arrogance, really. Even the night you met when he looked like he’d just been kicked while already down, and he had in many ways. But he still held this….regality about him. It was always so attractive. Admirable. Seeing someone who was always so…..so sure of himself. 

Thus, him sitting in front of you and openly speaking in such a vulnerable way….it’s the last fucking thing you expected him to say.

But he’s not wrong.

As chaotic and erratic your manic episodes are/were, you’d always said that you’d take those over your depressive episodes any day. While manic, you feel any and all the things. While depressed, you feel nothing. Absolutely fucking nothing.

Anhedonia, as you’d learned through therapy. The inability to feel pleasure or joy. Or anything.

You’d lay in bed, sometimes days at a time. Unable to move. Unable to speak. Completely and totally quiet. If you weren’t crying, you were sleeping. And if you weren’t doing that, you were offering nothing more than a soft shake of the head and small shrug to any and all of Roman’s questions.

And there were always plenty. 

He bent over backwards, offered anything and everything he could, but nothing pierced the dense veil of depression.

The worst of which resulted in a 5150. 

“The fact that you can get so low, and I can’t pull you from it scares the fuck out of me.” The bombs continue to drop, as does the feeling in her stomach. He pauses again, swallowing deeply. “How am I supposed to help you if you have an episode while pregnant? And if I can’t help you, how am I supposed to help our kid if he or she needs it?”

The corner of your lips twitch, tears briefly piling before spilling past your jaw. “Roman, I—”

“And you know me. You know that I don’t like talking about this shit. Admitting shit like this.” It’s true. He doesn’t, and now knowing what you know, you can understand why his mood would always fluctuate so quickly around the subject. Like most things, it was easier for him to lash out, say mean shit, than it was to be honest.

You can sort of relate. 

Can understand. 

“But seeing the baby clothes today,” he continues, standing up and moving towards you. It’s only then that you sniffle, quickly wiping at your eyes that are soon fixed on him when he cups your face. His frown has deepened, his voice whispered. “The fact that you’ve been buying them…” He thumb swipes away another roll of fresh tears. “That you were trying to get rid of them—”

You shake your head, refusing to allow him to take on anymore guilt that he already holds. “I didn’t—I shouldn’t have purchased them in the first place.”

It was such an unintentional thing. Started out so small. Out at the store, casually walking through the aisles. You’d always felt something stir within whenever you had to walk past the kids section. Especially when passing racks of adorable baby clothes. Would sometimes allow yourself to look, to peruse, but the goal was never to purchase.

You weren’t being completely dishonest with him. Some of the many, various items of baby clothing were, in fact, being purchased in the midst of a manic episode. Where you truly believed that it was a necessary purchase given it being only a matter of time before you conceived. Had already envisioned and imagined how adorable your baby boy or girl would look in the three piece outfit. 

But other times…..perhaps most of the time, you weren’t manic, and you certainly weren’t depressed. You were in that sweet, safe spot in between. And somehow, that seemed to hurt the most. Holding the items, sometimes with tears in your eyes because while they ended up being scanned and bagged as part of your overall purpose, each quiet drive home was driven with a single thought.

It’s never going to happen.

By the time you’d get home, you’d have changed your mind. Reflected and thought on comments and conversations where Roman referenced your future children. It’s what led you to keep them. To keep buying them. On the hopes of a what if. But gathering clothes to donate to local shelters in conjunction with the most recent, hardest conversation regarding children had finally carried you to the realization and acceptance that seemed like the most likely to occur.

And it wasn’t a pregnancy.

Thus, you ignoring your tears and the throbbing in your chest as you bagged up all of the items you’d purchased and ordered, forcing yourself to stop believing and waiting on a dream that was never intended to be anything more than that in the first place.

A dream.

“But you did,” he counters, softly. “And that means something, Y/N.”

Again, all you can do is look at him, stare and continue to be stunned and floored by words you never could have anticipated hearing today. If ever.

But if your husband, one of the most emotionally stunted men you’ve ever met, is capable of pushing past discomforts and knocking down walls, then you can, at the very least, do and offer the same. 

You look down, covering your hands over his, gently dragging them down so you’re holding them in your lap. Brushing your own thumbs over his coarse knuckles. One of your fleeting thoughts being that he must have hit the bag today only for you to realize that of course he did.

It’s always been one of his favorite stress relievers. 

“Do you….do you remember the big fight we had?” For the first time since you entered the home, humor briefly entangles with intensity. Specificity for a thing that was the norm for far too long is most definitely a requirement. “The first one regarding pregnancy.” Where you said no. “You—you said something to me that night. Something that….” Your tongue darts over your dry lips, voice hoarse, his eyes focused intently on you. “At the time, I hated you for.”

One could argue this sentiment has been felt several times over in the span of two years, mostly in the early, turbulent stages. But none more than that night.

“Fine, if you don’t wanna fucking say it, then I will,” he’d snapped. Anger and frustration painting his face and the tips of his ears red. The room around you two in disarray. Shattered glass littered across and meshed within the Persian rug. Both from the lamp you’d thrown and the one he’d shattered with a single swipe of his arm. A chair flipped over in the corner, and the TV still running in the background. The only sense of normalcy in that moment. “You know why you wanna have a kid so fucking bad?” He’d stepped closer, your fingers tightening around the neck of the half drunk bottle of wine in hand. Seconds away from joining the other broken, irreparable things. Much how you felt about your marriage in that moment. “It’s not cause you actually want to be a mother.” In that moment, you knew. Just knew what he was about to say. And even that level of preparation in the face of his stoic expression and sneer didn’t spare you the cascade of emotions. “It’s cause you just wanna prove to yourself that you’re not her. That you’re not your own mother.”

Your eyes shut, the memory reigniting another set of emotions, an evident revisiting given the way he attempts to pull his hands from you. To comfort you, you’re sure.

“I shouldn’t have—”

“You were right,” you whisper, allowing yourself to voice for the first time a realization you’d had in therapy a few months prior. “I hated you because….because you were right.” His subtle movements and efforts to comfort you are temporarily halted in the midst of a truth you know he didn’t expect to hear.

“Y/N….”

“My biggest—” Shutting your eyes once more, you’re taken back to a different time and place. The soft cushion behind your head and under your body. Hands clasped over your stomach, eyes still shut, the soft, soothing voice of your therapist walking you through a mindfulness exercise grounding you in a moment you’ve never needed it more. Keeping you on two steady, metaphorical, and literal feet. “My biggest fear in life was—is—ending up like her.” 

“That’s why....” Another thick swallow, emotion stirring for another heavier round. The swipe of your tongue over your bottom lip met with a salty taste on the tip of your tongue. Tears. “That’s why I pushed back on getting help for so long. I felt like—like that made it real. That it made me her.”

If someone told you a couple years ago you’d ever be confessing this aloud to your husband who’s 16 years your senior and someone you met and married in under twenty four hours, well, you’d perhaps not not believe them. But it’d 100% be the actions that were contained within a manic episode. However, you’ve never been more sane and regulated than in this moment. A weight unloaded in the most unexpected of ways. 

“But I know now that just because we shared the same diagnosis doesn’t mean we’re the same person. She made her decision. She chose not to live anymore.” A beat. “And I chose to finally start living.” 

He takes a small breath as you manage a small smile that’s dimmed seconds later by the reminder of additional truth that you’d prefer to keep to yourself. It’s not an option though. It’s not an option because it serves no purpose other than to self-sabotage. There has never been a better moment than now to acknowledge even the most uncomfortable, heartbreaking of truths.

“I, uhh, I went to the doctor before we left for Italy. Just…” Once more, the burden of truth causes you to stammer, but you manage to power through. Slightly aided by the way you intermittently allow your gaze to focus on your still conjoined hands. A metaphorical representation of union and togetherness that’s saved you in so many ways. “Just wanted to know where I stand, fertility wise, if we were….”

 Breathe

Roman says something, or starts to, and while you hate to interrupt him once more, you know yourself well enough to recognize that if you don’t get this out now, there’s a good chance you’ll find a way to keep it to yourself.

As you’ve done since you found out. 

“My….ovarian reserve is significantly lower than it should be for someone my age. Like….a lot.” A forced, inauthentic chuckle accompanied by another wave of tears that stream down your reddened cheeks. “Like….’the chances of me conceiving naturally and without medical assistance is slim to none’ a lot.” 

And while your doctor, the sweetest woman with a gentle disposition, warm and maternal, approached the conversation with a cherished delicacy, it wasn’t difficult for you to read between the lines. To decipher what she didn’t want to say for fear of crushing what she knows to be your dreams of motherhood.

That IVF is your best bet if you ever wish to have and carry a child.

And even that’s not guaranteed.

Revisiting the conversation takes a heavier toll on you than expected. It’s when you lift your hand to wipe away at the tears that seem to be coming with increased frequency and flow is when Roman takes advantage. Moves his hands to your waist, attempting to pull you into him. Sympathy, empathy, and everything else floating between the two of you.

“Y/N—”

“I think it’s just a sign, ya know.” Shaking your head, eyes naturally closing, it’s hard to tell who you’re trying to convince. Him or yourself. God knows it’s nothing you haven’t repeated a dozen times over. Sometimes it feels as though it’s working. Other times, it feels like nothing more than pouring waning hope into a bottomless cup with a hole so far deep that you don’t even realize your efforts are nothing more than a waste of time and energy. 

“Y/N—”

“Motherhood clearly isn’t in the cards—”

“Y/N.” 

Roman already has a commanding voice. Deep and smooth. It’s almost impossible to not be lulled in. But the way he says your name, needing and demanding your attention, easily snaps your eyes open onto his. Your lips part softly when he lifts one hand to the back of your neck. Leans in closer to where his cologne mingles with your perfume. Just another form of connection. 

“Do you want this?”

For a moment, you’re taken back. Same place. Same people. Different environment. Destruction, broken, ruined items surrounding the shattered mess that was the both of you. Defeat never so prominent. He’d asked you the very same thing, just with a completely different meaning, exhaustion painted over his handsome face. The faint bruise under his eye similar to the one he had when you met, but that one was received via valiant efforts to retain. This one….this one was the one you’ll never be able to truly forgive yourself for. 

“Roman—“

“Do you want this, Y/N?” He repeats himself, the hand on your waist squeezing and pulling just enough to where you stand up. Your hands naturally rest on his stomach, hardened and sturdy under your shaking, sweating palms. 

There’s an initial attempt to protest that dies out in the face of acknowledgment.

Do you want this?

It’s the same question you asked yourself on the drive home from the appointment. Especially as you laid in bed that evening, scrolling and researching for hours on end about what options might exist. The top of most lists being IVF, and with that, as many horror stories as there were successes.

Countless attempts before successful implantation. 

Countless attempts that never bore any results.

Women who’d tried every treatment option known to medical science only to have nothing to show for it except empty pockets and a broken heart.

You know that first one would never be the case. Not with the tax bracket Roman is in. But that second one….

It’s dangerous. In a variety of ways. What would it do to you mentally? To try, get your hopes up, only for nothing to come of all your efforts? Just imagining the scenario is heartbreaking enough. But for it to be your reality…

And then there’s the other side of it. The one where, at the end of it all, you have a beautiful, healthy baby boy or girl. It makes your chest fill and bloom with warmth and joy.

All things you’d expressed and discussed in your most recent therapy session, an extra that you’d, wisely, requested after finding out the news. 

News that, now you think of it, also largely contributed to your ultimately deciding to discard of the baby clothes.

It was….too painful of a reminder.

However, the situation feels almost entirely reversed as you stand before your husband who’s finally and truthfully expressed his stance on this. Confirmed what you’d deep down wanted so badly to believe was the truth but also couldn’t verify in the face of countless objections and otherwise expressed sentiments. 

A what if morphed into an actual possibility. 

The process of trying to conceive is a journey and experience for most women, and many, as you’d learned through research, do require at least some form of assistance to actually achieve that conception. In that, you weren’t unique. The added layer of navigating that and your mental health struggles just put you in a slightly different category. A riskier one.

But a statement and unanswered question posed by your therapist returns to the forefront of your mind.

“This isn’t a matter of what’s the best option, sweetie.” You’d kept your focus on your lap, picking at your nails as she probed into your mental in a way that was both unnerving and appreciated. Necessary, especially. “It’s a matter of what decision, long-term, do you foresee negatively impacting you the most.” You can still feel the way you chest tightened moments before she laid it all out in no unclear terms. “Never trying and having to live with that ‘what if’ or trying and having to accept the possibility of it not working out the way you wanted it to. 

Unknown vs Disappointment.

You didn’t have an answer to give then.

You have one now.

“Yes.”

And maybe it’s your own subconscious desires playing a cruel, mean trick on you, but you could almost swear there’s a brief flash of relief in his expression. 

Like….like he’s happy.

“Then we’ll do it,” he announces, that thumb caressing the nape of your neck a soothing, gentle gesture. “We find out whatever specialist you need to see, whatever treatment you need, see what it specifically entails, if you’re mentally and physically up for it, and take it from there….alright?”

There’s something immensely comforting about the way he emphasizes and includes the tentative nature of it all. Highlights that consenting to trying does not equate consenting to doing. Learning the specifics, the risks, and everything else is truly where the hardest decision will need to be made. And as much as he has a say in it, too, at the end of the day, it’s your call to make. Your body that will have to undergo and sustain all the prickling and prodding. 

Your mental that might be tested in ways you’ve never experienced before.

It’s frightening, for sure. Daunting and terrifying. Yet all of that fright and fear is readily eased by the reminder that you don’t have to face it alone. 

Not even a little. 

It’s what makes you lean up, arms secured around his neck as he hikes you up onto his waist. You smile and laugh into his neck, sniffling and whispering, “I love you.” 

His quiet chuckle and the kiss to your temple accompanying a light squeeze of your ass and quiet but equally heartfelt, “I love you, too.” 

a/n: if you've read some of my other content, you know i'm a whore for fleshing things out. in reality, and as reflected by the dates in this one and the first part, this "conclusion" would take time. even longer than what's reflected in these two pieces. but for the sake of answering the biggest question most of ya'll have, i gave you this.

was very very tempted to reveal at the end that it was all a dream. reader was just dreaming roman's confession, and it ended with them essentially realizing there's no way they can make this work. her wanting kids and him not. implied separation/divorce being the outcome. but i didn't want ya'll to cuss me out lmao

May 19th, 2026

“Oooh yes, fuck this pussy, daddy.” 

The sound of the bed creaking and the headboard slamming repeatedly against the wall with each bounce of your body on his dick is the backdrop for your filthy sex talk. Your hands playing with your heavy breast, nipples twisted between your fingers. His own big hands can’t decide if they wanna stay on your thick hips, help keep you steady while riding, or if he wants to explore the rest of your body. Covering your hands with his own, the two of you playing with your titties together.

Your favorite though is when he drags one of them talented ass hands down the front of your slick, glowing body to play with your clit. And he knows that. You know that he knows that, hence that smug expression on his handsome ass face.

A face you can’t wait to sit on before the end of the night. Him only eating your pussy once today just isn’t enough. Not when God gifted this man with a tongue like that. 

Blessed him with all the things, really. Including the beautiful, thick nine inch dick that’s got you feeling like you’re about to be split into two. A welcomed destruction, cause damn does it feel good.

“Look at you.” He slaps your hip, smoothing his palm down your backside. You bite your bottom lip as he wiggles his fingers between your ass cheeks, index finger probing your puckered hole. “You can’t get enough of this dick.”

“Mmmm.” You’re far too fucked out, leaning over just enough for you to smack your ass up and down his cock, slapping and smacking sounds increasing in volume from you essentially twerking on his dick. “S-s-so good, d-daddy.”

“Such a fucking greedy slut,” he groans, another slap to your ass before he’s back to steering you. Helping you bounce up and down, eyes transfixed on the swinging motion of your titties. “Can’t even fucking think straight when I’m buried in you like this, can you?”

No. Not at all. Not even a little. But as smug as this handsome bastard is, there still remains just enough of your wherewithal to not grant him the privilege of confirmation. You keep your lips pressed together, hand reaching for the headboard to steady you. Your thighs are burning like crazy, and you’ve had to flex your calves at least three times to smooth out the cramp that’s been dying to stilt you ever since he propped you on his dick.

You’re close. So so so close, but you’re also not ready. Not that it makes a difference. You already know he’s got at least one more position to put you in before he finally finds his release.

For a man in his forties, it’s almost embarrassing how well he can outdo you in the bedroom. This’ll be your third orgasm since he returned a few hours ago from his meeting with Paul and Nick. 

He hasn’t come at least once. Not even when you were gagging on his dick, drool seeping out the corner of your swollen, pink lips. If you didn’t know for a fact that he was seconds away from shooting his load down your throat before he pushed you away, put you on all fours, and rammed that big dick in your wet, waiting pussy, you might have been offended. But you know better.

You know him.

“You close, ain’t you, baby?” He taunts, your closed eyes not preventing your from picturing the way them soft ass lips are either still lifted for that smug smile or a knowing smirk. Sometimes you really do hate how cocky he is. Unfortunately, unlike most men, he can back it up. “I can tell by the way she pulsing around me. Fluttering and shit.”

“Mmmm.” Once more, incoherent mumblings are the most you can offer him, the grind and drag of your soft body against his firm ass body granting your neglected clit the attention you’d been wanting. Waiting eagerly for him to address, and he knows it.

“You want me to play with that pussy, baby?” He purrs, and you swear there’s a fresh wave of your juice that gushes out your pussy, small streams seeping past the unforgiving grip your cunt has around his cock. Slippery and drenched, you’re leaking all over his chest, the combination of sweat and your conjoined juices creating an unsteady, unreliable surface. Hence your grip on the headboard and thus the way you’re relegated to grinding to get your fix. “Want daddy to eat it till you pushing me away talking about you can’t take it?”

Tale as old as time. Your husband is an eater through and through. Loves to give just as much as he loves to receive. It’s the best kind of “problem” to have as it pertains to a sex life. He never leaves you wanting more. Always satisfied, satiated, and stuffed.

Just like you are right now.

“Naw. You gotta earn that shit, slut.” His voice cuts through your fantasies, evoking a pout and whine just as he juts his chin in your direction. His eyes twinkle with mischief and devilry. “Keep riding.” 

“How early you wanna fly in to Turin?”

His question stirs you from the much deserved and desired sleep that’s been calling your name ever since you finally tapped out after he came all over your back. He more or less had to hold you up in the shared shower and carry you to the bedroom with the freshly changed sheets he made sure to put on before you both climbed back into bed.

You make a sound, nails lightly brushing across his chest as his own lazily dance up and down the small of your back. He’s scrunched up your thin, lavender gown, leaving the sheets and duvet clinging to your nude, glowing body. But it’s the norm. He’s always been touchy feely like that, and it’s never bothered you. 

You’re more or less the same.

“Doesn’t matter,” you finally answer. “The usual is fine.”

The usual being touching down via his private jet about a week before a show. It provides him time to get in match day headspace and you the time to squeeze in some exploring and swiping of his black American Express card. But more importantly, it allows adequate opportunity for you two to just spend time together. As proud as you are of him for his big win at Mania and ascension back to the top of the mountain, him being home more was something you’d gotten used to.

Life is just easier when he’s around. 

Until it’s not.

“Okay,” he says. You wait for him to follow up with something. Most likely a reminder that the boys will fly in with ya'll or even whatever tentative agenda and schedule he's been given at this time. But he remains quiet and just continues to caress your back, embracing the post coital relaxation and silence.

It’s the perfect opportunity to grant your exhausted body the recharge it desperately needs. Especially given your busy day tomorrow. Hop on the jet to fly back home in the morning. Filming, editing, and posting of the material you recorded while accompanying him to this Raw all scheduled to be done before the clock hits midnight.

It just makes sense to close your eyes and allow yourself to drift off to sleep. The smart thing, perhaps.

But no one ever said you were smart.

“You know…..” You inch closer, nestling your head against his inked chest. It’s a somewhat subconscious thing what with the way you angle your mouth close to his rib cage. Speech slightly murmured, partially obscuring the clarity and muffling the volume. “Naomi brought over David the other day.” For your own sanity and perhaps to allot you some faux sense of security, you choose to ignore the way his body tenses under yours. “He’s so adorable. Looks more and more like—“

“Y/N.” A single word, and the roles are precipitously reversed. You’re the one growing quiet, and he’s the one who fills that silence. “Don’t.”

You swallow, peering up at him. “Don’t what?”

His jaw ticks, the glow of the moon peering through the opposite window highlighting the shadows of his defined face. His grays splattered throughout a sea of otherwise onyx more or less the same in the dim lighting. “Don’t start this shit again.”

“How am I starting something?” You challenge. A part of you screaming to let it go, to let it be as it is, but another part of you, the part that you’ve never been able to truly silence, is begging to be unleashed. The protector protecting from dangers real and imagined “I’m literally just talking to you.”

Unfortunately for you, your husband has never been one to back down. To not accept and meet a challenge with the same energy brought you the table. He's a mirror of yourself in many ways. “No, you’re trying to have that conversation again, and I’m not in the mood to argue with you.”

“Argue over what?” You suck your teeth, sitting up and looking down at him. Frustration ticks when he diverts his gaze and runs his hand over his face. “Roman.”

His answer is to make the same sound as he sits up and turns away. You also sit all the way up, thin sleeve of your gown drooping over your exposed shoulder. You study the defined line of his back, starting to visually trace the sharp outlines of the dark ink. “How many times do gotta do this shit, Y/N?” He looks over his shoulder but not directly at you, and for some reason, that almost hurts more than the reaction, deep down, you knew you were going to get. “Same song and dance every fucking time.” Something tightens in your stomach when he does finally meet your eyes, however, his own reflect nothing but irritation and exasperation. “I said no, and that’s final.”

Once more, an opening is created. An escape and jump off a mountain that only leads to an increasingly difficult uphill battle. The wise choice, the best choice, is to retreat. Leave it be.

If only your heart wasn't so much louder than your head.

Eyes narrowed, the timbre of your voice carries with it ammunition ready and waiting to be unleashed. “Yeah, you did say no, but not before you said 'yes,' and then ‘no’ before that and then another ‘yes' sprinkled somewhere in between.” You throw your hands up, the frustration that swims between the two of you about what and what on both ends. “You can’t make up your mind.”

It’s a fact he can try to deny all he wants, but it doesn’t make it any less true. From the moment you two met two years ago, at least, the parts that you can remember, it’s been nothing but back and forth. One minute he’s blowing your back out, hands locked behind you, whispering nasty words and broken promises. 

“You gon’ give me a baby, princess? Hmm. A little girl for me to spoil just like I spoil her mama.”

The next, it’s nothing but a slightly different scene than the one transpiring now. Him pacing across the bedroom, hand on his hips, upper cheeks flushed from vexation with a topic that’s been revisited, reviewed, and recycled ten times over now. 

“I don’t know why you keep bringing this shit up, Y/N. We’re not having any fucking kids together. Ever.”

He swings from one end to the pendulum to the other. Getting your hopes up only to dash em’ back down with all of the cruelty that, one could argue, got him to where he is today, career wise.

It’s also, however, what cost him everything, too. 

“Well, my mind is made up now, and the answer is the same it’s been the last three goddamn times you brought this shit up.” He pierces your internal monologue with another reiteration of what makes your shoulders drop and scowl shift into a frown. “No.”

It could be left at that, and maybe it should be, but once the flood gates are opened, that’s it. 

There’s no turning back.

You move to sit on your knees, his expression, just like his current stance, unchanged and undeterred.

“Do you know how unfair you’re being?” You shake your head, hating how a newfound emotion is trying to creep its way into your voice. This isn’t the time for that. “All this back and forth. It’s mind games. You’re playing mind games with me, Roman, and it’s not fair.”

It’s not fair how he’ll get your hopes up only to crush them with the stomp of his metaphorical boot, throwing out excuse after excuse, reason after reason. 

“We need to work on us before we even think about that, Y/N.”

“Let’s see what this year looks like for me work wise, and then we can revisit it.”

“I just want you to focus on you first. Before anything else.”

Rejection cloaked as kindness. It’s like for every step you take in the right direction, he keeps moving the goalpost. And maybe if he would stick with a stance, whatever that might be, it would be easier for you to “let it go.” 

At least, that’s what you like to believe. 

“I’m not playing any games with you, Y/N,” he sighs, mirroring your actions by also shaking his head. “You just refuse to accept the truth and come to terms with reality.” Words that sting, but the impact is slightly lessened by the visible decrease of frustration in his deep voice. Forbearance making a surprising appearance. “And the reality is that I don’t want any more kids. I'm about to be 41. My boys are grown. I’ve raised them. I’m not trying to start over again. I’m too old for that shit.”

There’s so much for you to dissect in that conglomerate of sentences. He’s not wrong about a couple things. Josiah and Jeremiah are grown. 21 going on 22, in their senior year of college, each with aspirations—and likelihood—to go pro in their respective sports. They’re fine young men, and Roman and his ex-wife, Julia, should be proud. You know they are. It’s why, despite them still having a rocky relationship since their divorce almost four years back, when it comes to their twins, they always set aside personal feelings and do what needs to be done for their kids.

Roman is a good father. A great one. And if he managed to do that as a kid having a kid, still maintaining a close bond with his sons even now, constant communication between the three of them on the daily, you have no doubt it’d be the same for your child.

And therein is where his words, fact with opinion, start to pierce. At, basically, 41, you can partially understand why he’s not exactly thrilled about the idea of having another child. But not even a month ago he was asking you how you’d feel if it was a boy instead of a girl. 

It being the baby he’s now saying he doesn’t want. 

Again, the fucking back and forth. 

Yet there’s one word in all of his soliloquy that you latched onto.

My

“Exactly. You’ve already had them, but I haven’t.” You point to yourself, feeling that damn emotion continuing to expand, making its way to the surface. Refusing to be denied any longer. “I’m 25, Roman. I'll be 26 later this year. It’s normal for me to want children at this point in my life. It’s the perfect time for me to have kids.”

Your own kids. Despite only being a few years older than his sons, you hold a close relationship with them. As close as a step-mother can get. They see you more as a peer than anything, and after making amends with the objectively strange ass way you and Roman got together, they allowed the walls to collapse and reservations to be set aside. But again, the dynamic with them is more friends than anything. They aren’t kids, they don’t feel like kids, and they’ll never be your kids.

Hence why you want your own child.

A child with Roman. 

But your emotions making an appearance through the watering of your eyes and cracking of your voice seem to do little to faze the man before you. The only indication of disturbance being whatever flashes in his warm eyes before his quiet, simple response. “Then you should have thought about that when you agreed to stay married to me.”

His words circulate throughout your head even after he leaves. Walks out of the room, most likely decompressing in the second bedroom of the hotel suite. Allowing both him and yourself time to process before the argument could reach a level that resulted in him leaving and you spiraling. 

It wouldn’t be the first time.

The last two years of your life have been such a whirlwind. Something most wouldn’t believe if you told them because the story of you and Roman sounds like something out of a Reddit thread or TikTok story time. The type where you watch with a degree of skepticism because some of the shit just sounds too outlandish. And your meeting of your now husband is nothing short of outlandish.

You met the night after WrestleMania 40. Vegas. The Chandelier.

An hour and several drinks after said meeting, you two were hitting the slot machines and wandering around the casino, talking, sharing, and connecting without a care in the world.

Two hours and even more drinks later, he had you bent over the balcony of his suite, screaming and calling on every deity known to man. 

And then some. 

12 hours later, you woke up in bed, naked, his soft snores in your ear, and a rock on your left hand.

You were married. 

Needless to say, the fallout from that was….something.

Wild as hell, too, but also….it tracked.

He was depressed from not only the loss of his title, the end of his legendary 1,316 title reign, but also everything that came with it. Old emotions and never fully healed wounds poked and probed with and by painful reminders of betrayal.

And you were three days deep into a manic episode, one that would only end a week and a half later, when the bulk of the damage was already done.

Two storms on a collision course for disaster.

Neither really willing and wanting to do anything to find a life vest, a raft, a way to evacuate. 

He was too caught up in his head to seek out the appropriate parties about an annulment, and you, again, being manic, were too deep into your episode to see how absolutely insane all of it was. You were just excited to be married, to a rich ass, fine ass, older ass man who you later learned to be Roman fucking Reigns.

Separation wasn’t anywhere on your agenda. No, according to the journaling you did and have done for a number of years now when in a manic or depressive state, you were already planning the names of your kids. From the very beginning, you knew you wanted kids with him. 

It’s that reminder, however, that triggers the thought for you. The one that remains even an hour later when he returns to the room to find you in bed, in a fetal position near the edge, blankets pulled up to your chin. 

Silent tears streaming down your face. 

It’s not until the bed groans and his coarse fingertips brush against your cheeks that you break the silence you’d rested in since his departure.

“I haven’t had an episode in almost a year,” you whisper, throat dry and stinging. A similar sensation felt near the corner of your eyes. Telltales of the tears being in a consistent, heavy flow for the past hour. You swallow, licking your suddenly chapped lips and manage to shift your eyes to look up at him. “I’m consistent with my meds. I haven’t missed a day in God knows how long.”

His lips press together, his fingers moving to stroke the top of your head. “Y/N….”

“I’ve done so well in therapy that I only have to go once a month now,” you continue, finding the strength to sit up. Roman angles his body so that he’s fully facing you as you cross your legs under the thin covers. “I—I’m better now.” 

Perhaps better than you’ve been in a very very long time. Because even before your diagnosis of Bipolar 1 at the age of eighteen, your life was always a chaotic storm. Because before it was you, it was your mom. Wild, erratic behavior that, as a kid, you didn’t understand. Your mom was different. Moody. Unique, as your dad once described her. She could be hot one minute, and cold the next. But she was your mom, and you loved her to pieces. So did your dad. Hence the way he stood by and supported her up until her last day on this earth. 

An intentional last day.

Your mom died by suicide a week after your thirteenth birthday. 

That was when your own symptoms started to manifest. You’d later find out that your doctor, and even your dad, strongly suspected bipolar. That they knew that was what you had by your 17th birthday. They just had to wait until you were 18 to formally diagnose you. 

Before and after, it’s been up and down. A few hospital stays sprinkled in over the years. Discussions, at one point, taking place between your dad and stepmom, Sherry, regarding a conservatorship. Most of your behavior, however, was simply due to being treatment resistant. You’d go to therapy for a little while and then disappear. Take your meds as prescribed for a few weeks before stopping cold turkey.

It wasn’t your diagnosis that was ruining your life. It was the person in the mirror. 

That behavior continued even after meeting and marrying Roman. The first stretch of your marriage was, in no uncertain terms, a hot fucking mess. 

Arguments. Mudslinging back and forth. Cheating. Threats. On both sides. But for every bad thing in the relationship, something good always followed. A heartfelt conversation. A kind gesture. A gentle touch. A vow and oath of love and commitment. Vehement defending of one another, whether it be him defending you to his family, especially his ex-wife. Or you defending him to your parents who thought you’d experienced some sort of psychotic break by marrying a man over ten years your senior. It didn’t matter though. For as toxic as the shit was, it was equally as healing.

Felt that way, at least.

Roman especially began to thaw out and extend a newfound sense of understanding and patience when you finally disclosed your diagnosis. He was confused, didn’t understand everything but said he would try— on one condition.

That you’d get help.

Real help.

Because he’d grown exhausted at having his team work overtime to ensure stories detailing and depicting your capricious behavior during manic episodes remain sealed. Snapped photos that disappeared. Social media posts scrubbed. Both for the sake of his image and yours. A social media influencer with over 1 million followers—5 million now—you were partially known for your quirky behavior that sometimes helped conceal the episodes. But it was only a matter of time before the comments of entertainment turned into expressions of concern.

He protected you from that. 

He’s protected you from a lot. 

Including yourself.

Ensured that he assembled the best treatment team—therapist, psychiatrist, and primary— that his pockets could afford. And you’d come to find out that his pockets ran deep. 

So much so that your turbulent early to mid twenties are so far behind in your rearview mirror that the view is almost entirely distorted. 

The first six months of your marriage was a hot dysfunctional mess. The second six months carried healing and repairing. Now in the second year, you feel as if you’re in the best place mentally that you’ve ever been in your entire life. And your marriage isn’t too far behind that. You and Roman, in your opinion, are in such a good, healthy space now.

But maybe….maybe he doesn’t feel the same. 

“I can do this, Roman.” You reach for his forearm, closing your eyes when he palms your face. His touch has always been so calming. “I can be a mother.”

You know you can. You just….you need the chance to show him. 

“Y/N…” he murmurs. You open your mouth to see him frowning, the lines in his forehead more pronounced as his thick brows furrow together. “I know how bad you want this. I do, but—”

Your chest tightens for the umpteenth time that night. “But?”

He sighs, thumb brushing over your cheek. “I don’t know if you’ve thought about how all of this is actually going to work.”

For some reason, despite the gentle undertone in his voice, his words do little to soothe you. If anything, they’re only spiking your anxiety and deepening your grief. “What do you mean?”

His loud sigh precedes what you already have a nagging suspicion isn’t going to help an already contentious situation. “Having a kid….it’s not easy.”

“I know that, Roman.” 

You place your hand over his as he continues to palm your face. “You’ve made such good progress over the past two years—”

“But?” You press once more. He’s dancing around the subject, and it’s doing nothing to help your trepidation and everything to worsen it. 

His jaw shifts. The three second pause before he answers feels like three fucking hours. “Would you still be able to take your meds while pregnant?” 

You swallow. It’s an understandable question, one that, for all the contemplating and dreaming you’ve done regarding pregnancy, you hadn’t considered. It seems like most medications carry with them the generic, default warning regarding risks for pregnant women. Granted, you’re certainly not the first woman with a mental health disorder that requires medication to keep your symptoms managed who wants to become a mother. Wants to conceive. So surely there must be some sort of remedy. 

“I—I don’t know,” you answer, honestly. “But I’m sure I can just take something different while—”

He shakes his head. “After how long it took for them to find a regimen that works for you?” Another valid question that makes you inwardly wince. “And didn’t you tell me Bipolar is genetic? Or hereditary or something?”

As you begin to pick at the sheet covering your body, his latest inquiry makes your eyes lift to his. Where….where is he going with this? 

You grow quiet. “Yes.” 

Roman licks his lips, the pauses between his words indicative of him working hard to carefully articulate his thoughts. “Your mom had it. You have it….what happens if our kid has it too?” 

And there it is.

You immediately jerk away from him, forcing his hand to drop. Once soothing, his touch suddenly feels like a thousand needles prickling into your skin.

Just like his question has pricked into your heart.

A stabbing, more of a fitting comparison, with the largest, metaphorical kitchen knife that he could locate. 

“Are you….” You shake your head, still trying to mull over what he just asked you. “Are you saying that I shouldn’t have a kid because he or she might also have Bipolar?” His eyes shut, and you yank your hand back when he attempts to reach for you. “Like it’s a fucking death sentence?” 

“Y/N—”

But you’re not trying or wanting to hear it. You kick the blankets away, also kicking him in the process, and crawl across the mattress. Your feet slam into the ground as you start to march out of the room, Roman right behind you.

“Baby, that’s not what I’m saying—”

“Well, it sure fucking sounds like it,” you snap, turning around simply to glare at him before continuing to walk with no specific direction in mind. You just need distance. Distance he refuses to grant. As soon as your feet shift from carpet to the cool wooden floor and you harshly flip the switch to light up the kitchen, you turn to him once more. “I didn’t ask to be born with this, Roman. Okay? It’s not something I fucking had control over.”

He’s standing near the entrance, allowing you to move over to the refrigerator as you open it with, again, no clear goal in mind. “I understand that, Y/N.” 

“Do you?” You challenge, slamming the door shut before once more closing that distance you want but can’t seem to enforce. “Tell me something. How would you feel if someone told you that you shouldn’t have kids because of your CML?”

It’s a low blow. You know it. Can see it in the way he blinks, lips slightly parting before his jaw tightens. 

“That’s different,” he says, lowly. 

You cross your arms. “Is it?” 

“Yes.” His gaze darkens, voice tightening. “Because CML isn’t hereditary, and if it was, I would fucking agree with them because to bring a child into this world knowing they have an increased chance of developing cancer is fucking cruel and selfish.” 

Once more, you can’t deny that he makes a valid point. But you also can’t deny the way that point fucking hurts. The pang and throb in your chest increasing by the second.

“And that’s what you think of me, isn’t it?” You whisper. “That—that I’m being selfish and that I’m—that I’m cruel—”

“No.” His heavy footsteps follow the way he pulls you into his arms, holding you close and kissing the top of your head. “That’s not what I think at all. What you have and what I have are two completely different things. I was just trying….” He trails off, and you find yourself clutching the sides of his sweats and closing your eyes. “Fuck, you know I’m not good with this shit.” 

And he isn’t, but it’s never stopped him from trying with you, and that’s more you can say for your ex’s. For most men perhaps. 

But Roman isn’t most men.

Not in the slightest.

He cups your face with both hands, words and expression the softest you’ve seen all night. “Look, it’s late. Why don’t we talk about this tomorrow mornin?” He then suggests, and it feels genuine vs an attempt to push off the inevitable. “Or when we get back home?”

Enough words have been exchanged for this evening, and you’ve done enough therapy over the years and gained enough introspection to recognize that trying to continue this conversation when your emotions are all over the place won’t do anybody any good. Roman is a calm, but he can also be the storm, too. 

You don’t wanna test it.

Nodding against his chest, he cradles the back of your head, kissing your scalp with a murmured, “I love you.”

You echo the sentiment, remaining quiet as he carries you into the bedroom and gently places you on the bed before he climbs in, pulling you close. But while he eventually drifts off to sleep, hand still on your back from when he was rubbing small, soothing circles, you lay on his chest, mind a million and one places.

Perhaps it’s your inner desire that’s fueling it, but deep down, you truly do believe that Roman wants children with you. Even if just one. The same way his eyes light up with something akin to excitement and pride when he’s talking about or interacting with the boys is the same light you see when he makes comments about your future children. 

That has to mean something.

As he more or less indicated tonight, his uncertainty regarding your child most likely inheriting Bipolar from you is what has him concerned. It’s one of perhaps other smaller, similar concerns. The barrier to happiness he can't seem to break through.

But.

But in the event that you’re wrong, that he truly doesn’t want anymore kids. That he won’t have anymore kids….what does that mean for you?

“I wonder where she is…”

Heaven feigns a loud sigh and blows out a dramatic breath, making the curls spilling over her face to fly forward before tossing down against her cheek. She pushes back a tendril and tucks it behind her ear. Shrugging and another feigned exhale accompany the way she looks at her nails. Short, almond, painted the perfect shade of white that matches the loose dress with flowy sleeves, a cinched waist, and brushes the top of her knees.

“I guess I won’t be able to find her…”

Her intentional announcement is accompanied by the way she carefully, slowly, and methodically takes step by step, the blades of forest green grass tickling the portion of skin exposed on her feet from her sandals. “I can’t believe she really beat me….” Continuing to lean into the performance, it’s only when she catches the the glimpse of an arm with a complexion several shades lighter than the tree she hides behind that Heaven makes her grand reveal.

“There she is!” 

The shout comes seconds after Heaven jumps forward and attempts to grab her. Happy, loud giggles as she breaks free from Heaven’s loose hold and starts to run away. Her little legs only taking her so far before Heaven grabs her again, this time the two of them falling into the ground.

The pasture absorbs their bodies like a memory foam pillow, molding around the curves of Heaven’s body as the little girl lays on top of her and continues to laugh happily from the way Heaven playfully tickles.

“You found me!” 

“I did,” Heaven’s smile deepens, her eyes narrowing from the fleeting glimpses of sun that rains down on her, peaking through the head of dark curls every time she writhes and wiggles from the tickle session.

It’s when she rolls over, however, and Heaven can feel the full strength of the sun that her smile settles, her shoulders sink deeper into the grass, and her eyes shut. There aren’t enough words to adequately describe the level of…peace she feels in this moment. The sun is bright but the heat is almost nonexistent. The aroma of fresh flowers that don’t crush under her weight but instead bow almost in reverence around their bodies. Faint whistles and swishing sounds of the wind brushing against the most beautiful example of God’s finest work that Heaven has ever seen.

Never an outside person, there’s nothing that she can list off as a con for the space that feels less like a pasture and more like a safe haven.

Rolls and valleys of endless greenery and forestry. There’s an aura that feels almost too good to be real. Like it contains and conveys a level of peace that defies and contrasts reality and what exists in the realm of capabilities. 

Heaven feels so….light.

She feels free.

The sort of free that one prays for but rarely ever achieves. 

At least….not in this life.

The laughter once more draws her focus as mischief flashes in her pretty eyes before she jumps up and starts to run off once more. Heaven’s smile deepens as she too sits up and starts to give chase when she stops. Turns her head just enough to where the breeze brushes past her hair, whipping it against her face as her brows start to cave inward and the smile falters.

Something…..

Something’s not right.

She continues to turn around, the peace that encompassed is now one that unsettles. It’s all so perfect. Too perfect.

And then she hears it. Hears the sound that makes her entire body still and toes dig into the ground that suddenly feels impossibly softer than before. As if it's adapted. As if it’s molding itself to her feet to keep her planted when her knees begin to wobble and balance falters. 

Giggles. 

That of a child. A little girl.

And not the one a few feet away.

“Macy…” 

Heaven turns around, eyes foraging the vast plains as if trying to seek out the voice. Seek her.

She starts to step forward when a small tug on her dress forces her to turn around. Heaven looks down to see the little girl staring up at her with that same gaze of excitement and with that happy smile that reveals a top and bottom row of small, perfectly straight, white teeth. Impossibly white, almost.

A recurring theme of this place, it seems.

Impossibility.

Releasing the fabric, she instead makes a beckoning motion with her fingers before reaching for Heaven’s hand, all five wrapping around and giving a light squeeze. 

It’s a grasp that the older woman allows, but it’s the extent of permission granted as Heaven plants her feet in the ground. The crumble of the young girl’s smile evokes a heavy lump in the back of Heaven's throat and births a weight that sits on her chest. Anchors her body down both physically and metaphorically, as she drops to her knees, hands to the child’s shoulders. 

She swallows, feeling that familiar burning sensation that’s intensified by the way the sun beams down on her. “You are an amazing little girl, sweetie.” Words that comes from a place she can’t identify, but it’s a place that feels familiar. Natural. Innate. “But I know another amazing little girl, and she needs me. She—she needs me more than you do.”

And Heaven needs her. Perhaps more than the other way around.

It’s a realization spurned simply from the sound of her daughter’s laughter. One of the best sounds in the world, and one that she can’t push from her head. Hears on repeat at a volume that feels like it only knows increase. 

But the space reserved for her sweet Macy is shared with concern for this girl in front of her who reminds her so much of her daughter. Heaven expects the disappointment that flashes in her eyes, but it’s when she briefly breaks away that the guilt forms. 

“Honey—”

Heaven stops when she realizes the girl isn’t going far. Just quickly scuffles a few feet away to a strip of flowers and picks two before quietly returning to Heaven who observes them with marvel and curiosity. It’s such a strange variation of which she’s never seen before. A crossbreed of roses and tulips. 

One pink and one blue.

But the curiosity travels when the girl reaches with her free hand and pushes past the swell of the material to touch Heaven’s stomach. It’s a touch that makes her gasp from the memory that instantly slams into her.

The baby…

For the first time since awaking in this sort of paradise, dread begins to seep in. But it’s momentarily paused when she watches the girl’s smile revive as she lifts her eyes to meet Heaven’s and offers the flowers that are easily and naturally accepted. Even as the confusion remains. 

“I don’t….” She stumbles. “I don’t und—”

Her small fingers rubbing gently against Heaven’s belly as she drops her eyes once more before lifting them and nodding happily. But once more, another unexpected act when the child lunges forward and hugs her.

Heaven’s shoulders instantly relax, the flowers still gripped in her hand as she returns the embrace. She closes her eyes, another wave of ardent emotion overtaking her. A sense of despondency and regret.

Like she doesn’t want to do this.

Like she doesn’t want to leave.

Like she doesn’t want to leave this little girl. Because leaving her almost feels like….it feels like she’s leaving Macy. 

But she’s not. She’s leaving her because of Macy.

So why does it feel like there isn’t much of a difference?

If any.

“It’s okay.” Heaven gasps as the child breaks her silence. Her small voice, light and pure, sounding and reminding her so much of Macy. “And it’s okay you didn’t keep me. I know you wanted to.” The quietest intake of breath is followed by the way Heaven's eyes shoot open, electricity dancing up her spine. Her fingers both somehow tingling and numb concurrently. 

What….what did she just say?

The little girl presses her body closer, as if wanting to mold the two of them together, to soak in and capture this moment as much as she possibly can. 

To never forget.

“Bye, mommy.” 

——————

A multitude of senses are triggered almost immediately and simultaneously, but the first thing that Heaven can detect in this new realm of consciousness are the sounds. A variety of them, most of which are sounded out by a consistent, regulated beep that’s both familiar and disconcerting. That discomfort is exacerbated by the way she struggles to open her eyes, several flutters and focused efforts needed to lift and maintain. An uphill battle similar to that of pushing a large boulder up the steep heel of setbacks but one she overcomes and largely because of the new sound that’s added to her immediate environment. 

“Heaven?”

Another familiar sound that's partially drowned out in the midst of Heaven also becoming more aware of her surrounding. The sounds. The sterile, non-existent smell in the room. The heaviness of her body and cool, foreign sensations up and down her arms. A throbbing one near her right shoulder. She manages a deep breath through her still closed mouth when the view of the still slightly blurred television is replaced with a set of eyes similar to her own.

Her mom’s.

“Oh, thank God.” Heaven groans lowly as her mother reaches to caress the top of her head, watery eyes locked on her. “My beautiful girl.”

Blinking several times over, Heaven continues to work to reach the point where she can communicate, but the grogginess is consistent and persistent. Awareness intermittent, to a certain extent. Enough to where she hears and sees the way her mother briefly turns her head and calls for a nurse before she’s focused on her daughter once more. “Heaven, do you know where you are?”

Heaven offers a small nod, and it might be the easiest thing she’s done. A hospital. She’s in a hospital. 

But why?

And because Shelia Jackson is nothing short of sharp—if not psychic—she reads the question that doesn’t even need to be asked. 

“Honey….” Heaven observes the subtle motion in the middle of her mother’s neck, a small bulge forming and disappearing. A swallow. A deep one. “You were attacked—”

Perhaps additional words follow the word ‘attacked,’ but it’s all incoherent mush that’s barely audible amidst the rush of memories that slam into Heaven with enough force to send her back if she wasn’t already lying down.

The fire.

Macy. 

Jey.

The hotel.

Roman.

Macy. 

Whatever time has passed since her entire world began to crumble before her very eyes is suddenly filled with horrifying remembrance of what initially brought her to the hospital. 

And she doesn’t mean her own admission.

“Macy,” Heaven croaks, a sting in the back of her throat as she forces herself to speak for what must be the first time in—how long has she been asleep? “Where—where’s Macy?”

An attempt to sit up brings about a sharp, sudden pain in her shoulder as Shelia drops her hand to Heaven’s forearm.

“Careful, baby. You—” She stops, Heaven’s furrowed brows lifting to meet her mother’s eyes once more. “You were shot.”

Once more, a stillness that halts her movements and attempted efforts at answers. Heaven….remembers it. Remembers being at the hotel, at hearing a knock at the door, expecting to see the woman in front of her on the other side. 

It wasn’t.

It was someone else she thought she knew. Someone she thought she loved. And maybe she did. But whatever love existed for the man she’s spent the better part of her life with died the moment he left her baby inside that burning building.

And once more, Heaven casts aside any thoughts and considerations for herself. She can work through that later. 

She needs to get to her daughter.

She needs to get to Macy. 

Heaven attempts to snatch her arm away from her mom, ignoring the stinging sensation of the IV in her arm shifting from the sudden movements. Shelia presses her lips together as Heaven continues to find her voice. “Where’s Macy?” 

Shelia opens her mouth, her own sympathetic expression unchanging when rushed footsteps draws the focus of both mother and daughter. Shelia straightens as Heaven remains steadfast in her efforts to, one, get up, and two, get up to find her daughter. Regardless of the nurses and doctor moving towards her.

The doctor, an older man with a balding head and crows eyes but a seemingly genuine disposition, steps closer. His voice calm and soothing. “Mrs. Uso—”

“I want to see my daughter,” she interrupts, uncaring of feigning pleasantries for the sake of it. Being nice and displaying manners is the last fucking thing on her mind. “Where—”

An additional set of hands and the feeling of being surrounded and overwhelmed heighten Heaven’s anxiety, as words and fragmented sentences continue to float in and out.

“….bullet missed the heart and lungs….”

“………significant blood loss…..”

“……hemorrhagic shock……”

“………..emergency surgery….....”

“……,…babies are stable….....”

“……..two days……”

All of it is relevant information, of that, Heaven is certain, but it’s the last portion of shared information that sticks with her and answers just one of her many questions. One that is near the top of the importance list.

“Two days?” She breathes, realizing only then on top of administering information as the nurses inspected her, he was also asking her a set of basic questions she’d apparently answered in the midst of growing internal panic. “I—I’ve been out for two days?”

Shelia, standing closely, hand on the railing of the hospital bed, opens her mouth to speak but is interrupted by her daughter once more as another realization returns to Heaven.

“Macy….we—we’re supposed—supposed to know—” She shakes her head, ignoring the rising level of physical pain and discomfort in her body and face as certain facial motions evoke a stinging, throbbing sensation in her cheek. “Where’s Macy!” 

Because Heaven remembers. Recalls the conversation with Macy’s medical team. If she’s been unconscious for two days now, then that means it’s either time or close to the time where they should have a better understanding of Macy’s status.

If she sustained any brain damage. 

And if so….how severe.

Determination and resilience sometimes result in success, as is the case when Heaven finally manages to sway the doctor. Her mother’s cosign in the form of a whispered statement to the doctor also being a helpful additive. If the situation were different, Heaven would perhaps press on what was said, but it’s inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. 

The only thing that Heaven cares about, the only thing that matters, is seeing her baby girl.

That’s it.

It’s what remains the constant in the back, front, and all over her mind as she’s helped out of the bed and into a wheelchair that’s brought in a few minutes later. The journey from her room to the pediatric ward of the ICU includes the accompanying of her mother, two nurses, one who pushes her in the wheelchair and the other who guides the IV pole. Assisted ambulation eventually guiding Heaven to her destination. 

Energy shifts the minute she’s wheeled into the room as if making way and place for her arrival. Dread rebuilds and returns with a startling vengeance as the discomfort that’s floated through her body in a variety of ways since her return to consciousness is no longer germane in place of a greater calamity. The room, roughly the same size as the one she was excerpted from, suddenly feels so much smaller with the congregation of bodies. White coats. Scrubs. Machines galore making the same sounds she awoke to. All surrounding the bed to where the only thing she can make out is the thin, white sheets, faint outline of short legs, and slightly elevated feet. Hushed whispers and a set of eyes that land on her, wearing a variety of expressions. But it’s two in particular that capture her focus longer than the rest, that briefly distract her from attempts to obtain a better view of her baby.

“Heaven….”

Roman is the first to speak, Nathan only a few feet away, but Heaven locks gazes with the elder of the two, and her stomach twists into an abundance of knots. Flashes of their last interaction—the hotel, Jey, the gun—once more another flood of memories. Ones that she briefly remembered when she came to but shoved aside for the sake of her child. But only a few feet away from the man whose last statements to her were ones of disgust and hurt is another story. She can’t look way nor can she ignore how…..tired exhausted he looks. Deep, dark bags under his eyes. Frizzy hair lazily pulled back unlike the neat but he’s always ensured to perfect before leaving the house. Even his attire, the wrinkled fabric of his shirt and sweat pants, visibly thrown on in haste and with little regard for appearance, it’s so….unlike him. But it makes all the sense. 

He’s exhausted. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. Truth be told, Heaven wouldn’t be surprised if he’s simply a reflection of herself with marginal differences.

Roman steps forward as Heaven squeezes her mom’s hand and holds onto the nurses forearm with her other hand while they help her to her feet. He gaze flicks between the two of them, unspoken communication as she naturally reaches for him, fingers snapping around his forearm. She swallows, an array of words needing to be spoken, truthful, honest communication never having a more appropriate time to be had. But once more, it’s a necessity that must be shoved to the back burner.

Her eyes water as he lifts one hand to her face that Heaven is almost certain must be slightly swollen, on top of bruised, given the flashes of intermittent pain that accompany her speech. “Macy…”

He mimics her motion, a prominent bulge and disappearance in the middle of his neck. “They’re about to wean her sedation to see….”

His inability to continue is all the answer she needs. 

Heaven can’t allow herself to think about the reason why for his difficulty in completing his answer. 

She motions with her chin towards the bed where Macy lays, offering a small smile to her nephew who simply returns the gesture with a small nod and a flash of regret in his warm eyes. Heaven recalls her last interaction with him, too, and mentally adds him to the list of people she needs to speak with. 

Just one of many. But as Roman assists her to Macy’s bedside, her mom and the nurse guiding her IV pole close behind, the emotion that was already brewing reaches its boiling point.

A sharp intake of breath when she looks down at her baby girl, eyes closed, face still scuffed up, arm still wrapped, far too many wires connected to her. Far too many medical personnel surrounding her. She shouldn’t be here. In this bed. In this sterile room. In this situation.

This should have never happened.

“Mrs.—”

“Heaven,” she corrects, hand trembling as she reaches to stroke Macy’s cheek before flitting her gaze to the doctor. “It’s just Heaven.”

He nods before offering a gentle explanation as to the steps seconds away from commencing. Similair to what Roman said, just verbalized in a mixture of medical and regular terminology. But it’s when the actions are initiated that Heaven’s chest feels like it’s about to cave in on itself. Seconds that feel as if they’re being stretched into hours. Announcement of each task accompanied by Heaven’s grip on Roman’s forearm tightening, her eyes, as well as his, never once leaving Macy’s peaceful expression. 

They’re paralyzed and frozen in time waiting and watching with a shared level of trepidation mingled in with burning hope.

Because in that moment, it’s all they have. 

“Macy,” Heaven whispers, stomach clenching as she works to find her voice. It doesn’t matter that Macy’s hair, pulled back and tucked under her head, reveal the absence of her hearing aids. Heaven isn’t speaking to Macy for her to hear. She’s speaking to Macy for her to feel. “Baby, you gotta wake up. Mommy…mommy and daddy are here waiting for you.” Though her focus is on her child, her eyesight doesn’t need to be set on the man beside her to know that he has a visible reaction to her words. Barely an hour out of her own sedation, Heaven also doesn’t need to have regained control of all her faculties to know that this is the first time she’s ever openly referred to him as such. 

As Macy’s father. 

She continues, ignoring the pain from her shoulder as she bends over, the arm of the bed digging into her stomach. “I came back for you, May May.” Her voice cracks. “Now I need you to come back for me.” 

Another reaction to poignant words, from both her lover and mother, are lost in the sea of irrelevance at the sight of something. Subtle. So so subtle and minimal that Heaven is partially surprised she can make it out through her blurred vision. And for a moment, she questions herself. Questions if her desire is overpowering her sense.

And then it happens again. 

That same motion with increased visibility that’s caught by others as well, Roman’s deep voice whispering from beside her.

“Macy?” 

Once more, voices are drowned out as Heaven feels the weight in her stomach dropping and caving when visible progression results into fluttering. Macy’s eyes begin to flutter, each motion evoking sounds from around but none more than her parents who stand her bedside. 

“Macy?” Heaven cries and watches as her little girls eyelids fully lift and remain open, granting the room with a set of soft brown eyes that haven’t been seen in almost three days. Heaven has to grip Roman’s arm once more to keep from fainting. The shock of her awaking temporarily halts what would be the most logical next step for her parents as the doctor says something that's lost in the midst of endless relief. 

Her lips press together, lines creasing in her forward, the faintest hint of a scowl similar to that of when she’s awoken premature from a nap. Confused. She looks confused, and understandably so. 

But as a nurse begins to sign what would be the start of a basic line of questioning, Macy’s eyes instead flick to the left where her teary eyed parents stand beside her overcome with joy. 

Joy so overwhelming that Heaven can barely make out what Roman says as he shifts just enough to lean over and kiss Macy’s forehead. But it doesn’t stop her, nor him, from following the length of Macy’s non injured arm as her fingers flex. Similar, small baby steps that lead up to the way she lifts her arms just enough to sign with her hands. Slow, laggard movements, tension in her fingers from days of non-movement causing her to take longer than usual, but the result is so so worth it. 

Mommy

Another heartfelt sob erupts from Heaven’s mouth right as Macy’s eyes shift to the left, to Roman, and her fingers makes a different motion. Her fingers move a smidge quicker than before. 

Daddy

Heaven places her hand over her heart, issuing an abundance of silent prayers as the tension of the room immediately melts away to make way for immense gratitude. If not for the vast amount of relief felt at Macy awake and coherent, perhaps Heaven would have focused more on it. Sensed the swell of emotion from beside her at Macy's acknowledgement.

The acknoweldgment of her father.

Her real father.

But it’s the final signing she does that allow humor to mingle in with gratefulness.

Cookie. 

Only then as several of the adults in room break into light laughter does Heaven start to tune back into the conversations at hand. The nurse who was signing with Macy cracks a small, meaningful smile. She talks while signing. “I definitely think we can see about getting you some cookies, sweetie.” 

At that, Roman clears his throat, still caressing the top of Macy’s head as Heaven reaches for her hand. “No. It’s….it’s her stuffed animal.”

“She doesn’t go anywhere without it,” Heaven finishes. Nathan and her mother move closer, attempting to interact with Macy whose hands have returned to her side, her expression unchanged. But the mere fact that Heaven is looking into her baby girl’s open eyes instead of them closed and indicating an outcome from the worst sort of nightmare is more than enough for her. 

The doctor begins to task the nurse with signing a set of basic questions for Macy, most of which, Heaven is sure, is standard protocol. Most likely to gauge her level of awareness, though her being able to identify her parents is more than enough for Heaven.

Macy simply being awake is more than enough for Heaven. 

With everything transpiring, the array of voices filling the room that’s suddenly far less morose than when she initially entered, Heaven is moderately surprised when she overhears a set of footsteps. Perhaps it’s the almost rushed pace, or maybe it’s the lingering essence of always being daddy’s little girl that has her turn around to see her father enter. But it’s the way he stands closer to the door, away from Macy’s bedside and how he beckons over her mother that gives Heaven pause. Especially when she watches the way her mother’s smile dips and transitions into a confused frown as she walks over. 

Her attention is especially secured when her father angles his and Shelia’s body away, not once seeming to pay attention to the fact that Macy, his only grandchild, is awake. Ignoring her is one thing, but Macy?

Concern spikes, however, when, even without seeing their faces, Heaven can infer from their tense postures that something….something is wrong. 

That nagging, uncomfortable feeling dancing up her spine as she speaks up. “What is it?” 

And the feeling intensifies when her parents turn to her and cook up the quickest, most insincere “nothing” that she shoots down immediately. “What is it?”

Shelia presses her lips together. “Heaven.”

“Tell me.” 

Heaven doesn’t intend to raise her voice as much as she does. She especially doesn’t intend to snatch away the focus from Macy via Nathan and Roman’s confused expressions, but Macy’s lack of her hearing aids leave her oblivious to the conversation at hand.

Thus, Heaven pushing once more. Something in the base of her stomach tells her that she needs to. That she can’t and shouldn’t accept whatever excuse or lie her parents want to feed her for the sake of avoiding whatever fallout the truth may carry with it. 

That’s what caused all this mess in the first place.

But the truth that’s disclosed is a truth she could have never anticipated.

“They found him,” her father answers. “They found Jey.”

Something about hearing his name sends chills up Heaven’s spine. Evokes a myriad emotions. Anger dominating them all. But the anger is shoved aside in favor of clarification. “What—what do you mean they found him?” 

Heaven remembers Jey attacking her. Recalls the struggle for the gun. Everything after that is nothing more than a blank page, but in her mind, Jey should be locked up somewhere. He attacked her. Tried to kill her. Almost killed her daughter.

He should be buried under that damn jail. 

“He went on the run after….” Shelia trails off, her husband taking her hand as he offers a small nod.

“They located him though. Received an anonymous tip,” he continues. The pause, however, increases Heaven’s anxiety. The omission of what she would guess is a key piece of information having her press once more.

“What—”

“He was shot, Heaven,” he finally answers, voice void of any emotions and the concern in his eyes undoubtedly reserved for her and Macy. But primarily her and having to share such jarring news. “They found him unconscious. Beaten and shot. He’s apparently in critical condition. It doesn't look good. They don’t think he's going to—”

She’s unsure if it’s the way she turns her head away, staring at the ground, working to process the information, that makes her father pause in his explanation. Most likely. It’s certainly not from being choked up or holding any ounce of remorse or grief.

Jey’s sins are far too great and grave for her to extend any sort of compassion. Empathy has limitations, and Jey reached his the moment he left her daughter in their burning home. Perhaps the shock of what occurred has her in a state of emotional paralysis, but him attacking her, trying to kill her, isn’t even what drives her fury with him. It’s Macy. His crimes against Macy are unforgivable. 

Though lack of empathy doesn’t deprive her brain from springing out several thoughts, most of which circle around a single word.

Who.

Who attacked Jey?

It’s an unasked question, however, that still has little to no emotion attached to it. 

Nothing that Heaven actually feels. Truth be told, she’s not exactly sure what she feels. At least not until she happens to look behind her, wanting to ensure that Macy, though not physically possible, has not overheard news Heaven hasn’t the slightest idea how she’s going to break to her sweet little girl. 

Especially if….

But it’s halted when two other expressions snag her focus. 

Roman and Nathan. Twins in so many different ways, their personalities and dispositions almost identical. The first few seconds reveal brief, minor distinctions that, if not for how well she knows both father and son, she could have easily missed. The subtle tick of Roman’s jaw and motion of his bushy brows, weary eyes flashing with something unidentifiable. Similarly, there’s a discreet rise and fall of Nathan's shoulders followed by his mouth shifting before his expression lands in the same place as his father’s. Identical, nonchalant, calm, stoic look on their faces. And while she certainly wouldn’t expect either to emote any sort of despair or sorrow, it’s the lack of something she would expect to see that makes her still.

Shock.

They don’t….they don’t look shocked. 

Not even a little.

And there’s something unsettling about that for completely different reason. Something that has her stomach in knots and spurns widespread disquiet. “What—“

An interrupted, unasked question lost in the midst of another sound inserted into the commotion of the room, voices layered over one another, but that consternated tone overpowering the rest.

“Macy?”

Her daughter’s name being called is what forces Heaven to return her focus to her child, the sight of which immediately makes her stomach churn.

“Macy.”

Macy doesn’t respond though, and her silence isn’t due to the lack of her hearing aids and thus inability to hear. It’s because of the sudden, jerking motions of her body as medical staff swarm around her right as several of the machines connected to her baby start alarming loudly and frantic, some slow and intermittent, some speedily and with urgency that matches that of the team around her.

“She’s seizing.” 

“Her oxygen is dropping.” 

“She’s coding.” 

“Clear the room now!”

All sentences that whip past Heaven as she attempts to close the distance between her and her innocent baby, the view completely obscured by scrubs and a white coat. Arms and hands moving and reaching with purpose and necessity, some of which, however, serve as barriers.

“Macy!” 

It’s an out-of-body experience, the heartfelt sound of her baby’s name ripped from her mouth. From Roman’s. Both of them being restrained and forced away from a scene neither can look away from. Their efforts valiant and without respite, even as Heaven feels the sharp pain of the IV ripping out from her arm what with her desperate flailing and swinging of her arms against the nurses holding her back. Her and Roman's voice nothing but heartbreaking echoes of the deepest sort of terror as they scream for their child.

“MACY!”  

And similar to the same sight that haunted her that night, as she once more poured every ounce of energy in her body to get to her daughter, Heaven. continues to push. As does Roman. They continue to fight and resist. Tenacity undeterred as the cacophony of noise is usurped by a single, continuous, uninterrupted sound. 

A flatline.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⟡ ＮＥＸＴ⟡

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢 𝐚𝐦⠀— 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞