✨w e l c o m e✨

There were theories about endogenous ketamine-like compounds flooding NMDA receptors under hypoxic stress. REM intrusion in low-perfusion states. Hypercapnia producing tunnel vision and euphoria. All of it explained why his dead grandma might’ve appeared at the foot of his bed before he passed. None of it explained what he was experiencing right now. 

He was a man of science, but science wasn't helping him make much sense of any of it. So, he read up on the Abrahamic and Dharmic religions' traditional views on death and the afterlife.

None of it helped him make sense of how he could have logically morphed back into his younger self. 

He wondered if he should track Duke down. Would he dignify him with a response though? If Duke was some sort of cosmic, superior being, why would he even bother? This was all too absurd to him. If there was going to be a figure adjacent to a religious guru or spirit guide in his life, the last person he'd have guessed it to be was Duke.

Still, he kept coming back to their conversation… what Duke told him about remembering why he did this in the first place, about a second chance, about… well. You. 

What was he was actually meant to get out of any of this?

So far, Robby— no, John, he had to keep reminding himself, John, John, John— had forgotten what it felt like to just practice medicine. As John Carter, there would be no more hospital committee meetings. No budget or staffing crises he needed to be aware of. No decision made by his authority that would follow some family around for the rest of their lives. The call wasn't his to make anymore.

He could get used to that.

But… as John Carter, he wouldn’t have access to you. 

Did he still have it as Robby, though? He honestly wasn't sure where the two of you stood right now. 

Sometimes you did or said things that made him think you might drop the divorce proceedings altogether and come back home to him. He'd be lying if he said he hadn't expected it over the past few months. 

He realized too late he'd waited too long. Two days ago, you seemed perfectly fine handing your final divorce papers off to Dana, asking her to pass them along to him, like it wasn't your marriage's death sentence. 

But… what if John Carter was meant to have some role in your life too? He could stick around and be a part of it, right? At least until he figured out what all of this was for.

He kept coming back to Duke's words. "Well, I don't know that she's clear on that." What was that supposed to mean? Robby had never once let you think his problems were your fault, or that the divorce was somehow because of you. 

What did you really think of it, though? Maybe this was his chance to finally get it out of you.

There were still things he wanted to make right. Things he didn’t get to say to you.

Robby didn't want you to move on from before he came back. Carter’s face was just the thing to make sure of it.

──

Every morning, you stopped at the small coffee stand in the hospital lobby before heading upstairs to your office. You always ordered the same thing, an iced latte with an added flavor. Hazelnut, almond, or lavender, depending on your mood. 

So on Tuesday, all Robby had to do was make sure he happened to be there around 8:30 in the morning.

He was walking through the main hospital entrance when a voice called out behind him.

“Don’t you look chipper.”

It made him nearly jump out of his skin.

Duke laughed. “Don’t think I’ll ever get tired of seeing you like that.”

“What are you doing here?”

“My doctor fast-tracked a meeting with my cardiologist, remember?” Duke looked him over, a suggestive smile on his face. “Heading in, but I figured I’d check in on how your first day went. I’m guessing well?”

Robby just didn’t want to admit how fast Duke was proven right. So instead, he told him, “I’m glad I ran into you. I have questions.”

“Figured,” Duke said. “Don’t think I have the answers, though.”

Robby was getting a bit tired of the all-powerful, but not all-knowing bit. “Can you at least tell me how long I’m going to be like this?”

Duke’s curls shifted as he moved his head side to side, as he considered his answer. “As long as it takes.”

“As long as what takes?”

For a moment, Robby thought Duke wasn’t going to answer. Then his eyes shifted toward him.“I see you’re back to enjoying practicing medicine. Is there anything else missing in your life?”

Robby started to answer, but then he saw you. You were crossing the lobby toward the coffee stand.. The second he saw you, something in him changed. His whole face lit up before he could stop it. 

“Gotta go,” he said, giving Duke a quick slap on the arm before walking away.

Behind him, Duke just laughed.

You'd just finished putting your order in, when Robby stepped into line behind you. He grimaced watching the barista pump hazeulnut syrup into your cup, a reflex he'd never quite managed to shake. Overpriced, and over sweetened, but you never heeded his advice.

He regretted now, on more than one occasion, being enough of a prick to scold you for spending seven dollars on coffee everyday when you had a perfectly good coffeemaker at home. That fight, in hindsight, hadn't mattered at all. He would buy you however many coffees a day you wanted if it meant getting to keep you. 

He watched as you dug around your bag, presumably looking for your wallet, your hair falling in front of your face as you rummaged through it. 

It used to be a daily habit for the two of you to get coffee here together, before shifts. That was back when you’d look for any spare minute to see each other. But, after the pandemic, the habit had never quite come back. He should've insisted on it. Maybe if he had, he wouldn't currently find himself in the final stages of your divorce.

Now, here was John Carter, stepping up. 

He called your name softly to not startle you, and said “I got this” as he tapped his card against the reader before you'd even opened your wallet.

You looked up, and he was met with those beautiful eyes of yours. 

"Oh!" You gasped, because it really was strange, seeing the face you'd fallen in love with twenty years ago on someone else. You recovered quickly. "Carter, was it?"

"John," he nodded. "John Carter." He grabbed your coffee for you.

 "Right. I should know that, I dealt with your onboarding.” Your teeth grazed your lip, watching as he took the coffee in his hand. “You didn't have to do that," you murmured.

"My pleasure," he said, and led you out of line with your coffee in hand, so you'd have no choice but to follow.

You were taken aback, but still followed as he led you to a nearby standing table. He was confident, you’ll give him that. A lot like Robby when he was starting out. 

You watched as he grabbed a straw from the counter, dropped it into the drink, and slid it your way.

"Thank you," you said, finally taking it and bringing it to your lips. 

A beat passed, you shifted under the weight of his stare. John Carter was watching you with the same contemplative expression you’d seen on your husband’s face for years. 

You met Robby when he was an intern in the ED, around the age John was now. You were just starting in admin while finishing your masters in hospital management. Over the next fifteen years you climbed, slowly, steadily, the hospital’s corporate ladder. Robby, alongside, completed his medical training, and somewhere in there, in between his brutal shifts and your late nights, your friendship turned into ten years of marriage, and, well, into where you ended up now. 

You snap out of your thoughts when he suddenly says, "You dyed your hair." 

He had been trying to figure out what looked different about you. Then the light caught you and he had it. Your hair was lighter. You had highlights now. That was it. 

You were evidently a little thrown. "I— I did. Had an appointment yesterday. Good eye," you said. You'd met this man exactly once before, and he'd noticed something like that?

"It looks good.”

You couldn't remember the last time your own husband had said a single word about your appearance, let alone actually complimented you. And here was this man— boy— you’d only met once before commenting on it. 

Your reaction made Robby feel guilty. He thought about it constantly, how beautiful you were. He couldn’t believe he let a day go by without telling you.

"How'd your first day go?" you asked.

His face broke out into a grin. You wanted to know about his day.

As he answered, he watched your eyes keep drifting to his face and away again. Like you would catch yourself doing something you knew better than to do, but couldn’t resist anyway.

"Do I have something on my face?" he asked, teasing you about it.

"No! No, I'm sorry, it's just—" You laughed at yourself, a little embarrassed. "You remind me so much of someone I know. It's uncanny."

"Ah. Robby."

Your eyebrows went up. "How did you—"

"You mentioned it yesterday. To the other woman. Noelle, I think her name was?"

When remembering the events from the previous day, your blush turned brighter. "Right. Well. I owe you an apology. My actions were totally inappropriate–”

"Don't mention it." His gaze drifted elsewhere, leaning against the table with one forearm resting on its surface. When he spoke again it sounded almost absentminded. "There are worse things in life than having a sweet thing fuss over you." 

You looked at him a second too long after that, something flickering behind your eyes. Then you were shaking your head. "I have to get going. Thank you again for the coffee, and good luck with your internship, Dr. Carter." 

He took note of the finality in your voice. You were drawing a clear, professional line. So he nodded, and watched as you stepped away. Too soon for that, probably. He’d wanted to see your reaction anyway. 

"You know where to find me," he said, in offering. 

You walked off toward the elevators, looking back once to find his eyes still on you.

Robby wasn't sure what angle he was currently  meant to be playing at. He didn't know if he was supposed to be doing this for Robby, or just keep the scheme going as John. All he knew was that he should keep the door open, and it didn't hurt that this lighter, freer version of him meant getting to be around you with the personality that once was. 

──

His second day at the Pitt brought the same type of intern hazing. Even more so for having wandered in late. 

“What’s that? Attending behavior on your second day? Not gonna get you too far here.” Dana called out when he finally sauntered in, in a bit of a daze. He’d just gone on a coffee date with his beautiful wife, after all.

People called him "new guy," and the day brought in a mix of scut work and work that actually felt rewarding.

He was no longer under the pressure of being the one who made the decisions, the one responsible for the shots called. He was finally just a man who liked his job. 

His mind was evenly split between work and you. He was counting down the seconds until he could see you again. He wasn’t sure how he ever thought he could spend three months on the road without seeing you at all. 

He just assumed it was what you wanted. 

Robby figured there was no harm in using what he knew as your husband to stay close to you. He wanted to stay on your head. He didn't know how long he had in this body, and he figured you couldn't move on from him if his face was always there, a constant reminder that you still had a husband, albeit separated. 

He knew your schedule. It wouldn't be hard to play it like an accident.

Your parking spot had a direct view of the ambulance bay, so he pretended to be taking a call there at the time you usually came back from lunch. It worked, and when he "accidentally" caught your eye, he lifted a hand, waving with a grin on his face. You stopped, then hesitantly waved back. He caught the look it earned you from Noelle who was getting out of the passenger seat beside you.

It was time for him to start playing dirty, and flirt with his wife.

He went looking for a reason a first-year would ever need to go up to admin. Just like old times. He made up a problem with his onboarding, claimed his portal access hadn't cleared. You assumed he came to you because he was new, and learning his way around. That you were probably the person from admin he knew, and that was why he always came to you for help. Even when the obvious answer was to contact IT. 

On other occasions, when Dana or Lena needed something fast-tracked, he was the first to volunteer. Happy to play messenger boy if it meant a stroll out of the Pitt, and a chance to see you. 

Dana was the first to pick up on the fact that there was an ulterior motive. She was also quick to suspect it had something to do with you.

"Do yourself a favor, honey. Stop flirting with the married woman," she scolded him. She had been sorting through papers at the station, when he came back from admin on that occasion, unsuccessful and sulking.

"What? Isn't she divorced?" He asked, a grin stretching on his lips. If only Dana knew…. "What's wrong with a little harmless flirting?"

She let out a long sigh, shaking her head in reply. 

The day went well, all in all. He'd somehow become the golden boy for both McKay and Al-Hashimi. The latter was especially ironic, considering that two days ago his older self had been locked in a screaming match with her, to the point where he had called her unfit to run his ED. 

He was getting along with the “Pittlings,” as Dana referred to them. Without much effort. 

In the shared stress of the shift, there was always banter and sarcasm being thrown around. He fell in quickly with the group. Whitaker and Santos especially, he found himself gravitating towards. Robby was embarrassed to not know they had been living together for the past year. 

One particular moment with Victoria Javadi hit him with equal parts horror and vertigo. He was charting, and she was standing nearby, looking like she was working up the courage to ask something, but he wasn’t expecting her to say, “So, do you have like, a girlfriend, or anything?”

Robby realized that there was no way for her to know how bad this was, how badly she’d cringed if she knew who she was really talking to. 

She didn't deserve for him to respond as completely horrified as he felt at that moment, so he just gulped, "I'm— yeah. I mean. It's complicated." It was the understatement of his current existence.

"Cool, cool, cool," Javadi said, and drifted off, a new chart in her hand. 

The moment did nothing to lessen the easy rhythm between them though. If anything, the group reminded him of his own days during training, when long shifts were made bearable by good company, especially reminiscent of the years when Jack and Dana joined too.

Other, less involved people, like Joy and Ogilvie, were around, but he interacted with them little, despite being at their same level. Ogilvie because he'd caught wind of John Carter being the new gifted golden boy; Joy, because she was frankly there to fulfill a requirement and didn't much care to engage.

The only one whose attitude he didn't care for was Langdon, though he could appreciate that neither of them let it get in the way of the work.

Things were falling into place. He was young, full of energy, the shifts were going well. He was forming a solid relationship with the Pittlings, and in the gaps he got time with you. 

There was nothing that could break his stride.  

Until Thursday morning. He'd picked up a pistachio and almond croissant from your favorite bakery, and was on his way to give it to you when he heard a man’s voice coming from your office. And laughter. Yours. 

He slowed without meaning to.

The man in your office was leaning against your desk, while you sat in your chair. His posture was relaxed, leaning in toward you. 

"Well, the seminar will probably run late,” he said, “I'm just saying, it wouldn't hurt to plan dinner reservations in advance.”

Robby recognized the flirty insinuation and it caused his eyes to narrow.

He recognized the man. He was a surgeon at the hospital, and a board member. He and Robby had sat on committee meetings together a few times. He had no idea the two of you were on friendly-enough terms that he felt comfortable throwing dinner plans your way.

He didn't like the way he was sitting so close to you either. 

Your eyes caught Robby’s as he stood in the doorframe. He knocked, too late, and lifted the pastry box in his hand. "Delivery."

Your back immediately straightened. "It was good to see you, Eric–” Wow, first name basis? “I'll let you know about that proposition." What proposition?

Eric straightened, sighing, glancing at Robby, the pastry box in his hand. "Guess I'm not the only man vying for your attention, now that news of the divorce is out." It was said low, in passing. Robby couldn't be sure you'd heard it, but Eric seemed like he’d be quite pleased with himself either way.

Something sharp lodged itself directly under Robby’s ribs.

The man caught his eye on the way out. He wore pressed scrubs and a white coat. Robby didn't. That was part of the ED protocol he'd implemented himself, one he was very proud of. The idea was to lower the barrier between patients and physicians while keeping the staff on equal footing, without creating unnecessary distinctions or elevating anyone above the rest. It was often said to be very effective. Eric's scrubs weren't even hospital-issued.

"Dr. Eric Fielder," the man said, extending a hand Robby didn't especially want to shake. "Neurosurgery. You're an intern?"

Robby had to keep the scowl on his face from fully-forming, and settled for a pressed smile. "John Carter. Just started as a PGY-1 in the ED."

Eric's mouth curved, already moving past him. "Don't waste your time on the trauma junkies down there, kid. Let me know when you're ready to find out what it actually feels like to play God."

He was gone before Robby could answer, which was probably for the best, because if Eric had stayed a second longer, he would’ve heard him mutter, "Fucking asshole."

You heard it, though. It made you laugh.

"I know," you said, nodding along in agreement. "He can be a lot."

Warmth filled his chest. It was confirmation that you weren’t interested in that douche. 

He stood there a second longer than he should have. He couldn't remember if he had ever seen someone openly flirt with you. It unleashed the urge to find out which Porsche in the hospital parking lot belonged to Dr. Eric Fielder, and piss all over it. 

The feeling worsened when Robby caught sight of your hand. It was bare, where your ring used to be. He couldn't rest anymore on the fact that people knew you were his because you were married to him. Now, anyone who wanted to could try for your attention. 

"Is… is that from…?" Your eyes had zeroed in on the familiar pastry box in his hand.

"Bilbio's? Yeah. Dana mentioned you were a fan. I picked up some pastries for everyone downstairs. Figured I'd bring one up. I know how hard their almond-pistachio croissants are to get."

A lie. He hadn't brought any for anyone else. He'd woken up to stand out in the drizzle and catch the first batch of the day, just for you.

You took it and bit into it. 

What followed was a moan which sounded like pure ecstasy to him. He realized he'd been staring, gone somewhere else entirely at the sound that left your mouth.

"What is this for?" Your voice had gone wary. "Do I owe you something? Gloria said you mentioned some leftover onboarding paperwork, but I checked and you're all caught up."

"No, no. It's just me, giving thanks. For your work with my onboarding. I know I came in mid-year, out of nowhere. Just appreciation."

You nodded slowly and set the croissant down. "Dr. Carter—"

“He’s Eric, but I’m Dr. Carter?” He was meant for it to come out playful, teasing, but the jealousy twisted his features into a grimace.

It made you pause. "John... I hope I'm not being presumptuous here, but if you're coming here out of romantic interest, I don't think that's appropriate at all.'" 

Was it bad that Robby wanted to see how you would react if John had been flirting with you? "No, no, I just… I overheard you're separated…” 

Your head tilted to the side. "Separated or not, I'm not officially divorced. And I don't think it would be fair for Dr. Robinavitch to come back and find out I let his baby doctor intern take me out."

He hung his head."I see 'baby doctor' stuck."

"It suits you." You shook your head, hiding a smile. "If it is the case, I’m flattered, but the answer is no."

"I didn't ask anything." He raised his hands. "Can we agree that I brought you a noncommittal croissant?"

"Noncommittal?"

"All yours. No commitment."

──

It was Whitaker who confirmed what he should have already known. They were on the curb outside the ambulance bay, each working through one of Whitaker's granola bars, when Robby brought you up.

"Don't go there, man."

"What? Why does everybody keep acting like I'm up to something."

"You're not exactly subtle. You vanish upstairs for no reason. You follow her every move when she's around."

Robby rolled his eyes. "That doesn’t mean I’m trying anything. What is she like, anyway?"

He expected some version of “she's Dr. Robby's wife”. That was not what he got.

"She's kind of everyone's person around here." Whitaker picked at the wrapper. "Robby's our mentor, sure, but she's always the one who checks in on us. Remembers birthdays. Pulls you aside when you’re having a bad day, that kind of stuff. She'll pretend it's admin doing wellness rounds, but we all know it’s just her… She’s not just anyone to us. We’re protective of her. All of us."

"Good.” Something swelled in Robby’s chest, and then the grief of your broken relationship followed.

"They're getting divorced, though."

"...What do you know about that?"

"I told you, that's not where you want to go."

"I want to know why everyone acts like it'd be a disaster."

"It's not because of her." Whitaker shrugged. "It's just, I don't think you're going to be the only one trying, now that Dr. Robby's gone. Everyone knows he signed the divorce papers and took off for three months. Might as well have announced she was on the market himself."

He's annoyed with himself that he hadn't even considered that possibility. Robby’s voice came out flat, defensive, as he said, "He didn't sign them." 

“What?”

“The divorce papers. He didn’t sign them.”

"How would you know that?”

"I overheard her the day I met her, tell the other woman, Noelle, I think her name was, that he left without signing them. So, they’re still married."

"Right. Well. Let's hope everybody else sees it that way too."

That afternoon, Robby figured he might as well keep you entertained as Carter, in the hopes that no one else managed to whisk you away before Robby came back. And if he happened to find out how you actually felt about the divorce along the way, he'd call that fate.

previous ch // next ch

One

Two

Three

The tapping of Heaven’s almond shaped nails against the side of her thigh occur in conjunction with each deep, quiet, counted breath taken and the subsequent exhale. While her eyes remain shut during the short, simple but effective exercise learned in therapy, they snap open only a few seconds later in order to implement another learned coping mechanism. Heaven starts off easy, utilizing what can be seen without any additional movement, give or take subtle utilization of peripheral vision. She counts the walls. Four. Two more than the amount of chairs that surround the graphite gray table. White chairs with legs that look sturdy but rocked and briefly scraped against the gray concrete floor when she sat down and placed her black Hermes bag in the empty seat next to her. The buzzing of the fluorescent ceiling lights serve as a sort of buffer for the muffled outside noise. A surprising thing she  noticed she being escorted in. 

Heaven always thought these sort of rooms were soundproof. Made so that no sound from within traveled outward and no sound outside traveled inward. Just like the room as seen and depicted in any legal based television program or cinematic film. It just seemed like the sort of thing that made sense what with the nature of such a place. But perhaps it’s the opposite. Privacy of that nature is only allotted for the freed.

Not the imprisoned. 

The guard who escorted her remains with his feet planted near the door. He offered nothing but a silent nod of acknowledgment, his left hand remaining on his holstered gun, the right resting his side, waiting and watchful. It’s appreciated. While her emotions have been all over the place from the moment she woke up this morning, any sort of anxiety or fear haven’t been because of the potential danger. 

At least, not towards her.

And not in the way most people in such a situation would suspect. 

Heaven redirects her focus to the faint scratches on the table and is seconds from lifting her wrist to check the time. The gold Piaget watch—a Christmas gift from Roman a few years back—the only source allotted to her to do so, her phone and other non-allowed items checked in upon their arrival. But it’s a failed effort when a sudden knock disturbs final attempts at settlement. 

It’s hard to say exactly what traverses through her the moment the door opens and a room of two temporarily increases to four before descending into three. The squeak and creak of those same sneakers against the cold floor in conjunction with almost rhythmic whirring. Something locking and clanking upon final placement. Directly across from her. A quiet, barely audible and brief conversation between the two guards transpiring before the one who transported departs and the one who remains stands exactly as he’s been since he escorted her in.

The silence that follows the sound of the door closing is thick. Unintentional. Heaven has no desire to play any games, to see who will fold first. She just….she’s not sure what to say. Not really. And it’s the strangest fucking thing in the world. To be sitting across from someone that, once upon a time, she believed to be her end all, be all. The first and the last. 

The reality that is theirs, however, couldn’t be anymore farther from that.

It’s been roughly two months since they’ve been in the same space. God knows how long since they’ve been physically this close to one another. And while he hardly looked like the same handsome man she was once head over heels with during the trial, the continued decline in his appearance is even more drastic. 

Dark roots grown out and poorly transitioning into the faded, bleached ends. She never could understand the thought process for some of his hair choices, including the most recent cut, unevenly shaved on the sides, a sort of mullet in the middle. It’s roughly the same with the only difference being the obvious lack of refreshed color. Faded and dull. Similar to his eyes. Deep, dark, heavy bags that were almost non-existent before the ruination. Chapped lips. Slightly gaunt cheeks. He’s lost some weight. Maybe a lot. It’s hard to tell what with the almost baggy fit of his orange jumpsuit, a size too large or just ill fitting altogether. Insignificant in the grand scheme of things. Comfort is the last thing prioritized in such a place and for such a person.

“You come to gloat?” 

His voice takes her back. She hasn’t heard him speak since….

It’s been a long time. He’s said not a word throughout the entire trial. Not during any of the testimonies given. Not even her own. As she often tearfully and angrily testified. Relaying in detail the litany of atrocities committed during their marriage. Including the retelling of what she now knows and recognizes to have been abuse. Abuse that, all things considered, and in the most heartbreaking of ways, weighs lowly on the scale of egregiousness regarding his actions.

A few one worded responses to the judge, but even those were muttered, with him often being asked to repeat himself. And at that point, Heaven had tuned him out. 

But there’s no doing that when he sits right across from her. 

Her silence is clearly irksome, the irritation in his gruff voice increased. “Came to rub shit in my face?”

Heaven stills. Just continues to stare at him offering nothing more than a poker face and a surprisingly, easily crafted stoic expression. If she was unsure what level of anger and rage still remained, she’s almost sure now that it’s all but dissipated. Or rather her purpose outweighs her emotions.

Either way, she maintains the calm. 

She lifts a perfectly arched brow, refusing to show and give him anything other than facts. “You haven’t been sentenced yet.”

“You a lot of things, Heaven, but stupid ain’t one of them.” He scoffs. “We both know how this shit gon’ turn out.” 

He’s not wrong.

There’s no denying that whatever sentence will be issued three days from now, it won’t be light. It also won’t be what he deserves though.

Heaven is almost certain that there is no sentence that adequately fits the depth of his crimes.

Not in this life anyway. 

“Why are you here?” He issues his question once more, volume once again transcending to the next level. The first and only flash of anything in his empty eyes making a brief appearance. Anger. “I  already saw what you had to say.”

That was, in the strangest way, one of the things throughout this whole process that she detested the most. His having the right to read her victim impact statement ahead of time. She understood it from a legal standpoint, but morally, it felt unfair. It felt unfair that he had the legal right to protest and defend himself from facts that he can’t dispute, even if he wanted to. The strong case presented by the DA all but cemented that. 

Heaven desired to witness and see his face as she read aloud the six page letter she wrote, edited, scrapped, rewrote, and picked apart line by line for almost two weeks before settling on the final draft. Wanted to watch in real time the live reaction to her raw, uncut, final words. But sitting across from him right now, seeing the same heartless man she saw that day as he hovered over her, choking the life out of her, fully intending to take her life….she knows now it wouldn’t have made a difference.

Even in real time, his reaction would be the same.

Nothing. 

“You’re right.” She nods, dark red lips pressed together. “I did already say what I have to say.” A beat. “But you haven’t heard what she has to say.”

A quick flick of her eyes to the guard in the corner of the room results in him walking over to the door. Jey turns to the man before looking back at Heaven.

“What’s going on?”

Naturally, she ignores him. Instead angles her body towards the door the guard knocked on twice. A few seconds later, it opens, and for the first time since she sat down, something warm floats through her chest. 

For a moment, she’s surprised. She expected him to be holding her, as he always and usually does when escorting her. But then Heaven remembers. Remembers the request made.

She asked to walk on her own.

Hence the way he simply holds her hand.

Her black pleated shirt brushes against her knees, white socks with black ruffles sticking out past the tongue of her sneakers. Her white shirt, tucked into the skirt, is a size too large but was her preference. A portion of his tribal tattoo, covered in gold, the outline of his famous Superman punch sprawled across the middle of her chest. Her dark hair is pulled up into two space buns, gold butterfly clips clipped near each. A gold bracelet on each wrist and necklace to match complete the look. The splash of rainbow fur, clutched against her chest with her left arm, pointed ear lightly brushing against her jaw, is a contrast to her otherwise monochromatic outfit. Her lips are pressed together and her chin is held high, but when she locks gazes with Heaven, there’s a shift.

The feet of the chair screech loudly when Heaven scoots back, opening her arms right as Macy breaks away from Roman in exchange to greet her mama.

Heaven closes her eyes and sighs softly. “Hi, baby,” she murmurs into the top of Macy’s head, her daughter’s fingers digging at her arm. Creating an anchor. A safe space to land and deplane. Heaven briefly meets Roman’s guarded gaze only for it to quickly switch to the man across from his girls. Small bumps sprout across the back of her neck.

If looks could kill….

It’s more or less the same way he’s looked at Jey since the start of the trial. When he did allow himself to look. Majority of the time, Heaven kept her hand intertwined with his or one on his bicep. Keeping him grounded. 

In more than just the physical. 

Macy shifting in her lap redirects her focus, however, as her brave little girl repositions herself so that she no longer has her face buried in Heaven’s chest. She’s instead facing the man she once called daddy. 

And for the first time since the onset of the trial—even before that—Heaven observes something different in Jey. A short, brief glimmer of something other than anger, hate, and disdain. 

They’re still present but far less intense. 

It’s welcomed. Provides a modicum of relief in a situation Heaven still isn’t 100% sure she was right in agreeing to.

And she knows Roman feels the same. 

Lord knows that when Macy first brought up her desire to see Jey, to speak with him, the ‘no’ couldn’t come out fast enough. A delivery that could have been better, for sure, but it was such a jarring, unexpected, anxiety inducing question that Heaven knows both she and Roman immediately went into fight or flight. Answered from a place of fear and panic.

Understandably so.

There’s a reason they were adamant from the very beginning about keeping their daughter as far away from Jey as possible. While they prioritized filing for a lifetime restraining order, they also implored Heaven’s parents to see what legal strings they could pull, if possible, to expedite the process of Jey’s parental rights being terminated so that they could begin the process of having Roman legally recognized as Macy’s father. Her safety, healing, and erasing any connection and right Jey had to Macy were number one on their list.

Thus them being floored when she asked not once but several times about this. Even brought it up to her therapist, Mack, hence a collaborative meeting with all four to discuss where such a thing came from and best ways to handle it.

Heaven knows that both she and Roman entered that session all but convinced that they weren’t going to change their minds. There was a reason the DA hadn’t even considered calling Macy to testify. On top of her being too young, given the nature of the crime, it would be far too traumatizing to put her in such a situation. 

And Macy has already been traumatized enough. Been through more than any seven year-old should have to overcome.

To say her journey since the fire has been difficult would be an understatement. 

A year later, she still can’t sleep by herself. They’ve tried on a few occasions, and each one has resulted in Macy hysterical, in tears, and on the brink of a panic attack. Even the aid of Candy, their 2 year old German Shepherd, and Macy’s ESA, sleeping at the edge of the bed doesn’t stop her from burying herself into Roman’s chest, Cookie in her arms. 

And even when surrounded by every source of comfort she’s identified, there are still nights where she wakes up screaming, crying, and kicking, haunted by nightmares Heaven knows all too well. 

She’s had a handful herself.

But a mother’s priorities will always be her children. 

Macy’s separation anxiety was so severe in the weeks following her discharge from the hospital that either Heaven or Roman had to be with her at all times. Even leaving her in a different room of the house produced a level of anxiety that had her eyes watering and arms reaching for someone to hold her. So much so that when they attempted to drop her off at school for the first day of first grade , they’d barely made the hall before she was running out the classroom, tears streaming down her face, crying, “please don’t leave me!”

They ended up pulling her from school, Roman hiring a private tutor to come to the house to teach her for the remainder of the school year.

And while Candy and consistent therapy have helped immensely, enough to where she’s now back in school, a month into the second grade, she still has her moments. She always will. Just like her mother, Macy was diagnosed with PTSD in the month following the fire. She’ll never be the same exact child she was before, but then again, neither will anyone else involved. 

No one has or ever will be the same, because that’s how survival works. You escape with your life but not without the version of yourself that existed before that trauma. That part of you is lost forever. Never to be found. 

Never to be regained. 

Alternatives were offered. The most obvious being Macy writing a victim impact statement just like her mom, and she was open to that. As long as she could read it to him. In person. Additional suggestions either met with dislike or the same additive of her somehow speaking to Jey personally, it became abundantly clear that this wasn’t just something Macy wanted.

It was what she needed.

And that realization was something Heaven, while not thrilled about, understood. Jey abandoned her. The person who was supposed to protect her left her. Even as she cried and begged for him not to. Heaven and Roman were able to speak their peace. Testifying throughout the trial and even just being in the court room, present and aware of every development and outcome from each day of said trial granted them a voice. Their letters being the final nail in the coffin. Macy has not been granted that level of space to express, and thus, her almost need to utilize this moment for just that.

To finally have her voice heard.  

“What the hell?” Jey finally breaks from his stunned silence, eyes nervously flitting to the guard. “I ain’t agree to this.” 

But the man remains as he has since the very beginning.

Silent.

“Sure you did.” Heaven tilts her head to the side. “Remember? Your lawyer said you signed off on it.”

Jey opens his mouth, and she’s partially prepared for him to say something out of pocket. Her arms instinctively tighten around Macy, but nothing comes out. He instead curses lowly, looking away before nodding to himself. 

“Right…” He turns to her once more, and it’s not lost on her how he seems to intentionally keep himself from looking at Macy. “You are a Jackson.” 

She raises her chin, wise enough to not comment on what most likely goes over Macy’s head, perhaps the guard as well. Heaven takes great pride in knowing that her parents, for how accomplished they are and have been, especially as African Americans, have never been the ones to play the game. The one where machinations run rampant and blackmail is a form of insurance. Television and overall media have been known to sensationalize, but they’ve never been entirely wrong.

Truth exists between the dramatization. 

Clarence and Shelia, however, reached the level of success they’ve attained through hard work and unmatched dedication and determination. The only thing they’re devoted to more than their careers is that of their daughter, and especially their granddaughter.

There isn’t anything they wouldn’t do for Heaven and Macy.

Hence why it was nothing more than a simple favor for them to pull some strings behind the scenes to ensure that Jey wasn’t aware of this meeting really being for Macy. Not Heaven. She knew that if he knew Macy wanted to see him, he’d immediately say no. Not that that would necessarily make much of a difference, either.

Again, there are a plethora of perks that come with being the daughter of Shelia and Clarence Jackson.

Including rules being malleable. 

“Actually,” she starts, feeling the way Macy holds Cookie closer to her chest, much like herself, her comfort stuffed animal presents with marginal outward indicators of survival. Despite the house she and Macy once called home more or less destroyed beyond the point of rehabbing, the firefighters pulled Cookie from the wreckage and despite obvious sighs of wear and tear, the body of Macy’s favorite stuffed animal remained enough for repair vs replacement. Hence Roman tracking down and sending Cookie to a stuffed animal restoration service that had their little girl’s stuffed companion looking just as it did before the fire. 

If not better. 

“I’m a Reigns.”

Heaven sees the moment his eyes drop to her hands that are locked in front of Macy’s stomach. Her left hand intentionally over her right. She picks up on the exact moment anger flashes in his irises that reflect the 10-carat, elongated cushion, D-F color, VVS clarity diamond rock on her finger.

And so is she.

An unspoken twist of the knife in his back. A knife he grabbed and intended to use against her. 

She just got the upper hand. 

“Macy has something she wants to say to you.” 

It’s as she reminds Jey of the purpose of this meeting that she once more witnesses the shift. The way he presses his chapped lips together, an unspoken response—or retort—retained as Macy wiggles on her lap. 

Heaven’s grasp tightens once more.

“I—I just wanna say that—that you were really really mean to me.” There’s something about her opening statement, words that Heaven already heard and read—but words that carry with them a different weight leaving her mouth—that demands the focus of the room. Even as she stammers, there’s an undertone of determination and anger that stirs up a whirlwind of emotions in Heaven. “You hurt my feelings and you hurt my mommy, and I don’t like you anymore!” 

“Macy—”

She doesn’t even give him the opportunity, doubling down on what Heaven and Roman have heard several times over now in a variety of manners. “You’re a bad bad man and a big meanine, and I’m glad you’re not my daddy cause you were a really bad daddy.” 

“Macy, please—”

“And I don’t wanna see you anymore, or—or ever again, you—you, butthead!”

Anyone without context of the situation unfolding would, perhaps, find the interaction humorous. This little girl, holding a stuffed animal, with her face contorted in anger, her arms protectively wrapped around her stuffed animal.

But for Heaven, it’s a sight that nearly brings tears to her eyes. Macy, sitting across from this man who almost caused her to lose her life, a man who should have protected her only to abandon her in her greatest time of need, expressing so clearly and without hesitation her raw, unfiltered sentiments. Infantile wording aside, it’s one of the most fortitudinous, powerful, admirable things Heaven has witnessed in some time. If ever.

She holds Macy tighter, closing her eyes and kissing the top of her head.

I’m so proud of you.

An unspoken expression of admiration in comparison to the almost dumbfounded countenance that Jey wears, lips remaining pushed together, nothing but silence in the wake of Macy’s brave address. 

It’s then that Macy turns around, looking up at Heaven, her little fingers moving against Cookie’s stomach.

I love you, mommy.

Heaven swallows. Macy dismounting off her lap allows her to sign back, I love you, too, baby girl.

Acknowledgement that makes her firstborn beam brightly before she dashes over to Roman who’d silently observed the entire interaction. He bends down and meets Macy just in time as she throws her body against his. Heaven watches him stand back up and kiss her temple, murmuring something that makes his expression soften for the first time. Big hand cradling the back of her head before his eyes close. Another scene that tugs at Heaven’s heart. 

The love he holds for his daughter is sempiternal. 

Heaven clears her throat and wipes at her watery eyes just as Roman opens his. Nonverbal communication between them, a small nod from her husband before he turns to leave without another word, Macy still in his arms. 

Her amazing, lionhearted little fighter.

“So that’s what this is about?” Jey’s grating voice forces Heaven’s attention as she drags her gaze back over to see whatever shock that was bred in the midst of Macy’s speech is long gone. That same vexation returned in its stead. “You just wanted to rub shit in and use her to do it?”

Heaven blinks once, and then twice, her mouth opening and closing before she manages a whispered, low, single word. “What?” But it’s when he says nothing, turning his head and running his hand over his haggard looking face, that something starts to brew within. “That’s what you got from this?” She leans over the table, nails digging into the metal, eyes narrowed. “She almost died because of you.” Even saying it aloud makes Heaven feel as if a boulder has been dropped onto her chest, voice clipped and tight. “She cod—” 

Silence

Some things…..some things are just too painful to revisit. Having to discuss, in detail, the nightmare that was Macy’s hospitalization, including that moment, is something she can’t bring herself to relive. Hasn’t even allowed herself to process in therapy.

She can’t. 

Heaven shakes her head and adjusts her purse. Scoots back in the chair and starts to walk away when a loud banging sound forces her to turn around. Out the corner of her eye, she sees the guard in the corner drop his hand to his waist. Over his gun. But she raises her hand, eyes focused on the man before and below her. 

“And I ain’t suffered?” Jey huffs. Heaven watches with a muted expression as he too backs away from the table for the first time. Studies the motion and movement of him rolling to the side of the table, the large wheels squeaking against the floor. Slowly rakes her eyes over his body, once strong and padded with muscles and fat that fit his frame. That worked for him in a way that carried him to what ended up being the peak of his career. Now withered away. Thick legs and thighs all but slim and lithe. He’s far from skin and bones, but the pronounced bulge of his knees that pokes out again the jumpsuit confirms that he has lost a lot of weight. Understandably so. 

A man who was once active from the day he could walk, who everyone always joked at having ADHD given his inability to stay still for too long, rendered still in an unforgivable, permanent way. Healing from the beating that broke several ribs, punctured his lung, and left him clinging to life eventually came in the form of an almost two week long stint in the ICU. But the single bullet lodged in his back, the location an impossible one for surgeons to operate on and remove, wasn’t as forgiving. There was no recovering from that. The bullet severed his spinal cord. His paralysis from the waist down, initially thought to perhaps be temporary, permanent and creating a different kind of punishment. One, in many ways, Heaven knows that, for Jey, will always outweigh whatever sentence awaits him.

Because the sentencing is punishment that offers flexibility. The confines of the prison with various rooms and extension that offer small, minute tastes of what freedom looks and feels like. Equally cruel as it is welcomed for some. A reminder of what impends of what will always be eluded. Reward perfectly balanced with consequence.

For Jey, there is no flexibility with this consequence.

Heaven knows that that’s what tears him up the most.

Prison isn’t his punishment.

Paralysis is. 

And he admits as such, angrily gesturing down to his lap. “I’m never getting out of here, and even if I do, what the fuck am I gon’ do?” His bottom lip trembles, something rising and simmering in his undertone. “I can’t do shit!” He snaps, scoffing and shaking his head, resting and leaning into his despair. “My career over. Life over. Ain’t nothing I got left but my anger.”

Heaven stares at him. Stares at this man she once thought hung the sun, moon, and stars in the sky. That she truly believed would be her forever until the day she died. And, in a strange, wicked sort of way, that was almost the case. 

She almost died because of him. 

Macy almost died because of him.

No…..murdered.

They were almost murdered because of him, and even now, in the face of two lives he almost took—one with deliberate intention and the other with callous negligence—he still can only think about himself. 

He hasn’t changed.

And he never will. 

Heaven lifts her eyes to his, met with nothing but dense hostility and self-pity. All of which bounce off and land in the pile of irrelevance and insignificance, right where they belong. 

Just like him. 

“Goodbye, Jey.” 

Jey Uso, former WWE Superstar and cousin to fellow WWE Superstar Roman Reigns, was sentenced on Thursday to 40 years in federal prison on several charges, including the attempted murder of his now ex-wife, Heaven Reigns. This comes after a month long trial that included over 700 pieces of evidence presented to the court, as well as both Mr. and Mrs. Reigns taking the witness stand to testify. The story has received massive media coverage both domestic and abroad given the celebrity status of the involved parties as well as the scandalous nature of the case. 

Mr. Uso’s rapid downfall came on the brink of an illustrious career and seemingly perfect family life. In 2024, at the peak of said career, Uso, while watching the then five year-old child he shared with Heaven, became intoxicated (his BAC was later revealed to be 3x the legal limit) and passed out with a cigar in hand. This resulted in the home catching fire. Uso escaped with minor injuries, but the child, Macy Reigns, was severely injured and placed in a medically induced coma. She was hospitalized for almost two weeks before being discharged.

Uso and Reigns [Roman] reportedly engaged in an altercation at the hospital while the child was being treated, and witnesses reported that Heaven then revealed Mr. Reigns as Macy’s biological father. This, as referenced by the prosecutors during the trial, was believed to be the major catalyst for Uso’s violent attack.

Jey reportedly sent Roman a threatening text message approximately an hour before tracking down Heaven at The Four Seasons, where her parents, famed attorneys Shelia and Clarence Jackson, had booked a room upon learning of the fire. It was there that Jey assaulted and attempted to murder Heaven. Roman reportedly arrived at the hotel prior to authorities and attempted to de-escalate the situation, but a scuffle ensued between the two men, which resulted in Mrs. Reigns being shot. 

Heaven underwent emergency surgery and was intubated and heavily sedated for 48 hours. She ultimately recovered and was discharged a week later.

A manhunt then ensued after Uso attempted to flee but was eventually found three days after the shooting following an anonymous tip. Reports surfaced that relatives of Uso and Reigns were complicit in helping him evade authorities, but no charges were ever made in conjunction to this claim. Uso was later found unconscious, beaten, and shot in an abandoned home. Doctors were reportedly unable to remove the bullet from Uso that severed his spine and left him paralyzed from the waist down. Following his release from the hospital, he was formally arrested by the Tampa Police Department. 

Both Mr. Reigns and his son, San Franciso 49ers player Nathan Reigns, were initially listed as suspects in Uso’s shooting, but both were cleared when the shooter turned himself in. It was then revealed that Mr. Reigns then wife and Heaven’s cousin, Camryn Reigns, hired a hitman to kill Jey Uso in fear of his disclosing their alliance and stratagem.

Subpoenaed texts and phone logs revealed that both Camryn and Jey engaged in a years long affair that dated back to high school. Emails allegedly showed the two discussing and planning their lie regarding Nathan Reigns paternity to avoid Jey being a teenage father and Camryn believing Roman to have more “potential” than his cousin. Other emails and texts also revealed constant communication over the years that prosecutors highlight to emphasize malicious intent and coercion.  This included Camryn reportedly walking Uso through ways to save his marriage amidst alcohol addiction and abuse that Heaven disclosed while on the witness stand. 

Several mental health and medical professionals involved in the care and treatment of both Heaven and Macy also took the witness stand. It was reported that Macy was diagnosed with PTSD several months after the fire and had to be homeschooled because of extreme separation anxiety. In addition, it was also shared that she remains unable to sleep alone and now has an emotional support animal, the latter of which came at the recommendation of her therapist. Now eight, she is reportedly back in school but remains in consistent therapy. 

Heaven, who was three months pregnant at the time, left her job at a law firm where she worked as a paralegal, while Reigns also took an indefinite leave from WWE. In spring of this year, it was reported that Heaven’s petition to have Jey’s parental rights terminated and Roman legally recognized as Macy’s father were granted. It’s also been reported that Macy’s last name was legally changed to Reigns.

Around this time, Roman’s former wife, Camryn Jackson, was sentenced to 30 years in Florida Department of Corrections. Jackson was being tried in two separate cases, one of which was Solicitation to Commit First-Degree Murder. The other charges were for a slew of crimes regarding her businesses including, racketeering, money laundering, witness tampering, and more. 

She was found guilty on all charges in both cases, despite it being rumored both she and Uso were trying to work out deals with the DA to share key information regarding their crimes in exchange for lighter sentences. 

These deals, seemingly, failed to materialize. 

In addition…..

OP: This a continuation/combined thread from the initial one following Jey Uso’s trial.  I know we hate these two tabloid cesspools, but they have the most recent, up to date information.  https://www.tmz.com/2026/09/08/jey-uso-sentenced-to-40-years-update/ https://www.dailymail.com/sport/wwe/article-157513/jey-uso-found-guilty-in-attempted-murder-trial.html

——————

@sayyestoheav3nn: YES! This might just be the best thing I’ve read all day idc. 🥺

@annoyedkayah2395 THAT’S WHAT HIS ASS GET. I KNOW ROMAN AND HEAVEN SO HAPPY. 

@unapologeticqueen94: Won’t He do it! It’s still so crazy to me how this all played out. 😩

@unapologeticqueen94 replying to @annoyedkayah2395: Same. And to think what had already been spilled on here was only the tip of the iceberg….

@mackfinstathrowitback: Good riddance. I hope he rots in that prison for the rest of his miserable ass life. 

@privateeyes95: H and R must be so relieved that this is all over. 

@youluvego: Still say they should have left his ass in a burning house. Without the wheelchair. 🙂

@aldrigmer444 replying to @youluvego: I wish you could hear the way I screamed at this. 😭

@suhlestuh: Someone pointed out earlier in the thread how in the the photos of Heaven and Roman walking hand in hand, in and out of court throughout during the trial, you could always see/tell how distraught she was in the afters. ☹️

@beas-mind replying to @suhlestuh: Can you blame her? Some of those recaps from the court reporters were hard for me to listen to. I can’t imagine how it was for them.

@nadadork: I read somewhere that they had to take several breaks throughout the whole thing because Heaven kept breaking down on the witness stand. 😕

@fearlesschimera replying to @nadadork: Yes and no. It was said one or two times she needed a break while testifying about Jey’s abuse and Macy’s recovery journey. The other breaks were during testimony given by others.

@mytribalnightmare: I don’t know how she did it TBH. 

@southerngirl41: I’m still kinda shocked how much we saw Roman in all of this. He’s usually so private. 

@xnightmarexpunkx replying to @southerngirl41: I’m not. Idk how private anyone could be with how public this all has been. Not to mention, it’s obvious he’s deeply devoted and in love with Heaven. It’s always been obvious tbh, but with how he openly admitted and acknowledged it during the trial confirmed it.

@diamondlifeee: This really is the best thing ever. Macy and Heaven finally got the justice they deserve. 🥺🥺🥺🥺

@callmekayd: He really did put it all out on the table in that trial. 

@differenttastemakerkitty replying to @callmekayd: He kind of had to or else he’d be held in contempt of court. 

@palmwinemami: Naw. He could have plead the fifth like his slow ass cousin.

@drivefouronthefloor replying to @palmwinemami: Jey didn’t even do that. He didn’t testify at all, and I don’t blame him. The case against him was so solid and the defense so weak, there really wasn’t anything to say to dig him out of that big ass hole he put himself in. 

@/livingandlovinglife26: Got the notification and started crying at my desk. As a DV survivor and mother myself, Heaven’s story has resonated so deeply with me. 

@/stupidbitch1: Am I missing something here? Yeah, Jey tried to kill her, hence the attempted murder charge, but prior to that, it was the punch in the ER and another years prior. Not condoning any of it, but I just find it weird how some folks are trying to make this and Heaven out to be something that it’s/she’s not. 

@/annoying1 replying to @/stupidbitch1: Shhhh. Not so loud. Her defense squad gon’ come after you, girl. 🙃

@/stupidbitch1 replying to @/annoying1: Thank you! The way everyone is trying to make it seem like she was some poor, battered housewife is insane. Her parents are famous lawyers. She grew up privileged and rich. If Jey was this horrible monster the entire time they were together, she had plenty of options. And she couldn’t have been too scared of him to be openly fucking his cousin who was also her cousin and supposed “sister” husband. Come on now. 😒

@beas-mind replying to @/annoying1 and @/stupidbitch1: You both sound so ignorant right now. I truly don’t know where to start. It’s obvious you haven’t read the court transcripts or just….educated yourself on the specifics of the case. DV is DV. Isolated or consistent, it doesn’t matter. It’s all the same. All wrong. Heaven said herself during her testimony that she truly hadn’t remembered the abuse and that it wasn’t until a conversation with her mom, ironically, the day of the fire, that triggered the memories. Even the expert witness cosigned this being a common thing amongst many survivors. 

@sayyestoheav3nn: We really got people in here defending an abusive ass alcoholic who almost killed his daughter and literally tried to kill his wife….

@/dumbhoe1 replying to @/stupidbitch1 and @/annoying1: Don’t waste your time or breath. These people so biased. It’s appalling. 

@jayjayem1999 replying to @/dumbhoe1: Biased how? Everyone is literally laying out facts.

@/stupidbitch1 replying to @jayjayem1999: Yes. Facts to support their biases. Let’s call a spade a spade. Only reason ya’ll riding so hard for Heaven is cause she’s a brown skin, monoracial black woman. She’s also a cheater and a liar, but ya’ll not trying to hear that. 

@annoyedkayah2395: YA’LL DONT LIKE THESE TWO BUT IN THEY THREAD??? IF YOU DON'T GO ON SOMEWHERE AND BE STEVIE WONDER TF

@/annoying1 replying to @/stupidbitch1: Exactly. Not to mention the self-haters that are trying to live vicariously through her cause of that hoe ass light skin man she stole from her cousin. 

@unapologeticqueen94 replying to @/annoying1 and @/stupidbitch1: I KNOW ya’ll not talking about Camryn trifling ass. The same cousin who literally been scheming and plotting against this girl since they were kids? Who gave Jey Heaven’s location knowing his ass wasn’t trying to bring her no flowers? Who gave Jey almost 100k after his dumbass almost bankrupt he and Heaven solely because she didn’t want her cousin leaving SlowMan cause she knew Roman was gon’ divorce her ass to be with the real love of his life? Who KNEW Jey was abusing her cousin and was smiling in Heaven face while secretly advising him on ways to manipulate Heaven into staying with him? Who PAID for the engagement ring that Jey proposed to Heaven with? A proposal that only happened because Camryn trifling ass TOLD him he needed to propose cause it was the only way to keep Heaven from leaving him after he sent her to the ER? 

@privateeyes95 replying to @unapologeticqueen94: Don’t forget how she and Jey literally pinned a child on Roman she knew wasn’t his and Jey knew was his. Just because she wanted to trap Roman. 

@chocovibesonly: Ya’ll, don’t pay the Free R Kelly gang no mind. They been all up over this site throughout the whole trial saying the same problematic shit. It’s gotta be rage bait at this point. 

@annoying1 replying to @chocovibesonly: We’re rage baiting for holding a black woman accountable for wronging another black woman? Heaven was literally fucking that man all over CAMRYN’S house. Had him pretending to be that child’s uncle when she knew all along he was the father.

@southerngirl41 replying to @/annoying1: Like how she knew Jey was Nathan’s biological father?

@callmekayd: As someone who’s been fully engaged with any and all information regarding this trial and the situation as a whole, Heaven and Roman were wild and wrong for carrying on as they did. But when you look at everything Jey and Camryn did, how they orchestrated everything so that H and R wouldn’t be together. Hurting whoever they needed to in the process with no regard for anyone else…Heaven and Roman did nothing wrong. 

@tribalray10 replying to @callmekayd: I agree with all of this. It’s crazy as hell when you think about it because in most situations, H and R would be dragged through the mud, but all they are is two people who love each other and were kept apart because of fake ass, evil ass, jealous ass people. 😓

@fame-ass-ers: I know this is probably the wrong time to bring this up, but am I the only one still shook and clutching pearls by all the details that came about Heaven and Roman’s sex life? 😅

@unapologeticqueen94 replying to @fame-ass-ers: LISTEN!!!! We knew his ass was putting her through that mattress, but the way my jaw dropped when they asked about how often they was getting it on, and they both said several times a week. Sometimes twice a day. 😩😩😩😩

@jaded-human replying to @fame-ass-ers: Wait, whaaaatttttt? How I miss this!

@fame-ass-ers replying to @jaded-human: Girl, yes. One of the folks who was attending the trial gave all the details. I believe it was part of Jey’s weak ass defense attempt to villainize Heaven and attack her character. I’ll PM you the link.

@Incog: Wow. So I guess cheating is okay if you’re brown or dark skinned or pretty. You’re all disgusting. 

@Incog: Did he pick any of ya’ll yet?

@Incog: I’ll wait. 

@chocovibesonly: @/The Admin Thread Derailment and Incognito Abuse

@itskii01: Sometimes I really wish Condi would close this shit off and stop allowing new members to join. 😒

@Incog replying to @itskii01: Who’s Condi?

@itskii01: I rest my case. 

The corner of her lips slowly but surely stretch and lift until the smile spread across her face makes her skin feel taught and tight. Small, barely visible lines sprouting near her eyes that squint when she makes the transition from inside to outside. Her Gucci flip flops slapping against the quartz stone as she lifts her her hand to create a makeshift visor from the scorching sun that illuminates the backyard. 

A backyard that’s filled with a variety of sounds—music, chatter, laughter—that last one being the thing to make the warmth bloom in her stomach. Walking across the patio to the rattan loungers that line the pool, a loud gasp leaps from her mouth at the same time the leap of a body into the pool from the diving board snatches her focus.

Breathing is briefly halted. Her fingers grasp at the sheer material of her orange bikini cover, knotted on the side and sitting right above the pudge of her stomach. She scratches her nails against her thigh, feeling the tips dig into her skin. The tightening sensation in her chest canceled out by the sight of two bodies emerging from under the water. 

Macy’s happy laughter does away with Heaven’s tension, her shoulders falling and relaxing at the sight of her sweet little girl.

Arms raised happily, her hair tucked away and under her swim cap. A set of tanned arms around her body, his own hair weighed down by the water. Loose, short curls sticking against the side of his face. Nate smiles and lifts his hand when Macy turns to look at him, securing a high five before he gestures to Heaven.

Macy’s eyes light up. “Mommy!”

Heaven’s smile deepens. Nathan lets her down and wades with her as she swims to the edge of the pool where Heaven meets her. He helps lift her from the water as Heaven leans down and carries out the rest of the task. Macy beams up at her mom, signing, did you see me, mommy?

Heaven laughs and signs back. Sure did, baby. You’re doing such a good job. 

Nathan scoffs from where he leans over the side of the pool, inked arms across the stone. “She’s got a good teacher.” 

Heaven rolls her eyes as Macy, clueless to what was just said given the absence of her hearing aids, turns to him. I’m gonna swim faster than you some day.

Nathan sucks his teeth and shakes his head. No way. Never gonna happen. He kicks off the wall, lips turned into a smirk as he manages a quick, you’re too slow.

Macy gasps and spins around, giving herself just enough space to “run” as she jumps back in the water. 

Heaven waits until she emerges, Nathan once more near and close, ensuring she stays afloat as she splashes water at his face.

“Be careful.” Her warning is accompanied by her quick signing, Macy’s focus back on her brother as he continues to help her strengthen her swimming skills. It’s still a bit of a struggle, what with her being in the water without her hearing aids. But it’s one Heaven is working through, and seeing how happy it makes her baby is more than reason enough for her to learn how to manage her discomfort for the sake of he child’s happiness.

Macy more than deserves it.

“Mama!”

Heaven snaps her head to the side, once more, that familiar warm, glowing feeling in belly rising and traveling, wrapping itself around her heart. 

“There’s my baby.”

Assisting in closing the distance, Heaven reaches her arms at the same time her mom does. Shelia’s arm secured under her bottom, dark coils damp and dripping small droplets of water down her honeyed complexion. She wears that happy smile and grasps at Heaven’s hand while she kisses her temple.

Shelia watched the interaction with an undeniable expression of pride and lighthearted humor. “She started wiggling the moment she heard your voice. Or saw you come out.”

“She knows her mama.” Heaven giggles, looking down at her youngest daughter. “Don’t you, Lia?”

Kalia beams up, pouty lips stretched and revealing all 11 of her teeth. 12, if you include the small speck of white starting to protrude from her gums. Something she’s recently made sure her parents don’t forget about via her screeching and whining. Especially when it’s time for her to eat. 

Shelia stands before her daughter and granddaughter, reaching and caressing the back of her head. “She looks so much like Macy when she was her age.”

Heaven briefly darts her gaze from her baby daughter to her mother. “She does.” Outside of Kalia’s complexion being a few shades lighter and her texture slightly looser than Macy’s, a side by side photo would otherwise indicate, at the very least, fraternal twins. The differences, so far, seem to be more personality based than appearance based. Macy was always a calm baby. Kalia….not so much.

Heaven shifts her daughter from one side to the other, allowing her baby girl to tug at her hair with one hand and grab at her boobs with the other. It makes her chuckle quietly. “Where’s—”

“You already know.” 

A quick dragging of her gaze behind her mother makes Heaven chuckle once more.

Of course.

She grabs Kalia’s little hand, helping her wave goodbye before the two make their way across the yard. The smile growing on mother and daughter’s face as the distance closes, sun shifting and highlighting several side profiles, including the first who turns from the grill to greet them.

Turns just enough for Heaven to meet another set of eyes, smaller, just like the rest of him. Chunky arms and chubby cheeks that stretch into a smile as he opens his mouth, making loud happy sounds.

“Mama!” 

The same word. The same warmth and joy that blooms in abundance. 

Heaven steps up onto the patio, her father and Jimmy’s attention set on her as she leans over to kiss the top of Kanoa’s head, coils softly brushing her lips.

“Hi, baby boy.”

Her son.

Naturally, she straightens up just in time to catch Roman’s mouth for a quick peck. 

“Hey, baby,” he murmurs, right as she adjusts Kalia once more when she starts wiggling her arms. An expected reaction, as is the next thing.

Whining and bailing from both babies who are now looking at each other, both wearing the same pout and scowl. Small, short arms wagging in the air, as if swatting away a pesky gnat. Except the gnat is each other.

Roman sighs. “There they go.” 

And without any words needing to be said, they exchange babies. Heaven holding Kanoa, and Roman holding Kalia. It grants momentary peace as the parents affectionately interact with their 13 month-old twins, but it’s a short lived span of peace.

The babbling, whining, and wiggling resume.

Clarence chuckles, arms crossed as he shakes his head. “And to think those two shared a womb for nine months.” 

Jimmy chimes in as Heaven kisses Kanoa’s little palm. Roman manages to flip over the burgers on the grill as Kalia attempts to pull his hair from the hair tie. In a couple minutes, Heaven has no doubt, she’ll find success. She always does. “So much for the family tradition of tag team champs.”

“It’s just with us,” Heaven sighs, looking between her youngest as they continue to exchange “words” and attempted blows, all in the name of jealousy. “They don’t do it with anyone else.”

And they don’t. Most of the time, Kalia and Kanoa are thick as thieves. Interacting and playing just fine, even sharing in ways that most babies their age struggle with.

Except when it comes to their parents.

If Kalia sees Roman or Heaven holding Kanoa, whatever adorable smile that was on her face is wiped away with the quickness. A tantrum unfolding within a matter of minutes. And vice versa with Kanoa. It’s almost as if they want their parents to themselves. Don’t want to share. Sometimes a funny thing to behold but also something both Heaven and Roman pray they grow out of.

Sooner rather than later. 

“Food’s almost ready,” Roman updates, Heaven nodding, turning to see her mom sitting near the edge of the pool, watching Nathan continue to assist Macy with her swimming lessons. 

Candy on the other side, on her stomach, tongue out and tail wagging. An understandable placement. She’s never too far from Macy. Not far at all.

True to his word, dinner is served not too long after. Thus, gathering everyone around the two Teak wood tables that are conjoined together to accommodate the large group of individuals. Not to mention the two high chairs that are pulled up, each placed right next to Heaven and Roman. Both remain unused. Kalia and Kanoa instead opt to “sit” on their parents laps, often reaching and attempting to steal from their plates, despite being fed the appropriate portions for such young babies. 

“I’m telling you,” Shelia starts, wiping at the corner of her mouth, her gaze set across the table where her daughter and son-in-law sit. She lifts her hand, index finger bouncing between the two, the light reflecting off her wedding ring and highlighting the subtle sparkles in her ruby red nail polish. “Those two are gonna be the ones to test ya’ll.” 

Beside her, Clarence nods, offering agreement and a point of distinction. “Macy was never as wild as they are.”

Heaven rolls her eyes, bouncing Kalia while guiding a chunk of her Hawaiian bread that she broke off to her mouth. Naturally, her fingers grab at the bread that she plops in her mouth, chewing slowly as if needing to make sure it tastes the same as her last few bites. “Daddy.”

Roman lifts his head, momentarily distracted from interacting with Kanoa, who uses that brief distraction to swipe a fry off the plate, and turns to his wife. Heaven, seconds away from panicking, never more grateful to see her father had been looking at something on his phone, as had her mom. Thus the way she elbows him, earning a quiet grunt as she looks at him with an unspoken, “are you insane?”

Unfortunately, while the interaction is missed by, perhaps the people it needed to be missed by the most, that’s not the case for others.

Nathan stares across the table with an undeniable look of disgust. “If ya’ll want me to go to therapy, then all you gotta do is say so.”

His comment catches the attention of Macy who sits beside him, at the end of the table, Candy laying on the ground beside her, Cookie in her lap. She looks up at him with a bright smile. “Are you gonna see Mrs. Tess, too?” 

Tess being Macy’s therapist she’s worked with weekly since the the fire.

“He gon see some lady, that’s for sure.” Jimmy’s unnecessary addition earns him a similar response as Heaven to Roman. He grunts loudly when Naomi slaps him on his arm, muttering something lost under the chatter of the rest of the table. Primarily on the other end where Clarence, Shelia, and Patrice, Roman’s mother, are in the midst of laughing at something completely unrelated to the NSFW interaction that, somehow, managed to remain under the radar. 

For the most part. 

Patrice’s lips stretch into a smile. She lifts her glasses to the top of her sandy brown hair, cut in a short bob that brushes against her jawline that’s sharp, much like the rest of her features. While Roman held a close resemblance to his father, his smile, the same as Patrice, reveal how much of his mother’s looks he inherited just the same. 

“That explains it.” She blots the corner of her eyes with the back of her hand, gesturing over to her son. “Roman was just like the twins as babies. Always moving. Always wanting to get into something.”

“See, that was Heaven when she hit her terrible two’s. Prior to that, she was a little angel. Proved that we did right by naming her what we did.” 

“Well, ya’ll should have named those two—” Jimmy snaps his finger, face contorted in deep focus,  majority of the adults already knowing it’s about to be some shit with him. “What’s the name of them twin girls from The Shining?”

“Jimmy.”

“Uncle Jimmy.”

“Jim.” 

Various sounds of protests and chastening evoke a temporary respite with the colored commentary from the self-proclaimed comedian in the family. Jimmy lifts his hands, palms carrying lingering crumbs from the meal he’d all but devoured less than ten minutes after stacking his plate with an ungodly amount of food. Somewhat similar to Roman. But in her husband’s defense, he’s sharing his with their son who seems like he’s going to take after his daddy’s side of the family when it comes to appetite. 

Boy can eat. It’s partially why Heaven was relieved when she started the process of incorporating food into the babies’ diets. It seemed like every hour on the hour Kanoa was wanting to nurse again. Developing motor skills allowing his loud cries to eventually transition into the groping, smacking, and squeezing of her breast. Even now, she has to correct him when he attempts to reach inside of her bra. 

He’s determined as hell, too.

“Fine, I’ll change the subject,” Jimmy smacks his teeth, looking over at Heaven as she helps hold the cup of apple juice that Kalia is currently drinking from. “Heaven, how’s it going working for that Mormon lady?” 

She closes her eyes as Roman makes a sound beside her.

“Jim,” Naomi expresses, exasperation splashed all over her face and voice as she turns to look at her husband. Silky, dark tresses splashed across her shoulder, smooth, beautiful melanin shining and shimmering under the sun that sneaks past the shade allotted by the Reigns covered patio. “You got one more time.” 

“She’s not Mormon, Jimmy,” Heaven corrects while also offering an answer. “But good. Really good. I like it there, and she’s one of the nicest people I’ve ever met.” 

“Most Mormon people are, so I hear—”

“Jimmy!”

“What?” He defends, shaking his head, saying something that’s missed as Heaven looks over at her dad. 

“Wait, is the organization Mormon based?” Clarence turns to his wife, Patrice also paying attention what with the way she looks between the involved parties. “Did you know that?” 

“It is not a Mormon organization,” Heaven stresses, leaning back in her chair, bouncing her leg as Kalia moves to stand up on her lap. “And my boss is not Mormon. But even if she was, that wouldn’t have stopped me from accepting the position.”

And it wouldn’t have. 

There were several variables that Heaven sat on and pondered over deeply before ultimately making the decision to leave the place she’d worked at for so long in favor of something that was both old and new.

The biggest one, perhaps, was returning to work after….everything that happened. That they were still in the midst of. Macy. The trial. Having twin babies that weren’t even a year yet. All of it.

Heaven can still recall the similar expressions she received when initially bringing it up to both her husband and parents. They thought she was crazy for wanting to return to work so “soon.” Were all, essentially, in agreement that she needed to allow herself the continued, necessary time to heal and adjust to all the changes.

She didn’t necessarily disagree. 

She was still working to find her rhyme and rhythm in several areas of her life, and it wasn’t even working, itself, that was calling her name. That resonated with her. Forever a woman with a strong work ethic, family always came first. Always. 

But it was the nature of the work that captured and snagged her attention. 

It was the organization. 

Alma’s Hope.

The largest, domestic, non-profit organization focusing on providing resources and safe havens for women and children seeking asylum from abusive households. They have shelters all over the country and even a few in Mexico. Heaven was familiar with the organization, had come across the name a few times over the years, but it was when she was looking up something recommended by her therapist that she stumbled across them once more. A chance reminder of something that, at one point in her life, she would have sworn up and down would never be a part of her story. 

Never in a million years did she think that she’d end up a survivor of domestic violence. 

But she is.

And it’s still something she’s trying to come to terms with, has focused on in a handful of therapy sessions. 

Like many, Heaven had a generic, default definition of such a thing. A conceptualization formulated based off of stereotypical media depictions. Most more overt examples. Heaven didn’t have to spend extra time in the mirror applying makeup to hide bruises that only multiplied as time went on. She wasn’t being isolated from her family. Wasn’t constantly trying to come up with excuses to explain to the ER doctors how she’d sustained such injuries. Not on a consistent basis. It did, eventually, occur. The isolated incident where Jey’s verbal and emotional abuse while battling alcoholism escalated into physical abuse.

He’d hit her. 

Left her bruised. 

Left her bleeding. 

Left her sitting on the edge of the patient table struggling with an excuse to feed that would be believed.

She was in the mirror, tears streaming down her face as she tried to hide the bruise. That was her, and coming to terms with that, with the fact that Jey’s abuse started long before the night he tried to kill her, has been nothing short of difficult. 

But it’s also been liberating and empowering. Largely due to Heaven reaching out to the local shelter and learning what made and makes Alma’s Hope so different than the “usual” safe havens. The infinite number of resources, from therapy, insurance, monthly vouchers, and housing allowances when those seeking asylum “graduate” from the in-house program and are placed in secure subdivisions owned and overseen by the organization. A massive collective striving to protect and educate. And when Heaven attended one of the support group meetings for women who weren’t actively in a DV situation, didn’t require protection, but were looking to define and navigate what “after” looks like, she knew that she wanted to contribute. Wanted to give back more than she received. That, unexpectedly, came in the form of a job offer from the CEO. A position within the legal department that offered an unheard of level of flexibility. Hybrid with a full slate of benefits, regardless if Heaven opted for part time vs full time. Decent, salaried pay. Paid, mandatory mental health days in conjunction with unlimited PTO. If Heaven hadn’t personally met and interacted with several staff members, including the founder herself, she’d have balked. It was too good to be true, but it wasn’t. It was very much true, and it was something Heaven almost felt like she had to accept. 

Not because she felt pressured. But because it felt like a necessary component in this next chapter of a new, different, scary, yet somehow improved life of hers. Eventually coming to terms with what she’d survived and using it to support others like her. 

Other survivors.

Thus, when she explained it that way, she was met with newfound sense of understanding and agreement from Roman and her parents. And a few months into the acceptance, she has zero regrets. Heaven loves what she does now. Still paralegal work but for a completely different cause and reasons. 

Reasons that matter so much more than anything she’s done prior to this. 

“How many kids?” Nathan’s wide eyes in conjunction with his exclamation break Heaven from her thoughts. Especially when he turns his focus to her. “You sure they ain’t Mormon?”

“Oh my God,” she murmurs, eyes closed, head tilted back. “If ya’ll don—”

“Mommy. Daddy. What’s Mormon?”

Macy’s unexpected insertion into the conversation, her voice soft and curious, prompts Heaven to open her eyes and lower her head to see Macy “sneaking” food to Candy. 

“Something you’re not allowed to be.”

Heaven snaps her head to look at Roman, Kanoa fisting and pulling on his shirt. “Roman.” 

“Baby girl is right,” Jimmy cosigns, his loud ass chewing muffling his voice and commentary that not even a mouth full of food can stop. “We Baptist over here.”

Nathan shakes his head, pointing out, “dad, grandma, and basically that entire side of my family are Catholic.”

“That’s close enough. Baptist and Catholic are just second cousins, twice removed.” 

But as the majority of the table admonish Jimmy for being, well, Jimmy, Heaven can’t help the small smile at play on her face. 

She smiles because as out of pocket his commentary is, the entire conversation is, it’s a dynamic, at one point, she thought to be lost forever.

She thought a lot of the dynamics regarding several individuals sitting at the table to be lost and gone forever.

Heaven is far from naive nor is she stupid. Regardless of the fact that Jey’s crimes far outweigh anything she did or could have ever done, she recognizes that her own actions, Roman’s actions, even without the violence that followed, would have fractured the family unit. The deception, secrecy, years long affair, withholding true paternity while feigning a false one, and everything else that got picked up and flung at she and Roman during the trial by the defense, would shatter anyone’s family. And in many ways, it has.

Rikishi and Tala haven’t spoken to Heaven and, subsequently, Macy, since roughly three months following the fire. And that last interaction was nothing short of nasty. Harsh, hurtful words from both ends that ultimately resulted in no contact. An outcome Heaven knows would have been reached regardless when they chose to stand by Jey during the trial. Believed and sided with the defense in that it was Heaven’s actions over the years that contributed to his “psychotic break.” Her knowingly and “openly” engaging in an affair with a man she always knew to be Macy’s real father while constantly “badgering” and “vilifying” an “innocent” man. 

But they weren’t the only ones. 

Several members of Jey and Roman’s side of the family sided with him. Have cut off contact with Roman as well. 

The bulk, however, have all condemned Jey’s actions and denounced him altogether.

Including Jimmy.

That….that will always be the most surprising thing to Heaven. Not because, morally speaking, it didn’t make sense. It made all the sense. Jimmy witnessed Jey assault her in the hospital, and if that, for whatever reason, wasn’t enough, everything else certainly was. 

It took a little time, sure. A few weeks of Jimmy disengaging from everyone, needing time to collect himself. Heaven understood it. Roman, however, was less understanding. Believed that it should have been an immediate, “fuck you” to Jey. 

She disagreed. 

There’s being brothers, and there’s being twins. Having grown up with the guys, she knows how close Jimmy and Jey were. Has seen firsthand how Jimmy always tried to look out for his little brother. She grieved on his behalf. Losing a brother in the way that he did, in some ways, is a worst fate then death. Death, arguably, would be easier. There’s finality in that realm. No options or wonderings. With this, there will always be, she’s certain, a part of him that wonders if and how things could have been different. 

Sometimes she, too, wonders the same. 

Breaking away from the table isn’t terribly difficult. Handing off Kalia to Roman was initially met with a scowl and whining—from both the babies. But dissatisfaction at being “abandoned” is set aside in favor of her youngest redirecting her irritation to her brother who was more than ready to match energy. The last thing Heaven overhears is Roman lecturing the twins for swatting at each other.

Yeah….

Something tells her that while Macy seemingly has zero interest in wrestling, that won’t be the case for the twins. 

The minute they’re old enough to be put into some sort of sport, Heaven will be first in line to ensure their spots. They have way too much energy that needs to be channeled in a healthy manner. One that won’t send their parents to an early grave. She’s almost certain the strand of gray hair her hairdresser pointed out at her last appointment is solely due to them. 

Leaning back against the counter, her thumb swipes up the last open app on her phone when she darts her eyes up from the screen. 

Her small smile met with a similar one. Head craned up, she hits the side button, placing it on the granite behind her. “Hey.” 

Nathan walks to lean against island so he’s standing opposite of her. Mirroring her position, he crosses his arms over one another, dark ink, old mixed with new, a brief reminder of what’d resulted in her subtly nodding towards the house for him to follow her. 

“Hey,” he greets. His eyes narrowing, sprouting small, minimal lines around his eye area, makes her smile deepen. He looks so much like Roman when he does that. “You gon’ tell me what’s up?” But an expression of suspicion morphs into horror. “You’re not pregnant, are you?”

And now Heaven is the one mirroring him, her eyes widening. “Absolutely not. You know your dad got a vasectomy.” 

It was a decision they’d come to shortly before the twins were born. An easy one, too. Neither one of them were interested or wanting to expand their family anymore than the current members. Hence his vasectomy and her tubal litigation. 

“Well, I don’t know. You working for that lady with 18 kids and counting—”

“Nathan.” Heaven rolls her eyes and shifts her weight from one foot to another, the quiet laughter between them dying down and allowing for the transition into what she really wants to discuss with him. Needs to. “She reached out to you again, didn’t she?” 

And just like that, any trace of humor disappears. He looks away, tip of his tongue wetting the corner of his mouth. “Look—”

“Nathan,” Heaven interrupts. It’s never been in her nature to be that person. To not allow for free, open communication. But similar to Roman, she knows Nathan like the back of her hand. Knows that he’s so much like Roman that anything to come out of his mouth next would be deflection and unproductive, thus her interruption. “I told you before, and I’m gonna say it again, what happened between myself and Camryn had nothing to do with you.”

“A—”

She steps closer. “It doesn’t change the fact that she’s your mother, and at the end of the day, if you want to speak with her, if you want to try to repair things with her, then baby, that’s what I want you to do.” Heaven shakes her head, voice softening, “don’t allow my situation to dictate yours.”

Because despite this conversation happening once or twice already, that’s exactly what’s happened. 

Heaven knows for a fact that Nathan hasn’t spoken to Camryn since that day in the hospital, the altercation in the hallway where she unknowingly revealed several life changing truths. And it wasn’t even a conversation between mother and son in as much as, it seems, a dissolution of the pairing. 

She learned through Roman that Nathan was contemplating a visit to see Camryn in jail while she was awaiting trial, but he’d changed his mind last minute. He also hasn’t responded to Cam’s attempts to speak with him, information Heaven obtained through her parents legal connections. Again, she would never use them to benefit herself, but she’d damn sure use them for the people she loves.

And she has. 

“That woman stopped being my mother the minute she told him where you were.”

Nathan’s cold, emotionless response to her heartfelt message is both doleful and surprising. For one and many reasons. 

Heaven will be the first to admit that her own feelings towards the woman she once considered a sister more than anything are….complicated, to say the least. Macy being on the brink of death was terrifying enough to the point that Heaven finding out about her cousin and husband having an affair exposed via sex tapes wasn’t something that had really registered at that moment. But the confrontation at the hospital, learning that Camryn had lied to and manipulated her about Nathan’s paternity, amongst other things, triggered something. It triggered anger that would only and exponentially extrapolate over time as all of the skeletons started being yanked from the closet.

The years of lies.

Of scheming. Of plotting. 

Of…..evilness. 

How someone she shared so many special, precious moments with was at the same time the mastermind behind some of Heaven’s darkest moments, too. The ineffable concept of this woman who she’d laughed with, cried with, gone through life with—from first kisses, first heartbreaks, late night clubbing, and Mari concerts that were often documented in IG posts now scrubbed from a profile that’s as barren as the relationship, sisterhood, between two cousins—was nothing more than a facade. Kindness used to cloak and conceal transgressions. The entire time Heaven believed Camryn was helping her keep pressure applied to gushing, painful wounds, she was also the one who caused said wounds and always had another knife cunningly hidden behind her back, just waiting to be used. 

Heaven still can’t quite comprehend what she could have done so egregious to warrant her cousin, starting back to when they were kids, doing anything and everything she could to keep Roman for herself. Her commitment to ensuring Heaven never learned of and realized that her now husband has wanted and loved her far longer than she ever realized. 

How Camryn played such a critical, pivotal role in keeping Heaven from the man she now knows, without a shadow of a doubt, is her soulmate. The man she was always supposed to be with. 

That sort of realization, however, is what started to attenuate her anger. Allowed the hurt to bleed in, and God does that shit hurt.

But Heaven never ever wanted or wants her pain to influence the young man before her. 

She reaches to touch his arm. “Nath—“

“She knew what he was gonna do, and even if she didn’t, all that other shit she did?” Anger flashes in his eyes, his arm tense under her palm. “Naw….she’s dead to me.” 

Heaven closes her eyes. “B—”

“I didn’t lose anything.” He’s the one interrupting now, prompting Heaven to take a deep breath and will her eyes back open to see Nathan looking down at her. “I never had anything to lose regarding her in the first place.” 

Words that break her heart, because as dispassionate as Nathan can be, often taking after his father when it comes to heavier emotions, there will always be that little boy inside of him that grieves never having that relationship with Camryn she knows he wanted for so long. Even if he won’t admit or acknowledge it, Heaven knows it to be true. 

He continues, in true Nathan fashion, curbing the heaviness with lighthearted humor. “I’ve got my dad. I got Macy. Future lil’ Bonnie and Clyde—”

It’s minimally effective, provoking a small, budding grin. “Nath—”

“And I got my mom,” he continues, voice and eyes softening, the corner of his lips also tugged upwards. “I’ve always had her.” 

At that, Heaven has nothing to say, nothing to follow up with in terms of stressing and emphasizing true support of whatever he wants. Whatever relationship he desires with his mother, she is 100% behind. She just wants him to be happy and true to his wants and needs. It’s only in that moment, however, that she realizes those needs don’t come from the woman who brought him into this world.

Perhaps they never did.

They came from her.

They always came from her. 

Emotion stirs as she steps forward, reaching and pulling his down into a hug that he effortlessly and gleefully accepts. Her eyes shut, clamping and concealing the tears. Heaven kisses the side of his head. “I love you, Nathan.” 

His arms enclosed around her, reciprocating her verbal and non-verbal acts of affection and love, are wholeheartedly solidified when he gives life to what’s always existed just below the surface. “I love you, too.” A beat. “Mama.” 

“Mommy.”

“Yeah, baby?”

Heaven closes the book, placing it on the nightstand and turning around just in time to see that instead of sitting on the edge of the bed or climbing off, Macy is still tucked in, hands holding up her blanket. Cookie under the pink and purple princess bedding beside her and Candy lounged at the floor of the bed, on her stomach, eyes shut but ears perked. Always alert until she knows for certain that her charge is sound asleep.  

“I think….” She trails off as Heaven comes to sit on the bed beside her. Macy then meets her mother’s worried gaze. “I think I wanna sleep in my room tonight.” She then quickly adds, almost nervously. “Me, Cookie, and Candy.” 

Heaven grows quiet as she observes her seven year-old daughter, partially waiting for her to change her mind. To claim it as a joke of sorts, though she fails to see the humor. Just like she fails to see any indication that Macy doesn’t mean exactly what she just said.

“Babies are down.” Heaven turns to see Roman walking into the room, rubbing his hands together as if knocking away invisible, lingering residue. His hair down, but the lasting effects of the hair tie evident in the way his dark tresses are naturally smoothed back like he’d laid it down with a silk scarf. His dark blue shirt fits snug around his big arms and clings to his chest while the flannel pajama pants have a looser fit and flare down at the bottom, brushing against his Ugg slippers. His nighttime look completed by the dark rimmed glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose. 

Perfect timing.  

Heaven shakes her head, working to find the words that feel almost strange, almost wrong once they leave her mouth. “Macy…” She waits until he walks over, sitting on the other side of the bed, reaching over to caress Macy’s temple. “Macy wants to sleep in her room tonight.” Roman lifts his gaze from his daughter to his wife. “Alone.”

His eyes immediately return to Macy, expression shifting from that of adoration to concern. 

“Macy….”

She squints and wipes at her eyes with the back of her hand. “Jey went away to where the bad people go, right?” 

Heaven rolls her tongue across the back of her bottom row teeth, a simple but effective technique to avoid the toll such a brief, unexpected conversation is having on her. Primarily Macy’s most recent question. Not just her wanting an additional layer of reassurance, but the use of his name.

Macy hasn’t uttered it since before the fire. 

“Yes, baby,” she finally answers. “He’s going away for a very very long time.”

Forever, essentially. The fact of the matter is that Jey will never see the light of day again. The day of sentencing, in the courtroom full of individuals who were either on one side or the other, most in support of Heaven and Co, was the last and closest experience he’ll ever have pertaining to “freedom.”

Jey will die in prison, and that’s just a fact.

But she’s not done. Macy flips her gaze back to Roman, her little lips pressed together, voice softening again. “So he can’t hurt me or mommy again, right?”

And once more, Heaven closes her eyes, unable to hold back the burning sensation of tears she’d give anything to keep at bay.

“No, he can’t.” Roman answers with swiftness and sincerity, his gaze focused on her as he cups her face. “And I won’t let anything or anyone ever hurt you or mommy ever again, I promise.”

Words that Heaven takes to heart and pockets for another day, time, and setting. Him accompanying her on several therapy sessions, her own, Macy’s, and even collab sessions between all three, has revealed that Roman still holds a moderate—probably more—amount of guilt regarding what happened. He blames himself, and Heaven hates that.

Hates it with everything in her, but she also somewhat expected it. In many ways, Roman is a traditional man. Believes his job as a man is to be a protector, and despite Heaven not being his legal partner at the time, and his identity as Macy’s biological father still an unspoken truth, he believed his duty was to protect them. And in his mind, he didn’t. That’s just how he views it. No matter how many times Heaven has attempted to convince him otherwise.

Similar to how she’s attempted to talk him into getting his own therapist, something he’s consistently put off. Cited wanting to focus on Macy, her, and the trial before exploring that. Partially true. Mostly avoidance behavior. 

Classic Roman. 

But it’s something Heaven is determined to not give up on. 

She won’t.

She can’t.

“Then we’ll be okay,” Macy supplies, offering a small smile as she looks down at the end of the bed. “Right, Candy?” 

Her four legged best friend’s response is a lift of her head and small bark, followed by her climbing up and laying down as she did on the floor, just now on the edge of the mattress. Right where Macy can see and reach her.

Where she needs her.

“May May, are you sure?” Heaven asks once more, her daughter turning her head to look at her. “You know you can sleep with mommy and daddy as long as you need to.”

“I know,” she answers in that mellifluous voice that Heaven craves when her baby girl isn’t around. Macy being homeschooled until she was able to successful transition back to attending brick and mortar spoiled Heaven. Roman, too. “But I don’t need to anymore.” Her eyes flick between her parents, voice raising an octave, embedded with a hint of pride. “I’m not scared anymore.”

Heaven’s mouth drops ever so slightly, as does that weight in her chest that collapses to the bottom of her stomach. She briefly makes eye contact with Roman, who, despite his efforts to remain emotionally indiscernible, is incapable of completely containing his emotional response to such a simple but powerful statement.

One that means the fucking world to a set of parents who’ve only wanted and done everything within their power to support and help their daughter. To provide Macy with everything she’s needed or could need over the past year and some change in healing from a trauma no child should have to face. It’s been one of the hardest things Heaven has personally had to go through, had to witness. And yet, here she is. Their brave little girl.

Their Macy.

Hugs, kisses, and a final reiteration to come wake them up if she needs anything, anything at all, are what follow. Roman and Heaven lingering near the door, watching as she signs a final I Love You before cradling Cookie and turning over on her side. Candy lifts her head once more only to immediately lower back down on top of Macy’s short legs. Final, protective placement. 

A nonverbal act of reassurance.

I got her. 

The minute they’re back in their bedroom, double doors closed, Heaven turns around and closes the distance between the two of them. 

“Hey,” she starts, smoothing her hands up Roman’s chest, gently ruffling his shirt. “Roman,” she continues, deepening her voice just enough so that he looks down at her instead of at the closed doors as if doing so will make Macy’s knock come sooner. Because she knows that’s exactly what he’s expecting. “She’s…she’s okay.”

His jaw ticks, and she lifts her left hand to cup his face. “And if she isn’t…” Another noticeable, visible flash of concern in his eyes that she attempts to quell. “Then she knows where to find us.” 

As they always have and always will make themselves readily available for their children. 

No matter what. 

His reluctance remains, however, prompting Heaven to opt for another angle. “Come on.” She leans up on her toes, pressing them into the soles of her slippers. Heaven kisses his cheek and drops her hand to grab his. “Let’s go shower.”

Persuasion starts to take its course as he flicks his eyes flick over her body. His right hand lowers and cushions her hip, soft material of her dress embedded in between his long, thick fingers. “We already showered.” 

“Not together,” she corrects. Heaven tilts her head to the side, rubbing the pad of her thumb over his coarse, rough knuckles. “And are you really turning down an opportunity for us to be naked together—”

A knock on the door immediately yanks them from the moment, but while it tosses Roman back into fight or flight mode, Heaven was able to pick up on the nature and pattern of said knock. Hence the way she tightens her grip on Roman’s hand when he moves to walk towards the door. 

“Don’t let me interrupt ya’ll from being nasty.” Nathan’s voice sounds from the other side. Heaven, having kept her eyes on her husband, noticing the way his strong shoulders drop, the definition of his side profile slightly minimized. Relaxation setting back in all around. “Just wanted to tell you I’m heading out.” 

Roman frowns as Heaven moves her body against his, wrapping her arms around his waist. She wastes no time in mouthing, ‘date’ when he looks down, his lips making a silent ‘oh’ of acknowledgment. “Alright. Text us when you get there. Have fun. Be safe.”

“I will,” Nathan agrees. “Love ya’ll.” 

“Love you, too.”

“Love you, too, baby.” 

Synonymous responses followed by the soft sound of footsteps from the other side that eventually fade into silence. 

Roman looks down, returning his wife’s embrace, hands on the small of her back. “Isn’t it kind of late for him to be going out?” He lifts his wrist, verifying said time as Heaven bites back a smile. “And how the hell did he find time to squeeze in a date when he’s gotta be back in Cali—”

“He’s 24, Roman,” she reminds, lips curved into a wry smile. “Besides, I think he really likes this one.”

At that, his brow props upward, hand smoothing over the curve of her ass. “Yeah.”

Heaven nods. “Said he might even invite her to the next game we attend so we can meet her.”

“Damn,” he curses. “It’s that serious?” 

She bites on the corner of her lip, quickly working on a reply that both satisfies without oversharing. “Something like that.” If things continue to go well between Nathan and the girl he’s been seeing, consistently, for the past three or so months, Heaven knows that he would like to be the one to explain to Roman the….situation. Primarily the young woman’s occupation. 

A stripper.

Err, midnight ballerina, as she’s seen them called on social media.

At first, she was a little surprised. Skeptical. Fell right into that outdated hole of judgment and stereotypes, but then she remembered that this is Nathan. Like his father, he’s good at reading people. Not to mention, he’s far too astute to “allow” himself to be finessed and manipulated. If he says this girl is good people, that’s good enough for her. She trusts his judgment.

And so does Roman.

But his first instinct always has, and always will be, to look out for his son. That includes anyone who might be looking to use or take advantage of a young man who’s making more money in one year than some might see in an entire lifeline. Not to mention the investments Roman made Nathan setup the minute he signed his first contract, on top of a college savings account that’s remained untouched since its creation when Nathan was 10, as his entire four years of college were covered via his scholarships.

Add in his personal savings, no touch savings, and even the account Roman has set aside with money solely for Nathan, despite Nathan not knowing about said account…..he’s set.

Loaded as fuck.

Like father, like son.

Roman just wants to protect not only Nathan, but his assets and likeness. 

Thus, she knows it’s best to let father and son handle that conversation when the time comes. She’ll just be there to offer support and insight when necessary. 

 And something tells her, especially given how cautious Roman has become after everything over the past almost two years, that he’s going to be guarded. 

She can’t blame him, either.

Heaven yelps when he slides both hands under her ass cheeks and hikes her up onto his waist. Starts to ask him what the hell he’s doing when he starts walking them towards their connected master bathroom. 

Almost an hour later, bodies cleansed and moisturized, courtesy of the effective, talented hands of one another, they’re laid up together in bed. Roman between her spread legs, his fingers making light caresses up and down her glowing skin. Her own hands embedded in his hair, down and air dried in its naturally voluminous state. She works her fingers through his scalp, all the while watching how he keeps his eyes open but his hand to the left of him near the phone that’s remained dark since they climbed into bed. The baby monitor situated on the nightstand on her side of the bed also another source of silence, as the only sound that fills their master bedroom is that which filters through the double doors that lead to the forever busy, boisterous city that is Miami. 

At one point, amongst many other discussions occurring in the wake of the fire that all but obliterated the home Heaven once shared with her ex-husband and Macy, there were talks of moving. Leaving the city. Transitioning elsewhere. Tampa, near the top of the list. Heaven and Macy staying/living with him in the house he once shared with Camryn just wasn’t an option. As many memories it held, some good, some bad, some somewhere in between, both Heaven and Roman agreed that there was more discomfort with making it their permanent residence than benefits. Even more, he wanted to find a place for them that carried no memories but the ones that would be made in this new chapter of his life. 

A new start required fresh soil and a solid foundation to be built upon, and if not for the time it would take to build and include what exactly he’d prefer their home to have, that’s exactly what they would have done. But it all worked out, as he’d hired the same realtor who helped him find the house that’s now sold and the one they live in now that’s, somehow, even larger and grander than the last.

Not that any of that even mattered to Heaven. She just wanted a home, and any place that had him, Macy, the twins, and even Nathan, was home.

Granted, she will never deny the peace that comes with being in a place that’s not borrowed or stolen. It’s hers.

It’s theirs.

“Are you working Bad Blood this year?” 

Her question is a gentle stir to the silence. She watches and feels the subtle rise and fall of his big body against hers, leaning down to kiss his forehead.

“Not sure yet.” 

At that, she rolls her eyes, tilting her head to the side, uncaring of the way he keeps his lids shut.  “You know you want to.” The small smile playing on his full lips as he takes another close mouthed breath confirms as such. Heaven mimics his actions, also sighing, lips pressed into his temple. “Do it, babe,” she murmurs. “You know we’ll be there to cheer you on, Mr. World Heavyweight Champion.” 

When Roman told Heaven that he was taking an indefinite leave from WWE, it came at no surprise whatsoever. With everything that occurred—Macy, Jey, the pregnancy—it only made sense that he too took a step back. Like herself, his priority was supporting Macy and navigating the legal fallout of everything that occurred. But as the months passed and they neared almost a year since Roman stepped away, Heaven started to drop subtle hints regarding his tentative return timeline. Not to rush him, far from it, but rather to let him know that it was okay. That they were okay, because she knows her husband better than anyone on this earth.

Knows that he would never return. That he would just leave his elimination at the 2025 Rumble as his final in-ring appearance. That if it was between work and family, he would always choose family. That, for Roman, there was no choice to make.

It was just family.

Period.

But while healing and recovering often require finding a new norm amongst the wreckage of the storm, if something can be salvaged, like the items not completely destroyed and damaged by the fire that almost took their daughter’s life, they should be retained. Heaven knows how much Roman’s career means to him. All the work he put in to get to where he is. All the sacrifices. It felt wrong to not encourage him to reclaim something she knew brought him joy.

Even more, juxtaposed to the year prior that’d been so focused on Jey, so catered towards launching his star, there was almost a petty part of her that wanted to see Roman take back everything he’d selflessly helped his cousin obtain. 

“2025 was his year,” she said, sitting on Roman’s lap, hands on his cheeks, the sound of their kids playing in the background a soft buffer. “You make 2026 your year.” 

And he did just that.

Heaven can still recall the way she jumped the moment the opening of his I Am Greatness theme played throughout Michigan Stadium. The way her eyes instantly shifted to Macy who’d insisted on keeping her hearing aids in, to the way her twin babies smiled and wiggled, even with their own headphones on. As if the powerful, magnetic sound of the beating drums demanded their attention and focus even without being directly heard. 

Heaven has attended plenty of Roman’s shows over the years, but his surprise, unannounced return at the 2026 Royal Rumble remains the loudest pop she’s ever heard. The only thing to outdo it was the thunderous applause and roar of celebration that flowed throughout the stadium when he tossed Gunther out that ring. 

When he won.

Tears filled her eyes watching the way he dropped to his knees, panting, sweating, holding onto the rope, head down. The gold writing etched on his gloves and in his custom Nikes. The names of their children. Of her. The way Macy clapped and cheered happily in Nathan’s arms as he too expressed congratulations. Kanoa and Kalia, six months old and oblivious to the specifics of what occurred, also beaming with joy, feeding off the jubilation that surrounded them. 

Heaven had never felt so relieved that she pushed Roman on the subject of bringing them. She knew he could do it, knew he would do it, and she wanted to ensure he knew they were all there to support and cheer him on.

No one knows just how deeply his win, and subsequent backlash, back in 2015 affected him. Heaven has a pretty damn good idea. Better than most. But even she is not exempt from being shut down and having the conversation diverted at any attempt to get him to open up. It hurt him. Deeply. A hurt that, in her opinion, was largely chipped away by such a win and recapture of glory eleven years later.

Most of that healing and rewriting of history, however, came not from applause vs boo’s. It came from the presence of his family, of the kids, of herself, all of whom had a front row seat to one of the best sights she’d witnessed all year. Smiles stretched and spread when he climbed out of the ring and met them ringside. Nathan hyping and dapping him up. Macy wrapping her arms around his neck, wiggling and moving in unwavering excitement. Similar to that of Kanoa and Kalia, though far too young to understand what just occurred, offering babbles lost under the sound of his theme blasting throughout the stadium. And when he finally reached her, shifted his eyes from their youngest to her, bent over to hug and hold her as she stroked the back of his neck, it was all but confirmed. 

Without a doubt confirmed when two months later, a similar outcome, response, and reaction as he won the World Heavyweight Championship in the main event of WrestleMania. If Heaven thought the pop for his rumble win was something, the one at mania nearly left her ears ringing for almost two days straight.

But it was all so so worth it. Everything about that night was magical and special. From his moving, almost sentimental entrance—slideshow of those who came before him and who he works to this day to honor and respect—the names of the kids and herself, again, etched and sown into his gear, and especially in the emotional celebration that, once more, occurred ringside. 

That…..that meant more to him than any win. 

His family. 

“I’ll think about.” Roman’s answer tugs Heaven away from the recalling of pleasant, enjoyable memories. Ones that have felt like they increase in frequency and duration as time passes. As to be expected. Time doesn’t heal all, but it does ease the aches just a bit. And healing occurring alongside the pillars of support and love will always provide the necessary space for it to flourish and flow. 

Heaven’s eyes bounce to where Roman has his phone lifted, his thumb moving to unlock and navigate to the most recently used app. Seconds later, footage that’s essentially the exact same as the last time he checked shortly before they stepped into the shower together. 

Cribs stationed on either side of the nursery, names spelled out on the wall above said cribs, in the stereotypical pink and blue. Similar to the bedding and overall theme of a room Heaven spent far more time decorating than what was necessary, but it’d become an outlet. Something she could throw herself into. That she could control. A gracious, necessary space of mercy and release. One that still carries with it the peaceful and comforting atmosphere that, though she can’t prove it, aids in the way her twins so easily go down for bed. 

Evident in the way they both are turned on their stomachs, lips slightly parted, little bodies rising up and down in slow, steady motions. 

“It’s amazing how they sleep through the night,” she murmurs. 

Roman chuckles. “That’s cause they use up all their energy during the day.”

She smiles and nestles her head against his temple. “I don’t know where they get all that from, either.” 

“You and me both,” he agrees. “All I know is we’re signing them up for as many sports as we can the minute they’re old enough.”

“Roman.”

Not that she necessarily disagrees as it was the same thought that she had earlier in the day, there’s an element of exaggeration that fuels his motive. Kanoa and Kalia, while far from unafraid to express discontent and dissatisfaction in the way of babbles, screams, whines, and the tossing of whatever is in the closest vicinity, really are good babies. Heaven has noticed that they just tend to become more temperamental in the usual situations that would aggravate most young children. Hunger. Sleepiness. Overstimulated. 

Not that much different from the man complaining about them. 

“What?” He angles his head to look at her. “Heav, they gotta get that shit out somehow. I’m not about to be 50 something chasing them around this house.”

She rolls her eyes. He can be dramatic as hell sometimes. “You sound like Jimmy.”

“About once a year, he says something actually accurate.”

Heaven flicks his shoulder and continues to massage his scalp. She also watches how he switches over to the other camera that, again, greets them the same it did the last time he checked.

Macy, in bed, Cookie cradled in her arms and Candy at the edge of the bed. 

Sleeping. 

A calming, assuring image that only goes so far. Hence the way she reaches for his phone, Roman only casting her a brief glance before he hands it to her. He remains quiet as she clicks around and navigates to Apple Music—one day she’ll get him to switch to Spotify—quickly searching and playing the desired tune.

As the silence that filled the room is imbued with a familiar, well known tune for her, Heaven places the phone back beside her husband who looks over at her with a scowl that reminds her of the twins when they’re cranky. All of her kids, it seems, took after their daddy when it comes to that damn scowl. 

“Isn’t this the song that plays when someone dies on that hospital show you like?”

“Roman.” As much as he likes to talk about Jimmy, he isn’t that far off with some of the shit he says. They both have no filter. Just in different ways. “It’s Greys Anatomy. If you would stop falling asleep every time I try to watch it with you—”

“I’m not watching that shit, Heaven. I told you that.”

The way he shuts her down almost immediately isn’t the least bit surprising. For all of the many, many things the man she’s holding has done, will do, and will always do for her, the one thing she’s never been able to talk him into is watching one of her favorite shows with her. Any of her favorite shows, really. They’ll watch movies together, but even that’s far and few in between outside of the animated, family friendly programs and films the kids like to watch. Beyond that, it’s a no-go. Ever since they were teenagers, Roman has always found Heaven’s taste in shows too “female focused” for him. To this day, she’s still not sure what exactly that means. 

She snorts. “Yeah, cause you’d rather watch that violence.”

“Damn straight.” 

Heaven flicks his shoulder. If it’s got gore, action, or a weird combination of both, he’s there. For her, there are a million and one things she’d rather do than subject herself to that macabre shit.

As the music continues to play in the background, reaching one of her favorite parts, she refocuses the conversation. “And yeah, it is synonymous with character deaths, but….” Once more, she leans over and kisses his temple, murmuring a soft, “just….listen.” 

If I lay here

If I just lay here

Would you lie with me and just forget the world?

Words that manifest and penetrate, Heaven watching how he closes his eyes once more, the most subtle tick of his jaw and falter of his lips telltales of her spontaneous idea and spur of the moment plan proving to be effective.

In more ways than expected. 

Heaven smooths her hands down his chest and then over his shoulders, giving a gentle squeeze. For most, it’d be a gesture that requires clarification, but not Roman. 

He knows what she needs, even without her even saying a word. 

All that I am

All that I ever was

Is here in your perfect eyes, they're all I can see

In a matter of seconds, he’s no longer in between her legs and her body is no longer propped up by the set of pillows set against their headboard. She’s instead curled against him, arm over his stomach, her cheek pressed into his chest. He pulls her closer, as if their bodies aren’t already molded together. As if they aren’t already one in every way that counts.

“Something did die, Roman,” she whispers. “That….that died.” That unnamed but known entity she refuses to give life to by naming and addressing. They’ve lived it. Survived it. “And this….this is where we breathe. Where we live.”

Because life is made up of more than just fleeting moments of joy and happiness. It’s frustration mixed with disappointment and tainted with occasional loss. Trauma and grief that co-exist, go hand in hand, but almost always follow up with the clearing of the sky and disappearing of the clouds. 

Heaven was once told that it can’t rain forever. She didn’t understand it then. 

She understands it now. 

“We’re here. We made it here. That’s what matters.” After everything that was thrown and meant to work against them, to keep one half from the other half, and despite every single odd that could exist, they made it. They made it. “Somewhere beyond right and wrong,” A beat. “That’s where we found each other.” 

a/n: and there we have it, folks. the long ass , too long awaited conclusion.

this is not the ending i wanted to go with. my initial thought/idea when starting to flesh out the story following the massive, positive response to rls was one much different than this. in my initial plot, macy ends up passing away, and jey is "mysteriously" found murdered.

thus, the storyline following roman and heaven trying to navigate life post macy's murder, heaven's pregnancy, as well as a bit of a "mystery" aspect where i would play around with "who killed jey" and a focus on roman and nathan as the potential suspects.

specifically, i wanted to explore the dichotomy of grief and love. exploration of how two people navigate a new norm that's juxtaposed to a past they can't seem to let go and heal from. heaven struggling to find joy in her pregnancy, and roman struggling with the guilt of it all. together, their shared regret at their actions that, to them, resulted in the loss of their daughter. the story concluding with roman and heaven meeting the little girl who received macy's heart, as they chose to donate her organs.

"we couldn't save our baby, but we had the opportunity to save someone else's. and that's what we did. an act of love. because that's what macy was to and for us. the representation and embodiment of love."

that's what the heaven sent short would have shown. but i had to be honest with myself and realize that i really do not have the time to adequately and properly write out such a layered storyline the way i'd want to. not with all the other 5011 wip's i got going on. thus, this alternative ending.

anyhoo, much appreciation and thanks to everyone who read this hot mess express of a mini series. forever grateful and thankful for you kind souls. i feel as though this ending could have been better, but you've all waited long enough for a conclusion. i just hope this one was satisfactory.

“Yes you’ve made that quite clear,” you giggled, shifting around in your seat as he picked something mindless to watch, in hopes his annoyance would dissipate. “But to be fair, the kid is late.”

“He is, but that’s not their business.” He continues, tone still a bit too intense for the situation. Telling him to relax isn’t in your best interest though. “And having everyone send obnoxious messages isn’t a great motivation tactic. Where are you going?” Joe scrambled to his feet to help you up despite your protests that you had it. “I believe you.” He promised. “Just here for moral support.”

“Thank you,” you patted his chest. “I’m starving. I need to see if my corn dogs are here.”

You and Joe saw eye to eye on most things, and he tried to take every new pregnancy thing in stride. He learned to accept the late night snacking in bed, the random bouts of insatiable hunger that had to be sorted out within five minutes or you wouldn’t be hungry anymore. But your latest corn dog obsession was one he couldn’t get down with.

“They’re Korean corn dogs,” he remembers you explaining as you held one out in his direction a few days ago, “do you wanna try one?”

Joe shook his head vigorously. “Doesn’t matter where they’re from, I’m not touching that. And honestly? You shouldn’t either. Those things cannot be for human consumption.”

And yet, around three nights a week the last two weeks, Morgan ordered a box of three Korean corn dogs even when Joe insisted you needed real food. Tonight was no different, he sighed seeing you walk into the living room with your Decibel box and his chicken Caesar smash burger with sweet potato fries and stood up immediately. “You didn’t have to grab mine.”

“I wanted to,” you assured him and he thanked you with a kiss on the forehead, chuckling lightly when you groaned as you sat down. “Your son’s getting a little too heavy.”

Joe takes a bite of a fry and stares at you. “He’s my son now?”

“When he’s hurting my ribs and head-butting my bladder? Definitely your son.”

Using his burger as a pointer, he counters your argument. “He’s your son too because my kid would never eat a corn dog.”

You rubbed your belly after dipping one in ketchup, “I’m not gonna say anything else because the evidence speaks for itself.”

“All I’m saying is that I have a mean ‘I told you so’ waiting for you when you have acid reflux later.”

He nudged your water bottle towards you and you smiled, taking a few long sips.

Two corndogs and two movies later, your back was officially hurting enough to retire to bed for the night. Joe had the heating pad plugged in by the time you got out of the shower and it was warm when you settled into the cool sheets.

“Good?” Your husband asked before turning off the light.

“As good as I can be with this medicine ball permanently strapped to my body.”

“It’s not permanent,” he gives your shoulder a tender squeeze. “Little dude’s gonna have to come out eventually. He’s running out of excuses.”

There isn’t any energy remaining in you to respond so you give him a nod before closing your eyes. He whispers a quick “love you” before turning off the lamp on his side of the bed and going to sleep.

You started out the night on your left side, something about blood flow and doctor recommendations but that was comfortable for maybe 20 minutes. Turning over took a lot of effort but you managed and tossed the heating pad to the side because your lower back was still hurting and all it was doing was making you warm. Usually, the subtle heat solved your problems. Not this time. And night sweats was the very last thing you needed. The cherry on top was the full bladder that finally got you out of bed around 12:30. The all too familiar bout of nausea welcomed you as you struggled to your feet in the dark, not even bothering with lights as the back of your throat started to burn with a beefy, fried potato aftertaste. It wasn’t as fun to relive your last meal as you tried swallowing it back down with water and a silent plea not to let it all resurface.

“Babe,” you shakily mumbled in a tired voice.

“Hm?”

“Will you rub my back really quick, please?”

“Yeah of course,” he reaches over, fingers getting to work in the problem area that’s been bothering you the last week or so. Joe falls asleep less than 15 minutes into the back rub and you’re back to square one, tossing and turning until your body required a different kind of movement.

The exercise ball you swore you’d never used became your lifeline at 2:33 in the morning. Both hands resting at the base of your belly, making small circles with your hips trying to re-center, during your second trimester Dr. Chen had mentioned a few stretches that were supposed to ease acid reflux and you tossed back a few tums with several ounces of water for good measure. With the size of the baby you were carrying, your stomach had probably shrunk in half as your vital organs shifted around to accommodate him as he continued his overdue stay. Maybe if you kept moving and coaxed him to a new spot, you could get a few hours of sleep. Taking a deep breath, you stared hard at the ceiling and even though you couldn’t see him at all, you cursed Joe for being able to successfully hit REM while you resorted to middle of the night acrobatics just to get comfortable.

“Pregnancy officially sucks and I’m done,” you said out loud, maybe talking to your son. Maybe to yourself. You lifted up your shirt and looked down at the globe that was once normal bloating and poked your protruding belly button. “All I ask is for two hours of sleep. Three, tops. Please.”

You didn’t miraculously feel less sick and the lower back pain sent pins and needles down your spine, sending you into a makeshift cat-cow position. Then you laid on the cool home gym floor stretching your hamstrings, feeling scary close to a turtle stuck on its shell when you couldn’t get up.

“Doctor said you’re not supposed to be lying on your back,” Joe says now fully dressed for a morning workout.

You held out your hands, “I’m stuck.”

He laughed and easily pulled you to your feet, hearing a soft sound very similar to how he felt the morning after playing a particularly physical defense. “You okay?”

His hand was on your lower back again, on top of yours as you nodded with your eyes closed. “I’m fine, getting off the ground took way more out of me than I’d like to discuss,” you yawned, grateful your humbling adventure at least had a nap at the end of the tunnel. “I’m going back to bed, you leaving already?”

“It’s 5:15.” He said plainly.

“Really? Wow, yeah I need to actually sleep. Have fun lifting stuff and running, I’ll be watching the back of my eyelids, hopefully.”

Joe shakes his head with a smile, “get some sleep. I’ll have my phone close so call or text if you need me. I mean it.”

“I know. I will.”

He insisted on walking with you up the stairs claiming he was there in case you got winded but you knew he was watching you closely. “Nothing’s wrong, my stomach is just protesting my last meal. And before you tell me I shouldn’t have had the corn dog I want you to remember that I’ve spent the last ten months and three days of my life making us a baby, from scratch might I add.”

“You’re a warrior,” Joe says, helping you get back into bed, “no doubt about that. Now get some rest, I won’t be long.”

“Love you.”

“Love you, too.” He places a hand on your stomach, “and you too man. Take it easy on your mom today, will you? She’s been working overtime. Both of you need some sleep.” His sentiments were met with a kick as though his son heard him and they were on the same page about the subject. “I’ll take that as an answer,” he placed a soft kiss on your lips before making his way out the door, the pregnancy gods finally smiled down on you and gave your body enough reprieve to let you get two and a half hours of uninterrupted rest.

You woke up queasier than before, cursing yourself for having that second corn dog instead of stopping at one. And the dull back pain was still there but your hips? They felt like they were being yanked away from the rest of your body by a pair of heavy duty pliers. Sitting up as slowly as possible, not to irritate your joints even more, you groaned, pressing your thumb into your hip bone, using the table as a crutch as you got to your feet. Gravity had done its job in moving everything…lower.

“Okay then,” you winced as the baby stretched and you felt everything, dinner dangerously close to seeing the bedroom floor for a second. You burped, the acidic taste unwilling to leave and made your way to the kitchen at less than a snail’s pace.

Morgan’s kind demeanor was hands down your favorite part about him. The chef was honestly joy personified which was great to have and made his food taste even better because you knew he put so much love and care into each meal. But this morning, the thought of food was horrifying and he just blinked a few times asking if you were sure when you said you didn’t want breakfast. Sure, the first trimester was ground zero but afterwards? You’d become Morgan’s favorite customer, trying any and every new recipe, he satisfied every craving and fed into your weekly obsessions. One week it was lemon ricotta pancakes. Then there was the pasta carbonara month. Today was boring, which wasn’t exactly a good sign.

“Do we have any ginger ale? Or sprite maybe?” You asked him, rubbing the underside of your belly. He hasn’t pulled out carbonated drinks before 8AM since week 12 of pregnancy.

“We do,” he turned to grab it out of the cabinet and you grabbed the can and opened it as soon as he placed it on the counter. “You don’t want anything else? Something small, or plain?”

“Not really,” you thought about sitting on the stool but that sounded like a battle. “I feel gross and food might send me over the edge. Could go for a fiber gummy if we have those?”

The man nodded and handed you some and a cup of water.

“Thank you.” You sighed, leaning onto the counter as your back protested again, “I’m never getting a decibel box ever again.”

Morgan bites back a snort and texts Joe when you make your way to the living room. He likes his chef’s message and calls you immediately after.

“Hey,” he sounds like he’s catching his breath, “Morgan said you didn’t want breakfast? Haven’t eaten since seven last night, everything okay?”

“Not hungry yet,” you tell him honestly. “And I know what you’re thinking but I’m just very bloated and pregnant. Probably will be hungry in the next few hours, no need to sound any alarms yet.”

“You’re funny. I’m almost done here anyway so I’ll be home soon.”

There was no arguing with him once he set his mind to something so you knew he was coming home whether you needed him here or not.

As promised, Joe came home, did a visual status update to ensure you weren’t on your deathbed and headed upstairs to “rinse off real quick.” You sat there deciding what you wanted to do next. Nothing was in excruciating pain, you just felt full. Everything was tight and weird and the “pain” you did feel was more annoying than anything.

It was a good old fashioned stomachache maybe mixed in with indigestion and you pressed your hand lower on your stomach. “I hear you,” and stood up to get dressed. Halfway up the steps there was a tight pull that wrapped around your lower half, everything from your lower back to your belly became one hard muscle stretched to the brim and you closed your eyes, midsection clenching against your hand for several seconds until it released its hold. Now you could add intense Braxton hicks contractions to the list.

“Don’t hate me,” you told Joe as you walked into the bedroom while he pulled a t-shirt over his head. “I know you just showered but can we go for a walk? Down the block and back, I just need move around—”

“You don’t have to explain,” he watches you walk over to the closet to change, “if walking feels good, let’s do that. Need help with your shoes?”

“Please? You’re the best husband I’ve ever had.”

He rolls his eyes, kneeling with a pair of your sneakers in hand. “Last time I checked, I’m the only husband you’ve ever had.”

“So far.”

“Very funny,” he fakes amusement and watches closely matching your pace down the steps and out the door.

Joe recognizes sequences and particularly familiar actions. It’s what makes him one of the best at his position. And the more he cares the more he pays attention. He’s definitely paying attention now because your gait has changed. The waddle appeared week 31 when the bump was undeniable and you two were in California enjoying the beginning of the offseason. He knows the difference between a normal waddle, an I have to pee waddle, a my feet and/or back hurt waddle. This is a focused waddle. Every step is carefully thought out beforehand like your mind is somewhere else entirely and he doesn’t want to ask and disrupt your focus but you definitely don’t look comfortable.

And your hands.

Usually they’re resting against your stomach, spots where your son’s hand or feet are trying to poke through your skin but today they’re low, almost like you’re lifting the baby off of your pelvis, holding him up. Holding him in place because if you don’t, he may fall out. It’s still early enough in the day that the neighborhood is quiet and not many people are outside, a few elderly couples walking their dogs. One car passing by on their drive to work or taking the kids to school or both.

You slow down and exhale roughly, eyes closed. “Sorry, hang on.” Joe adds that to his mental list, noting one palm resting lower and the fact that you’re stopped in your tracks by whatever you’re feeling. Then you kept walking like nothing happened.

A park bench rested on the edge of the block near the playground and when you walked by, you squatted beside the thing, gripping it for leverage. Your head dropped this time, moving purely on instinct and Joe recognized the same focus that has been gnawing at him since the walk started.

He crouched beside you, seeing the slow breaths you pulled into your lungs before letting out a frustrated sound. It wasn’t pained, more…inconvenienced. “What are you feeling?”

“Sick,” you admitted. “I think you were right,” one of your hands smoothed down the front of your shirt. “Dinner is not sitting right and I,” you paused, trying not to gag. “I don’t feel good.”

“Okay let’s get home,” he decided, standing up and holding out his hands. You took another deep breath and let him hold you up, rubbing circles into your back. The walk back was faster than the walk there and he noticed a greater sense of urgency. “What’s the rush?”

You looked a little panicked, your waddle less focused more frantic. “My body’s doing something and I have to get home. Like, now now.”

“Oh.” Is all he said before pulling out his phone and texting Ivy.

We’re walking back home. Can you refill her Stanley with ice? She’s not feeling too hot.

An answer came through a few seconds later.

Of course.

The house manager immediately went into the kitchen to grab the giant water cup from the drying rack. Then she showed Morgan the text. “You were right.”

Morgan shrugged. “Could still be anything, I don’t want to jinx it.”

The door swung open a few minutes later and Ivy stepped towards the entryway, Stanley in hand. “Hey. I have your—”

“Oh my god,” you grunted, making a beeline for the stairs. “Sorry!” you called over your shoulder. “Hi Ivy. Love you. Can’t talk. Might shit myself.”

Ivy stood motionless a few feet away and Morgan stepped out of the kitchen to make sure he wasn’t hearing things.

Joe paused long enough to grab the water. “Thanks.” Then he was jogging after you.

He got to the third floor of his home and found one shoe next to the top step. The other a few feet away. Your leggings and underwear discarded down the hall towards the bedroom and your shirt laid on the bedroom floor in front of the master bathroom where he found you on the toilet in just a sports bra, heaving breaths and your hands squeezing your thighs.

“I had no choice.”

“I see that,” he holds up all of the items he collected on the way. “You alright?”

You blew out a breath, “no. I’m very much not alright,” you groaned, hand moving up to your belly. The other gripped the counter so tightly it made him a little nervous. “Holy fuck.”

“I feel like I have to poop,” you paused. “Or puke.” You shook your head, feeling everything at once.

“Or both? God and my butthole hurts. Is that normal?”

Joe placed his hands on his hips, thinking about all the baby books he’s read. “I honestly have no idea.”

“Great.” You shifted on the toilet and placed your head in your forearm, close to tears. This was so much worse than hearing him say ‘I told you so.’ He visibly remembered early on in your relationship when you wouldn’t even pee when he was brushing his teeth in the bathroom, claiming that some things do need to remain a mystery. No bathroom sharing if someone’s on the toilet.

Now you were seconds away from using the restroom and you wanted him to hold your hand.

He was thinking about how you’d declined breakfast, had a never ending backache, the full feeling, the focused waddle, and the mad dash to the toilet. All while looking increasingly uncomfortable. “Do you think we should call Dr. Chen? Just to see what she thinks?”

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

You nodded but still looked hesitant. “If it’s food poisoning that’ll be embarrassing.”

“And if it’s not?”

The answer he was waiting for came in the form of your body being squeezed by another intense wave of pressure. He visibly watched your belly grow high and tight as a drum, your hand balled into a fist as he urged you to breathe. “Let’s just call and see what she says.”

Joe didn’t even wait for a signal of approval before dialing.

You loved your OB. She was qualified, calm, discreet, everything you needed in the person you would be trusting with your life and your baby’s life. But when you felt like you were going to die of embarrassment on the toilet in front of your husband with your staff downstairs waiting for a poop or labor announcement the last thing you want to hear is:

“Based on what you’ve told me, it certainly could be early labor. It could also still be the normal discomforts that come at the very end of pregnancy, and I can’t tell the difference over the phone. Most important thing is to listen to your body. If it says walk, you walk. If it’s telling you to sit on the toilet or lay in bed, then do that. I don’t want to make any assumptions over the phone but I’ll have my mine on me so please reach out any time. For now, keep moving, there’s no blood so I’d stay home and try to get comfortable. If contractions are five minutes apart for an hour lasting one full minute or your water breaks, call me.”

“This is a humiliation ritual.” You felt bad complaining but if this wasn’t labor you’d be having a serious talk with your fetus and your digestive system.

He knew he shouldn’t find any of this funny. Instead, Joe knelt down and patted your leg. “You’re good,” he promised. “Do you want me to call your mom or anything?”

“Absolutely not.” You told him immediately. “This,” gesturing between you, “is bad enough. I’m trying to poop and I can’t. You’re the only audience I can handle since this is mostly your fault anyway.” You glared at him as soon as he attempted to open his mouth. “I didn’t get myself pregnant, did I?

“Good point.” His nurturing touch finds its way to the middle of your back, adding enough pressure. “Do you think a bath would help? Dr. Chen did say to try to relax.”

Wiggling in your seat again you weighed your options. Clearly you didn’t need to poop or it would’ve happened already and being in the water might ease what seemed to be full body cramps, even your legs felt tired. “Need to get this thing off,” you tugged at your sports bra. The water was lukewarm, perfect for the situation. You’d worked up a bit of a sweat trying to prevent an accident that thankfully turned out to be a false alarm and sighed, fully submerged in the water.

“This was a good idea, thank you.” You held out a wet hand and he held on, seeing you cup your belly again. “Still hurts but I feel a little better.”

You ended up leaning over the side, arms folded over the edge of the tub, taking deep breaths, still managing a joke. “Being naked was a great move. No dignity, no clothes.” Then you got quiet again. He observed a few posture changes, shoulders stiff versus relaxed, a few quiet hisses of pain as you palpated your stomach trying to find the source of the weird sensation and coming up empty each time.

“I don’t think this is the corn dogs,” you let out the tiniest laugh and a short breath followed. Then a groan.

Joe sat up, rubbing a spot between your shoulder blades. “I don’t either. But tell me what you’re thinking.”

“Pretty sure I’ve been contracting,” the pain dies down so you can fully converse. “Wasn’t 100% sure before but that weird pulling feeling, kind of everywhere? I’m not explaining it well but it feels way different than any practice ones I’ve had. And that last one was the most intense.”

“All good information,” his thumb grazes your shoulder, letting you know he’s here and won’t go far.

The bathroom is relatively quiet until your eyes snap open and you’re holding onto the edge again. “I need out.”

Joe is moving before you finish your sentence, towel in one arm, voice steady. “C’mon, I gotcha.”

“Down,” you rush out, “I need—floor.” He tosses an extra towel on the ground by the tub as you’re forced to your hands and knees and he places another towel over you because you’re still wet and he doesn’t want you to get cold. “Oh god. Ow. Can you grab a cold rag, please?”

He moves with a sense of urgency that hasn’t been there all day. It’s almost like as soon as you two acknowledged that things were changing, everything became much more real. There was no time for questions, like Dr. Chen told him you were in charge, whatever your body needed, he’d be there to figure out how to make it work. So if you needed a cold rag, he brought two. “Where do you need this?”

You rocked gently, breaths shakier than they were minutes ago, no doubt working through the latest wave. And you looked a little overwhelmed. “Put it low please, really low.” He remembered you mentioning rectal pressure and understood what you meant by low. The cool relief helped more than anything else had all day and your shoulders sagged as you thanked him. “God, that feels amazing.”

Joe didn’t hesitate to park himself at your side, a few extra towels nearby in case he needed them. He wished there was more he could do but now that you’d given him this task, he was ready to hold this rag until his arms fell off.

The pressure continued to build. Those frantic semi circles you’d adopted didn’t help anymore, moving made the pain worse and it felt like your body was trying to do something your mind couldn’t keep up with. “Joe?” Your voice sounded strained, laced with discomfort he wanted to take away but couldn’t.

“I’m right here,” his hand rested on your hip. “Need anything?”

“I need you to move your hand.”

His concern grew. “Is it not helping anymore?”

Your head dipped down, trying to power through the latest contraction. “It is I just—take it off.”

“Babe if it’s helping, I’m gonna keep helping.”

The truth was that the cloth was the only thing keeping you from screaming but the last two surges or waves or contractions if that’s what they truly were, made you feel like you really had to go. And you’d rather not do that on your hands and knees with him dangerously close to your backside. “Please, please move your hand.”

He eased the rag away immediately because tone scared him, you weren’t joking anymore or laughing. There was tension in your words and he swore he saw you gritting your teeth, holding yourself back from something. He took the rag off and your eyes stung a little, desperately needing to get to your feet but the bowling ball pressure in your butt made the decision for you. Standing wasn’t an option so you had to crawl.

“Woah—hey. What do you need?”

“Toilet,” you gritted out. “I have to poop.”

Joe nodded and moved more towels to make a path, protecting your knees. You made it a few feet before your body froze and locked up due to the pain. You were trying to breathe through it, eyes closed, fingers curled around the towel on the ground and Joe saw your expression change and was back on the floor. The books had warned him about the shaking and a basic rundown of natural childbirth but seeing his person go through it and not being able to take any of her pain away wasn’t something he could prepare for. And if you were in too much pain to crawl to the toilet, he wasn’t letting you go anywhere.

“Hey.” He tried, warm hand over your back. The towel you had on was somewhere on the ground but your skin was damp. Joe wasn’t sure if it was water or sweat or a mixture of both and he really didn’t care. He took a deep breath anyway, needing to stay calm. “Look at me.”

Your watery eyes met his. “I don’t know what my body’s doing.”

“You’re doing exactly what you’re supposed to do. There is nothing to be embarrassed about and nothing to apologize for.”

“What if I poop?”

“Then you poop. No big deal.” He shrugs. “You’re having our baby.”

You swallowed hard, leaning into him a bit.

“I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.” He kissed your shoulder and stood up, heading back to the sink. “Cold rag?”

“Please.”

He was right back in his original spot as another surge plowed through. Your forehead dropped onto the folded towel and your legs spread without your conscious effort as your hips angled up, butt higher in the air. Joe didn’t say a word, watching the muscle in your back and your legs tighten as the pain peaked. He thought about reaching for his phone to call the doctor when a deep, involuntary sound erupted from your chest. “You’re safe, take a breath.”

“Jesus Christ,” you strained, “what is happening?” You almost said something else but you were cut off by another grunt, sounding focused and completely internal. Dr. Chen was not kidding when she said your body would lead. Things were getting intense and Joe’s phone was resting by the tub, out of his reach. Before switching to a new cold rag he heard you push again and his eyes cast down. He didn’t know exactly what he expected to see or even what he was looking for. But he definitely wasn’t qualified to deliver a baby in the bathroom, letting out a sigh of relief when he couldn’t see anything different.

We’re good, he told himself. You sank back, body forcing out a deep hum and then the pressure mounted then released in a heavy splash. Your eyes flew open in horror, clearly leaking but you’d clenched your eyes so tightly during that bout of pain you were seeing stars. “What was that? What just happened?”

“You’re good,” his voice sounded painfully normal, “give me a second.”

“Oh god, did I poop?”

Although you could admit you felt a lot better with the pressure being gone, not completely gone but significantly less crippling, the idea of pooping in your husband’s palm was not a story you ever wanted to tell. The thought was mortifying and you wanted answers.

“No, baby.” Relief spread across his face. “That was your water.”

You turned, finally comfortable enough to sit on your butt for the first time in two hours and saw the evidence for yourself. There was no bathroom accident, just amniotic fluid, on Joe’s shirt and his pants. “Thank god. I thought I—”

“Well you didn’t,” he smiled, wiping off his hand. “Guess I need to give Dr. Chen another call.”

The conversation was short and to the point. You inhaled, reminded that your reprieve was temporary and now the real work would begin while Joe grabbed your clothes. After the contraction was over you reached into the cabinet for a pad to catch any liquid before slipping on soft sweatpants, a new sports bra and a crewneck sweatshirt you borrowed from his side of the closet years ago and never returned. Joe changed his clothes too and wore his trusty Ugg slippers, matching your look. Neither of you bothered with real shoes.

He tossed the towels in a hamper sitting in the corner of the bathroom and you looked around your bedroom, rubbing your stomach that had dropped lower in the last hour. Joe came up behind you, his body a solid wall. “What are you thinking about?”

“How this is probably the last time it’s just the two of us in this room. Next time we’re here, he’ll be with us. That’s a little scary.”

“It is. But I think we’re ready for him.”

You nodded, interlocking your fingers with his, heading for the kitchen.

Morgan lit up when you told him you were hungry, crafting the perfect plain bagel and cream cheese like you’d asked him to perform open heart surgery. “You’re the best,” you told him, taking a bite of the toasted bread.

“Need help sitting down?” He offered.

“Standing actually feels nice,” you glanced at Joe who was typing away on his phone. No doubt in your mind he had a groupchat started with your parents and his, giving them an update.

The chef moved back to the fridge and looked through his inventory. You stood at the counter, knees slightly bent, a mild contraction creeping up on you. “Any particular lunch requests?”

“We’re leaving soon,” Joe spoke up first. “Her water broke upstairs so we’ll be at the birth center in the next 30 minutes.”

“Why are you saying that so casually?” Morgan’s voice was an octave higher than usual and he placed a hand on your back. “Are you feeling okay? Do you need more water or—I don’t know.”

“Morgan I’m good, I swear. My doctor knows, baby’s moving around. I’m just gonna finish my bagel and we’ll go. One second,” you stopped, put your food down and let your head hang between your shoulders. Joe put his phone to the side and reminded you to breathe and Ivy came in, made eye contact with Morgan who gave her one simple nod to confirm her suspicions since she arrived at the house.

The bagel was back in hand after the contraction ended and you took another bite, moving on with your day like this was normal. Joe grabbed his keys, the bags were already in his car so he ran upstairs to grab your pillow and you hugged Ivy first.

She’d been Joe’s house manager since his third year in the league, a year before Morgan and had seen almost every phase of his life as he balanced fame and privacy. Now he’d found a happy medium and she was excited to see where this next chapter would take him. “You two are gonna do great. And I’ll need about a million pictures of that squishy baby when he’s here.”

“You’ll get so many pictures don’t worry,” you gave her a squeeze, tears brimming your eyes when you saw Morgan getting emotional hugging Joe. They’d become more brothers than boss-employee.

Now his brother was bringing a child into the world. “Love you man, both of you.”

“We love you too,” Joe told him. He meant every word. He hugged Ivy and told them both to take the next few days off and he’d let them know the plan. They helped get you settled in the car and sent you off with another round of tearful hugs before Joe pulled out of the garage and headed towards the birth center.

“I can walk.” You shoved the door open, harsher than normal. The car ride was constricting and you needed out, plotting your exit as soon as you could see the VIP parking lot.

“You sure? Maybe we should get you a wheelchair,” he suggested.

Before the car was off, your feet hit the ground and you grabbed your pillow out of the back seat. Joe grabbed all the bags and followed you to the elevator. He did not attempt to get you in that chair again, which was a great choice…for his sake.

And safety.

The birth suite looked more like a hotel room at a five star resort than the place you were probably going to show a bunch of strangers every inch of your body. At least there was a massive tv and a fridge?

Dr. Chen and her head nurse Chelsie, your favorite, walked in a few minutes after your stuff was set down and a complimentary contraction welcomed them into the room. “There she is,” Chelsie said with a smile, giving you two a warm look. “We’re gonna give him a listen, get the fetal monitor hooked up and check your cervix. Is that okay?”

You gave her a thumbs up, not far enough removed from the contraction to be back to normal. Joe took a seat next to you as Chelsie reached around and hooked up the monitor around your belly and you leaned back, soothed by the rhythmic sounds of his heartbeat filling the room. “That never gets old,” you heard him whisper, clutching your hand.

“Okay,” your doctor says calmly snapping on her glove, “you’re gonna feel a small amount of pressure. Nothing you haven’t already experienced today.”

“Yeah I’m having a great time,” you sighed, wincing into the pressure. But like she said, the exam didn’t take long.

Joe waited approximately three seconds before asking “what’s the verdict?”

“Four centimeters, 80% effaced. Everything looks wonderful, he sounds great and he’s head down.” Dr. Chen tells you, voice kind but professional. “Because this is your first baby and you’re both healthy you do have options. You could labor at home a bit longer and keep us in the loop as things change. Or you could stay here. Everything is set, you’re checked in and making progress but if you’d rather be in your own space, your own bed, you’re more than welcome to do that too.”

He looks at you, handing over control without giving it much thought. “What do you wanna do? If you want to stay, we can. If you want to be at home a little longer, the keys are in my pocket.” Four sounded good, mostly because Dr. Chen said things were moving along, but from your facial expression, he wasn’t convinced you were as thrilled as he was.

“We can stay.” Your eyes were downcast, looking at the fetal monitor. “Getting back in the car sounds like hell. And I don’t want anyone to see us if we make another trip.”

“Okay, we’re staying.”

Dr. Chen stands. “Sounds good. Chelsie’s on call, if you need anything, press that button right there,” she points at the red circle by the bed. “There’s another one in the bathroom.”

“Press it anytime,” Chelsie urges, “even if you just need a question answered.”

“Like I said you’re on the right track, keep listening to your body, try to rest when you can. The fridge is fully stocked with electrolyte popsicles and everything else we discussed so feel free to dig in. In the meantime, we’ll give you some space, I know this can be a lot especially for first time parents but we are here every step of the way.” She patted the spot by your leg and headed out with Chelsie right behind her, closing the door.

The silence was comforting after a while. There were contraction timers and heartbeat monitors and a full staff of people that knew what to do if you needed help. Naturally, the flat screen at the front of the room sounded appealing. So did a Jurassic Park marathon for some reason.

“Think we’ll get through all seven?” Joe asked, hitting play on the film that started the franchise.

“I hope not,” you laughed, shoving a pillow between your knees for extra support as your husband yawned beside you. “We made it here, you can take a nap.”

He shook his head. “Not tired, I’m good. I can rally.”

“You’ve seen this movie a million times. Plus, not like I’m planning on going anywhere, any time soon. I might try to get some sleep too while I can.” The surges hadn’t stopped but you’d gotten used to this intensity and your eyelids felt heavy. “I promise I’ll be right here when you wake up,” you placed a hand on his cheek. “After I pee. And grab a bowl of pineapple.”

Joe registered everything you’d just said, words were just suddenly really hard to come by, a massive wave of exhaustion hitting him at once. He hadn’t realized that once he let himself relax, how tired he’d be and his eyes were closed by the time you’d pulled the fresh fruit out of the fridge.

The first movie was a blur. You slept resting on his shoulder, every so often your belly grew rock hard and you’d breathe, a few woke you up but it wasn’t until the second film that the exercise ball sounded better than sleep. On your knees, your forearms rested against it with Joe sitting behind you, thumbs pressing into your back. He and the velociraptors provide a satisfying distraction from the fact that the person who’s been inhabiting your uterus for almost a year is crawling his way out in an impossibly slow way. You understood why they skipped this part of labor in the movies, that’s why they called it another word for strenuous work. It was tedious and annoying.

This kid better be adorable, you grumbled to yourself.

“You still with me?” Joe asked, interrupting your mini pity party.

“Yeah,” you assured him. “Trying to stay relaxed. Relaxation equals dilation or whatever Chelsie said.”

He snickers, running his hand once down your entire spine. “That’s exactly what she said.” He decides to keep his hand where it is, resting in the infamous problem area of your lower back and kisses your forehead. “Talk to me.”

“What do you wanna talk about?”

“Anything,” the cadence of his word is casual. He could be reading off a grocery list or telling you about the best day of his life in that same breath. It genuinely makes him the greatest support system, never rattled or shaken at least from what the outside world can see.

But you know him better than that. He’s asking you to talk because he’s reading you right now. Your pain, your exhaustion. He’s asking if you’re okay without actually saying the words because he doesn’t want to one of those nagging husbands asking that a hundred times. He’d hate it if he was in your shoes and knows you probably feel the same. Joe settles for the next best thing. “Tell me what’s on your mind right now.”

“Do you remember when we almost named him Wesley?”

Joe laughs, a real one, silently asking is this really what’s on your mind right now?

“I do. We liked the name for weeks. But the one we chose fits him better I think.”

Squeezing his thigh, you paused as a contraction made itself known. He placed his hand over yours, grounding you and reminding you to not tense up without him having to say a word. “We’re gonna finally see him today. In real life. I’ve had dreams about what he’s gonna look like and now I get confirmation.”

“So have I,” he admits, quietly.

“You’ve had dreams about him?”

“Yeah, a lot more during the season when the schedule was crazy. Maybe it’s because I felt so guilty for being busy or being gone. Had dreams about him all the time. One day he’s got your eyes and smile. I pictured his little voice when he starts talking eventually. Hugging him, teaching him about dinosaurs and showing him my collection. Force feeding him my hobbies until he finds his own,” he jokes and your eyes are glassy. You could vividly see him taking your son to museums, Legoland and conducting makeshift science experiments in the offseason just because.

“Joe?” Your chest felt hot, an oddly familiar sensation of your mouth watering.

“What’s going on?”

“Trash can.” He was up immediately, grabbing the first bin in sight just in time for you double over, still halfway on your knees, throwing up as hard as you ever had in your life. It hit the bottom of the trashcan with a force that scared him. Even more so when it happened twice.

“It’s okay,” Joe attempted, wincing as you gagged and spit into the bin. “Let it out, you’re good.”

You puked one more time, feeling the burn in your throat and in your nose somehow, a bit confused on where that came from. Usually, well from your first trimester morning sickness series, there was a tell-tale nauseous sensation that let you know your stomach was protesting. Labor vomit had no warning, the contraction came and with it your body convulsed and—the rest is pretty self explanatory. Joe handed you a water and you rinsed out your mouth and spit into the trashcan again. “Do we have mouthwash or gum or anything?”

“We have both, gimme a second.” He dug through your bag and pulled out the travel sized container of Therabreath, fingers running up and down your back as you swished it around and got rid of it, replacing it with a piece of gum. “That looked rough, sorry baby.”

“It’s fine, kinda caught me off guard. Can you get me a tissue too, I feel like there’s puke in my nose. Sorry if that’s too gross.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” he reaches over and grabs the box sitting on the table, “here. I’m gonna grab Chelsie too if that’s okay? Just to see where we’re at?”

You let him get you off the ground and cupped your belly. “Yeah that was really weird, think that means things are moving.”

“Six? That’s—are you sure? Should I scoot down and you can check again?”

Chelsie’s face is still full of optimism which almost makes you want to yell. She’s like one of those permanently happy people, birds probably sit at her window every morning and she sings to them. But she’s funny and you bonded with her over your shared obsession with shitty romance reality tv so there’s no way to hate her. And she’s seen your vagina an uncomfortable amount of times so you’re sort of bonded for life. “Six is beautiful and your cervix is thinning out nicely. You really are doing great, I know it doesn’t necessarily feel that way but I assure you, you are doing everything right.”

You did hear Chelsie’s words and filed away Joe’s subtle attempt to make you feel better by kissing the top of your head when the nurse was gone. “I know it’s not worth much, but you are doing a really good job.”

“It’s been four fucking hours,” you sounded exasperated in a way that made him want to say more. But you beat him to it. “I think I need a shower, I feel disgusting again.”

”’Kay, let’s get you in there.”

“Actually, I might need a few minutes…alone.”

“By yourself?”

You laughed, hauling yourself out of bed. “Yes, that’s literally what alone means my love.”

“Chelsie just said you’re at a six, that means active labor right? I can sit in the bathroom and not say a word, you won’t even know I’m there.”

“I know,” your hand was in his, caressing the outside of it with your thumb. “And I appreciate the offer, I really do but you haven’t left my side since what 8:30? Just need a few minutes without anyone looking at me and answering questions about how I’m feeling. I love you, so much but I need to not exist for a minute.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?” You tried to get him to clarify.

“Yes, I’ll stay here, right outside the door. If you call for me, I’ll be right there. And if you don’t? I’ll still be right outside the door.” He promised, letting you disappear into the bathroom after kissing your forehead, he was mentally trying to will himself to be normal about how uncomfortable it was to be away from you. Something about seeing you on the floor, trusting him wholeheartedly to take care of you, to help you get through the overwhelming pain and pressure and all the emotions that inevitably come with labor. Being next to you wasn’t just for you, it was also for his peace of mind, letting him have physical proof that you were okay.

For a few minutes in the shower, you stood under the water in silence. You almost forgot what being alone with your thoughts felt like, with the fetal monitor, checking your cervix, asking for status updates, watching movies, there was always movement, always sound. Right now, you wanted it void of noise except the shower spray on your skin. You cradled your stomach in both hands, lifting up your head toward the ceiling and taking in a huge bout of air. This was by far the hardest thing you’d ever done. And it felt never ending. But you reminded yourself that this is what you wanted the experience to be, all natural, you trusting yourself and your body to do this with limited intervention. You could do this, your body was meant to do this. The only thing you were missing so far is anticipating the next pain, trying to get through it. All day you’d let labor happen to you instead of surrendering to it and working with it. You also had to get someone else involved.

“Alright baby boy.” You sighed, mid contraction, “you gotta start putting in some effort here. Move down. You’ve overstayed your welcome and it’s time for a new place to call home, seriously.”

“I really want to hold you. And kiss you,” you rested your arm against the wall squatting slightly with a soft groan. “I wanna look at your face. And you have to meet your dad, I know you’re gonna love him. Hell, he’s probably going to be your favorite person in the world and he is dying to meet you so you can’t keep him waiting.” It felt both freeing and ridiculous, talking to a person that wasn’t born yet and definitely could not decide when he was going to enter the world but it felt nice to get that off your chest. You placed both palms on the wall, rocking side to side, “shit, ugh okay.” You didn’t tense up with this one, surrendering to the pressure as your body moved down to squat against the shower chair. Active labor felt exactly like its name, you needed activity, you needed to be moving, shifting from the balls of your feet to your toes, switching the shower head to one of the side ones aimed directly at your back.

“Come on,” you growled, mostly to yourself, five to ten percent to the baby. “Open. You can do this,” you huffed, half standing to place your leg on the chair in a lunge position. Things definitely felt looser and you needed to work with that, more low sounds vibrating against the back of your throat as you squeezed the chair. A deep trembling inhale made way for the next wave and you audibly moaned for the first time all day, a powerful feeling overtaking you. “Yes, that’s what we want,” you said aloud to no one in particular. Maybe your uterus or…the universe.

You came out of the bathroom in a black tank top and sleep shorts. “Feeling better?” Joe asked, noticing you seem less rattled than before.

“Um I wouldn’t say better necessarily,” you laughed, “but definitely more centered? I don’t know if that makes any sense.”

“It does.”

The room felt a lot bigger and purposeful but everything that mattered to you now was focusing downward. You needed space, release and to be low to the ground again. That led you to the birth sling. It was easy to grip, secure and as soon as you tried it, the tension you carried after the last contraction faded away enough for you to smile.

“Mmh.” You sounded relieved, your grip tightening on the sling. It was supporting you from behind as you leaned into it, legs in a semi squat with your arms out in front of you. “Ngh—oh my god,” your hips shifted slightly as the sound continued. Joe provided counter pressure without being asked.

“Good right here?”

A slow breath and a small yes gave him the confirmation he needed. “You’re helping, a ton. And making sounds feels good too. Like my body is just doing it for me but it feels right.”

“Do whatever feels good,” his thumbs pressed against your hips, “you’re doing great.”

“Just warning you it might get a little loud in the next twenty minutes.” That pent up energy you had in storage finally had somewhere productive to go and your husband just nodded and moved a chair over so he could park himself in this spot right up to the second you were tired of this position. He applied firm pressure as soon as he was back and you leaned further into him. “Yes! Oh my god, right there. Do not stop.”

“I won’t,” he promised, “staying here as long as you need, babe.”

The sling worked until it didn’t. To be fair you’d tried three different positions. Then there wasn’t enough movement for your legs. Joe had rubbed out a calf cramp and helped you stand. You made it three steps before squatting by the bed with a low groan. “Fuck me,” you pinched your eyes closed, squeezing Joe’s forearm. “Sorry,” you rubbed at the spot.

“You’re good,” he handed you his left arm, “squeeze this one as hard as you can.”

“Grab me a popsicle, please?”

He nods, back at your side a minute later unwrapping it and holding it for you as you take a bite. “So good,” you sighed before taking it from him. You paced the room as you ate, each surge brought sound and a bit more intensity and he could see your belly changing shape as your son continued his descent.

Then you doubled over, popsicle stick still in your grasp as you clutched your knees. “Oh—oh fuck. Oh fuck.”

“Alright, take a breath, you’re good,” he took the trash from your hand and tossed it into the basin. “Breathe and squeeze,” it seemed like you were trying to get to the floor so he held both of your hands trying to keep you upright. Then he noticed more leaking as you grunted again.

“Joe press the button,” you told him frantically, “get Chelsie. I need her.”

Chelsie was quick and gentle as always with her checks. “You’re at a solid 8.5, soft 9. Almost there mama.”

“Wonderful.”

“You’re almost done,” Joe whispered. You wanted to cry with relief. When you were at a four, this seemed trillions of miles away. Another contraction built before Chelsie could wrap up and leave, enough to make you curl inward. This one didn’t feel endless, your whole body was busy working him down and out, your stomach pulling tight and hard and you opened your mouth when it ended.

“Chelsie? That last one felt…odd.”

“Odd how?”

“Like I—felt pushy almost?”

Her facial expression doesn’t change but you can tell the wheels are turning. “It’s more normal than you think, but we do want to hold off on active pushing til the last bit of your cervix is gone. Last thing we want is your straining and swelling up because it’s too soon or expending too much energy. When it’s really time to push, your body will know.”

She watches Joe grab your water and scoots away from the bed. “I’ll be nearby but out of your way, transition is here so don’t run from it. Like Joe said, you’re almost there.”

Transition felt like you imagined hell to be like. It was basically one endless contraction and you got no breaks in between. There was no in between. And everything, everything was stretched to the limit. You went from a squat to some sort of makeshift fort on the floor because it was cool. One minute you were sweating the next you were demanding a blanket. “Can someone turn off the lights?” You didn’t know if it was Chelsie or Joe who did it and you don’t remember if you even said thank you. You knew he’d swapped out your wet shorts for black underwear a few minutes ago but everything was on fire, talking even hurt. You became a wall of low, desperate sounds and the occasional f-bomb.

“What the fuck?” You cried, lying on your side, groaning into your pillow. “Hold my leg?”

“Up?” He rested your foot against his chest as you nodded. Chelsie came down to your level and placed a cool cloth on your forehead.

“How do people do this multiple times?” You let out a breath, bearing down uncontrollably on the exhale.

Joe kept rubbing your thigh. “You’re kicking ass right now.”

“My ass hurts actually. I wanna go home, I wanna be done.”

“We’ll go home, promise. You’re so close.”

“FUCK” you arched your back and Joe looked over at Chelsie as your toes curled.

She stepped in, “short breaths almost like you’re hyperventilating ‘ha ha ha’”

You were trying, you really were but all that came out was a primal moan, almost like a cow. Then you burped and got to your hands and knees. Chelsie stepped back, letting you move around and you burped again suddenly, feeling slightly offended at all the different things happening simultaneously. “Oh my god,” you paused, gagging. “Trash can? I might puke again.”

Nothing happened for a few minutes so it was shoved away and you put your head down, undulating your hips. “Off,” you reached for your underwear, “take these away.”

“Don’t push yet,” your nurse said, still calm but with a more serious edge to her normal voice.

“I’m trying. My body has other plans.” Another groan. “It’s so hot in here.” Chelsie turned down the AC and Joe pointed the fan towards your belly when he saw you hiking up your tank top to get more air.

Joe prides himself in knowing you better than anyone, maybe even yourself. His first clue is the sounds start to change. You’ve been vocalizing on and off since you got out of the shower but the sounds he’s heard the last three contractions aren’t sounds of pain they’re…effort. You’ve decided to get back in bed, resting on the pregnancy pillow in a makeshift donut to fit your belly but the low, throaty sounds don’t feel the same. And you’ve stopped talking altogether, you haven’t asked for a blanket or for him to squeeze anything, it doesn’t seem like you want to be touched. Everything is sound and air.

He watches intently as you shift, legs spread a touch wider then your whole body is completely still. You reached down as a sound was ripped out of your chest, “ughh. Ngh.” You paused for a second, collecting your energy and gave into that feeling, like you needed to go to the bathroom but more intense. You went with that urge and bore down with everything you had. He didn’t have to ask, he knew you were pushing, he just wasn’t sure you were supposed to be.

Chelsie clearly had the same thought because she placed a hand on your back. “Sounds like you’re starting to push here mama, let’s see what we’re working with.”

“I can—feel him,” your face contorted as you pushed, heaving breaths leaving you once the contraction was done.

“Joe, help me turn her over.”

They got you onto your back and Chelsie saw what you meant when you pushed again, paging Dr. Chen when she saw the teardrop form with the tiniest glimpse of the baby’s head. “That’s a 10. And I see him, he’s definitely coming. Give me a big push on this next one and hold for as long as you can.”

Joe helped count, reminding you to take it slow, to let yourself stretch and Dr. Chen took over. “Beautiful job, mama. Remember to push into your butt, tuck your chin down into your chest. Yes just like that, go go go, you’ve got him.”

“Oh fuck,” you grabbed the back of your thigh and dug deep, letting out a roar as you aided in your body’s pushing efforts. You strained so hard your body shook and Joe’s hand went numb but he didn’t let go.

He looked over and saw your progress, eyes wide with shock and pride. “I saw him, he’s got so much hair. You’re bringing him here. You’ve got it.”

“He’s not bald?”

“Not at all. He’s got dark hair, so much of it.”

You pushed again, cutting it short. “I feel like I’m not doing this right.”

“Take a second and try again,” Dr. Chen said. “You’ve got time.”

“You’re doing it.” Joe squeezed your hand. “Almost done.”

You turned onto your side, with a little gravity to help you started to feel the burn after four more hard shoves, each leaving you winded but ever more determined. “This is insane,” you cried reaching down to feel his head that was finally staying put. “I’m holding him, I’m touching our son right now.”

His eyes looked teary and he wiped at them with his forearm, leaning his head against yours. “Bring him home.”

Time became a blur after that, when it felt like he was right there, he’d tease everyone and go back in. You tried different angles and took several breaks. It seemed like one more test of your fortitude.

And your sanity.

A huge contraction builds, causing you to lift your hips off the bed as the baby fully crowned, you yelped as the pressure reached its most excruciating point. His head came out with a distinct pop, your hips jerked and you bore down again wanting this to end.

“He’s turning, couple big pushes for the shoulders and we should have a baby.”

You grunted lifting your body off the bed again, searching for the best position to allow your body to pry itself open to let him out. Gasping for breath, another low growl helped you work one shoulder free as your son rotated and the other shoulder soon after. He slipped out freely, along with a gush of fluid when you gave into that last hearty urge.

The sound of his first cry was the best sound you’d ever heard and you looked at Joe who was also crying. Nobody said anything for a while. Not until you said, “that’s Kai?”

“That’s him,” he said, voice unbearably shaky. “That’s our boy. He’s here, you did it.”

“No way I could’ve done that without you. We did it.”

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 monetarily 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

When Jack met Jamila, Shakespeare ceased to be literature and became anatomy, something living beneath his ribs, something with a pulse, something that explained why men in old plays looked into the face of love and lost all reasonable instinct, because suddenly he understood every doomed fool who had ever mistaken devotion for oxygen and every tragic lover who had ever decided that a world without the beloved was not a world at all, merely a country stripped of its sun, a sea abandoned by its moon, a body still moving long after the soul had left it.

He understood, with terrifying clarity, why Orpheus turned around.

Not because he was weak, not because he doubted the gods, not because he could not obey, but because love, real love, the kind that sinks its teeth into the marrow and remakes a man from the inside out, does not move comfortably on faith alone, and Jack knew, the moment Jamila looked at him, that he too would have glanced back into the mouth of hell just to make sure she was still behind him, even if it condemned them both, even if Hades himself stood waiting with a crown of ash and judgment in his hands.

He understood Romeo and Juliet then too, not in the foolish way people mocked them for, not as children too dramatic for their own hearts, but as two souls who had stumbled into recognition so violent it made the world before each other feel counterfeit, because when Jack met Jamila, he understood how death beside the one you loved could seem less cruel than life in a universe where their hand no longer fit into yours, where their voice no longer called your name across a room, where the earth kept turning with the audacity to pretend the stars had not gone out.

He was twenty-two when he met her, already walking toward army medicine with the grim focus of a man who had decided early that blood, discipline, and survival would be the shape of his life, while Jamila was twenty, bright-eyed and brilliant, stepping into software engineering like she had been born to speak in languages machines understood, her mind clean and electric, full of logic, architecture, systems, and possibilities he could barely name.

They should have been opposites, and perhaps they were, in the way the sun and moon were opposites, in the way land and sea met only at the shoreline yet spent eternity reshaping one another, in the way Apollo drew his golden chariot across the morning while Artemis guarded the silver hush of night, separate and sacred until eclipse made a miracle of their collision.

Jamila was sunlight over open water, all warmth and movement and impossible shimmer, the kind of woman who made ordinary rooms look briefly blessed, while Jack was moonlight over dark fields, quieter, watchful, made of shadow and gravity, a man who had learned to love carefully because carelessness had teeth; and yet from the moment they met, it felt less like attraction and more like orbit, as if some ancient god had taken their names, carved them into opposite sides of the same star, and set them loose across the heavens just to see how long it would take them to find their way back.

Jack was sure of her almost immediately, so sure it frightened him, so sure that the certainty did not feel reckless but ancestral, as if every man in his bloodline who had ever loved a woman properly had leaned across time and whispered, that one, as if the earth beneath his feet had changed its axis and expected him to adjust without complaint.

So on their second date, with no grand proposal planned and no velvet box burning a hole through his pocket, he took Jamila ring shopping.

Not because he was trying to trap her, not because he mistook desire for entitlement, and not because he believed love gave him ownership over her future, but because Jack Abbot had already decided that if the day ever came when he knelt before her, he would not do it empty-handed in spirit, would not arrive before the altar of her life unprepared, would not insult her by guessing at what she liked or, worse, choosing something that reflected his ego more than her heart.

To him, there was nothing more careless than an unprepared man, nothing more selfish than a man who dressed his own desires up as romance and placed them in a woman’s lap like tribute, expecting gratitude for a gift that had never truly considered her.

Jamila deserved better than that.

She deserved intention.

She deserved study.

She deserved a man who paid attention the way sailors once studied constellations, the way farmers read the sky before planting, the way ancient Greeks listened for the gods in thunder and tide, because loving Jamila, even then, felt like learning a sacred language, one made of glances, preferences, silences, laughter, and the small unguarded truths she did not yet know she was giving him.

He remembered her in that jewelry store with a clarity that time had never managed to dull, remembered the soft halo of her hair framing her face like something painted by a Renaissance hand, remembered the way the lights caught in the dark strands and made her look celestial, half-woman and half-constellation, remembered how her features had softened each time she slipped a ring onto her finger, her smile going shy at the edges though she tried to play it cool, dimples appearing like little moons in her cheeks while she turned her hand beneath the glass-bright glow and pretended she did not know he was memorizing everything.

Ring after ring after ring, silver and gold, oval and emerald, delicate bands and bold stones, quiet elegance and glittering declarations, and Jack watched her the way men once watched the horizon for ships, the way Orpheus must have listened for Eurydice’s footsteps in the dark, the way the moon pulls at the sea without ever touching it, learning what made her eyes linger, what made her mouth tilt, what she dismissed quickly, what she came back to twice, what made her hand look most like hers.

He did not rush her.

He did not steer her.

He simply stood beside her, young and already ruined, smiling like a man trying very hard not to show that he was watching the rest of his life choose its shape beneath a jewelry store light.

And Jamila, laughing softly as she slid another ring from her finger and placed it back into the tray, had no idea that Jack was not merely collecting her size or her preferences, but building a map, charting the coastline of her desires grain by grain, star by star, already preparing himself for a future he had no right to claim yet but every intention of earning.

“Jack, where are you takin’ me?” Jamila asked, turning toward him in the passenger seat as he drove through the late afternoon, her voice carrying that sweet Southern edge that made even suspicion sound like music, while the sun lowered itself over the city in a slow golden surrender and poured across her brown skin as if it had been waiting all day for the privilege of touching her.

Jack should have been watching the road with the strict discipline of a man trained to notice danger before it had a name, a man already half-married to order and duty and all the clean, brutal logic of army medicine, but God help him, Jamila made vigilance feel impossible, because every time the light caught the slope of her cheek or the curve of her mouth, every time her hair shifted around her face like a dark halo loosened by the wind, he felt something ancient and unreasonable rise in him, something that belonged less to the modern world and more to myth, to men who built temples because their hearts had nowhere else to put the worship.

He glanced at her, just once, and smiled like he was trying not to give himself away too early.

“Do you trust me?”

Jamila’s brows lifted, her mouth curving before she could stop it, and she turned fully in her seat with the solemn suspicion of a woman who had watched enough true crime to know that charm and bone structure had never saved anybody from being found in a ditch.

“I’m pretty sure that’s how murder documentaries start.”

Jack laughed then, not loudly, not carelessly, but with that low warm sound that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest, and Jamila hated how much she liked it already, hated how quickly it had started to feel familiar, like a song she had not heard before but somehow knew the words to.

“I would make a terrible murderer,” he said, one hand resting easy on the wheel, the other briefly shifting against the gear stick as the car rolled past rows of brick buildings washed in amber light. “I’m too organised, which means I’d overthink everything, leave no evidence, then feel guilty about depriving the investigators of a decent puzzle.”

“So you admit you’ve considered the logistics?”

“I’m pursuing medicine in the army, sweetheart, unfortunately my brain considers logistics before romance, breakfast, sleep, and most major holidays.”

Jamila narrowed her eyes at him, but her smile deepened until one dimple appeared, that single devastating indentation that had already begun ruining Jack’s sense of proportion, because every time he saw it, the world rearranged itself around the small fact of her happiness.

“First of all, don’t sweetheart me like you’re not currently driving me to an undisclosed location,” she said, folding her arms as though she were not enjoying herself. “Second of all, men who call women sweetheart in that calm voice are exactly the ones women end up warning each other about.”

Jack looked over at her again, and this time his smile softened into something quieter, something that had no business appearing on a second date, because it looked too close to recognition, too close to promise, too close to a man standing on the shore and seeing, not just the sea in front of him, but every storm he was willing to cross.

“I’ll accept that criticism,” he said, “but I need the record to show that I am not taking you anywhere suspicious.”

“The record will show that you refused to answer a direct question.”

“The record will also show that you got in the car anyway.”

Jamila turned toward the window with a huff, but Jack saw the reflection of her smile in the glass, saw the way she tried to press it down and failed, saw the way the evening light gathered along her profile as if Apollo himself had slowed his chariot just to admire the line of her nose, the softness of her lips, the quiet brightness of her eyes.

He was twenty-two years old, and still, in that moment, he felt impossibly young, almost boyish with wanting, not just wanting her body near him or her hand in his, though God knew even the brush of her shoulder earlier had nearly undone him, but wanting in the larger, more terrifying way, wanting her mornings and her bad moods and her opinions on things he had never cared about before, wanting to know how she took her tea, whether she liked rain, what songs she played when she was sad, whether she cried at films and pretended she didn’t, whether she slept curled into herself or sprawled like she owned the bed.

He wanted to learn her the way ancient sailors learned the stars, not casually, not for beauty alone, but for survival.

That was what unsettled him most.

Jamila did not feel like a woman he had met.

She felt like a direction.

She felt like north.

The road curved toward the older part of town, where the buildings stood close together and the pavements were warm from the day’s heat, and Jamila watched the streets pass with interest, her skepticism shifting into curiosity as Jack pulled onto a quieter lane lined with small shops and window boxes overflowing with flowers that leaned toward the sun like worshippers.

“Jack,” she said slowly, stretching his name in that way that made him feel both accused and adored, “why are we somewhere that looks expensive?”

He did not answer immediately, partly because he enjoyed the rising suspicion in her voice and partly because he needed a moment to gather himself, because the truth was ridiculous even to him, and yet not ridiculous enough to stop him.

Instead, he parked along the curb, turned off the engine, and sat there for half a breath with both hands still on the wheel, looking out at the storefront ahead of them where the windows glimmered with the cold fire of diamonds beneath soft lights.

Jamila followed his gaze.

Then she went still.

Not dramatically, not loudly, but completely, like the sea drawing back from the shore before a wave broke.

“Jack,” she said, and this time his name came out softer, lower, threaded with disbelief.

He turned to her, and though he tried to keep his expression steady, the yearning was there in him like tide under moonlight, pulling at everything he had not said, everything he had no right to say yet, everything his heart had already decided before his common sense had even arrived at the meeting.

“Before you panic,” he said, “I am not proposing to you.”

Jamila blinked at him.

Then blinked again.

“You brought me to a jewelry store on our second date and thought the first thing you should say is, ‘before you panic’?”

“In my defence, it seemed efficient.”

“In your defence?” she repeated, turning toward him in full now, eyes wide and incredulous. “Jack Abbot, I am about to get out this car and walk home.”

“You don’t know where you are.”

“Women have crossed deserts, oceans, and bad marriages with less information than that.”

He laughed again, but there was something nervous beneath it now, something boyish and exposed, because as much as he had rehearsed the explanation in his head, as much as he had arranged the words carefully like instruments on a surgical tray, Jamila looking at him made language feel clumsy.

“I know this is… unusual,” he said, and the understatement made her give him a look so sharp it could have split marble, but he pressed on because if he stopped now, he would lose his nerve. “I’m not asking you for anything, Jamila, and I’m not trying to rush you or scare you or make assumptions about what you want from me, because that would be unfair and honestly stupid, but I do know that I like you, and I know that when I care about something, I prepare for it properly.”

Her expression shifted, suspicion still there, but softened now by curiosity, by the strange tenderness of being taken seriously before she had even asked to be.

Jack swallowed, his gaze dropping for a moment to where her hand rested in her lap, graceful and brown and bare, her fingers catching the sunlight like something sculpted from warm earth.

“I don’t ever want to be the kind of man who decides what a woman should want and then calls it romance,” he said, his voice quieter now, steady but full of something that pressed against the air between them. “If I ever ask you something important, something life-changing, something that deserves reverence, then I want to know I listened before I spoke, and I want to know I chose with you in mind, not with my pride in mind.”

Jamila stared at him, and for once, her mouth did not have a quick answer ready.

That silence nearly killed him.

It would have been easier if she teased him, easier if she scoffed or called him insane or told him he had lost his whole mind somewhere between the starter and the main course on their first date, but instead she just looked at him, really looked at him, as if she were seeing past the smile, past the controlled posture, past the military discipline he wore like armour, and into the young man beneath it, the one who had already started building a place for her in his life with his bare hands.

“You’re serious,” she said.

“I usually am.”

“No, Jack,” she said, her voice gentler now, almost careful. “I mean you’re serious about me.”

The late afternoon seemed to hush around them, the city dimming into a painted thing beyond the windshield, the sun lowering itself toward the horizon like Helios descending into the western sea, and Jack felt the truth rise in him, luminous and dangerous.

“I am,” he said.

Jamila let out a small breath, not quite a laugh and not quite a sigh, and turned her face toward the jewelry store again, where the diamonds sat in their velvet beds like fallen stars.

“On the second date?”

Jack looked at her profile, at the golden light along her cheek, at the dimple threatening to return even as she tried to remain stern, and he felt so helplessly fond of her that it was almost painful.

“Technically, I knew on the first one,” he admitted.

Her head snapped back toward him.

“Jack.”

“What?”

“You cannot say things like that to me while parked outside a ring store.”

“I could have said it while driving, but you already thought I was taking you somewhere to die.”

She pressed her lips together, fighting a smile so hard he could see the battle moving across her face.

“You are absolutely ridiculous.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

“You are insane.”

“Possibly.”

“You are dangerously intense.”

“That one feels fair.”

“You barely know me.”

Jack’s expression changed then, not into offence, but into something solemn, something that made the air feel warmer and heavier, like summer rain gathering above dry land.

“I know,” he said, and his honesty disarmed her more than any pretty answer could have. “I know I barely know you, and I’m not pretending that I do, but I know enough to want the privilege of learning the rest slowly, properly, without rushing you, without making you feel cornered, without turning my certainty into pressure.”

Jamila’s gaze searched his face, and Jack let her, because there was no manipulation in him, no polished trick, no hidden net beneath the words, only a frightening earnestness that made him feel as vulnerable as Orpheus walking out of the underworld with the whole of his heart behind him and one command standing between hope and ruin.

“I know you’re brilliant,” he continued, voice low, “and I know you like arguing even when you agree, and I know you pretend not to enjoy being complimented even though your left dimple gives you away every single time, and I know you check exits when you walk into restaurants, which means either you’re cautious, nosy, or you watch too much crime television, and I know you spoke about software engineering like it was less of a career and more of a kingdom you intended to build brick by brick until the whole world had to respect the architecture.”

Jamila looked away before he could see too much of what that did to her, but he saw enough.

He always saw enough.

“And,” he said, softer still, “I know that when you laughed last night, I thought about it again before I fell asleep.”

Her eyes closed briefly, as if she needed a second to survive him.

“You are dangerous,” she murmured.

“I thought we established I’d make a poor murderer.”

“Not that kind of dangerous.”

Jack’s smile faded into something more tender, and for a moment he looked at her like she was the only fixed point in an expanding universe, like every star in the sky had been born only to teach him what orbit meant.

“Then what kind?”

Jamila turned back to him, her eyes bright with the kind of feeling she was not yet ready to name, and her smile came slowly, like dawn coming over water.

“The kind women write poetry about and then regret.”

Jack’s breath caught, just barely, but enough for her to notice.

She noticed everything.

That was another thing he loved already, though he had no right to call it love yet, no socially acceptable reason to admit that some part of him had stepped into her gravity and simply stopped fighting the fall.

“Come on,” he said, opening his door before he said something unforgivably honest. “Let me be prepared, and then you can tell all your friends I’m insane over dinner.”

Jamila did not move at first, watching him step out and come around to her side like manners were not performance to him but instinct, something bred deep into the bone, something steady and old-fashioned without being possessive.

When he opened her door, he offered his hand.

She looked at it.

Then she looked at him.

“If I go in there with you,” she said, placing her hand in his palm but not yet letting him help her out, “you understand this does not mean I am agreeing to marry you, have your children, take your last name, or let you start acting like you have claims on me.”

Jack’s fingers closed gently around hers, warm and careful, and the contact moved through him like lightning striking open sea.

“I understand.”

“And you understand that I will tell my friends you’re crazy.”

“I’m counting on that.”

“And you understand that if the saleswoman starts smiling at me like she knows something I don’t, I will leave you in there.”

“I’ll deserve it.”

Jamila stepped out of the car, and when she stood in front of him, close enough that he could smell the soft sweetness of whatever lotion she wore, close enough that the wind lifted a strand of her hair against his sleeve, Jack had the wild, almost unbearable thought that if Aphrodite herself had risen from seafoam and walked barefoot through the world, she might have carried herself like this, amused and luminous and entirely aware that men had been losing wars for less.

He did not say that, of course, because he wanted to live.

Instead, he shut the car door and walked beside her toward the jewelry store, careful not to crowd her, though every part of him wanted to reach for her again, wanted to know whether her hand fit his as perfectly on purpose or whether the universe was simply showing off.

Inside, the store was cool and bright, the air faintly perfumed, the glass counters arranged like small altars beneath constellations of light, and Jamila slowed as she entered, her earlier teasing falling into a quiet sort of wonder she tried very hard to conceal.

Jack watched her take it in.

Not the diamonds first, not the price tags, not the glitter, but the shapes, the settings, the artistry of it all, the language of gold and stone and craftsmanship speaking to that architectural part of her mind, and he felt something inside him settle with certainty so deep it was almost frightening.

He wanted to give her beautiful things, yes, but not because beauty alone could impress her.

He wanted to give her considered things.

Chosen things.

Things that said, I saw you, I listened, I remembered.

A saleswoman approached with a professional smile, and Jamila immediately cut her eyes at Jack as if to say, behave, which made his mouth twitch.

“Good afternoon,” the woman said warmly. “Are we looking for anything special today?”

Jamila opened her mouth, probably to say something sensible, something clarifying, something that would spare them both from the absurdity of the situation, but Jack spoke first.

“We’re just learning what she likes,” he said, with such calm conviction that Jamila’s breath hitched almost imperceptibly beside him. “Nothing more than that.”

The saleswoman’s expression softened in a way Jamila absolutely noticed, and Jack felt Jamila’s elbow brush his side in warning.

He looked down at her.

She smiled up at him, sweet as honey and just as dangerous.

“I told you,” she murmured.

“I know.”

“She’s smiling.”

“I see that.”

“I’m leaving you here.”

“You said that already.”

“And yet you’re still misbehaving.”

Jack leaned slightly closer, not enough to be improper, just enough that his voice became something meant for her alone.

“If this is me misbehaving, Jamila, you’re going to be very disappointed when you find out how good I can be.”

For one glorious second, she forgot how to respond.

Jack saw it.

Jack cherished it.

Then her eyes narrowed, and she turned toward the counter with the dignity of a queen pretending she had not just been knocked off balance by a soldier with tired eyes and a devastating mouth.

“Show me something simple,” she said to the saleswoman, her voice perfectly composed except for the faint warmth in it. “Elegant, not boring, and please do not bring me anything that looks like a man chose it to prove he had money.”

The saleswoman laughed softly, and Jack looked down, smiling like a condemned man who had no interest in appeal.

There she was.

There was his Jamila, though he would not dare say his aloud, not yet, not before she gave him the right, not before he earned it with patience and reverence and the kind of devotion that did not clutch but cultivated, that did not conquer but tended, like fertile land waiting for rain, like a lighthouse keeping watch over a restless sea.

Ring after ring appeared on black velvet, each one catching the light in small bursts of fire, and Jamila tried them on with a mix of curiosity and embarrassment, as though she were amused by the drama of it all and secretly, dangerously touched by the fact that he cared enough to ask.

Jack paid attention like a man taking sacred instruction.

He noticed how she dismissed round stones too quickly, how her fingers lingered over emerald cuts, how she liked gold but paused longer over warmer tones, how she frowned at anything too bulky, how she smiled despite herself when a delicate band caught the light like a narrow river under the sun.

He noticed the way she flexed her hand when a ring felt wrong, the way her mouth softened when one felt close, the way she glanced at him once after trying on an oval stone and then immediately looked away, as if sharing the reaction too soon would reveal more than she was ready to give.

“That one?” he asked quietly.

Jamila looked down at her hand, then at him.

“It’s pretty.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Her eyes lifted, and there it was again, that spark between them, that answering flare, like two celestial bodies recognizing the pull before impact.

“What did you ask, then?”

“I asked if you liked it.”

She swallowed, and Jack watched the movement with a tenderness that nearly undid him.

“I do,” she said, softer than before. “I like this one.”

The saleswoman smiled and began noting details, but Jack barely heard her, because Jamila was looking down at the ring on her own hand with an expression he knew he would remember when he was old, when his curls had gone fully silver, when their life had gathered years the way shorelines gathered shells.

He imagined, against all reason and permission, that same hand reaching for him in the dark.

He imagined it resting on his chest.

He imagined it holding his child’s fingers.

He imagined it wearing something he had chosen not because it was expensive, not because it announced him, but because it belonged to her as naturally as moonlight belonged to the tide.

The yearning that moved through him then was not hunger alone, though hunger was there, sharp and human and impossible to deny; it was something larger and more reverent, something rooted in the deep earth of him, something that wanted not to take but to build, to plant, to return, to become worthy of being trusted with her name in his mouth and her future anywhere near his hands.

Jamila glanced up and caught him staring.

“What?” she asked, her voice quieter now, stripped of some of its teasing.

Jack could have lied.

He could have made a joke.

He could have hidden behind charm, because charm was easier than truth and far less likely to frighten a woman on a second date in a jewelry store.

But he looked at her beneath those soft white lights, with all those diamonds burning around them like fragments of fallen stars, and he found he could not make himself cheapen the moment.

“I’m trying to remember this,” he said.

Her expression changed.

“Why?”

“Because one day,” he said, carefully, gently, as if laying something precious between them and not asking her to pick it up yet, “I think I’m going to be very grateful that I did.”

For a long moment, Jamila said nothing.

Then she looked back down at the ring, turning her hand slightly, watching the stone catch the light.

“You really are crazy,” she whispered.

Jack smiled, but his voice, when it came, was steady as a vow spoken under stars.

“Only about you.”

Their love was a symphony, not loud for the sake of being heard but perfectly composed, deliberate as a hand hovering over ivory keys before the first note, every breath and glance and touch arriving where it was meant to, as if some unseen conductor had been standing beyond the veil of their lives long before they met, waiting for Jack Abbot and Jamila Vermont to finally find the same measure.

After that second date, when the evening had folded itself into something soft and dangerous, when the city outside had gone blue-black beneath the moon and the stars had begun pricking holes in the dark like heaven itself wanted to spy, Jack understood that what was happening between them was not simply want, not simply chemistry, not the ordinary hunger of a young man undone by a beautiful woman, but something older than language, something tidal, something celestial, something that moved through him with the terrifying certainty of the sea answering the moon.

He had thought himself disciplined before Jamila, thought himself steady, thought the army had already begun carving him into a man of restraint and reason, but then she said his name in the dark, soft and wanting and ruinously sure, and every law he had ever obeyed became smoke, every sensible thought scattered like birds startled from a field, every carefully built wall inside him lowered its drawbridge as though it had only ever been waiting for her arrival.

He did not think of conquest, because Jamila was not territory to be taken, nor treasure to be seized, nor some mortal prize for a man arrogant enough to believe love meant possession, but he thought of worship, of temples built from marble and devotion, of sailors who kissed the earth after surviving storms, of farmers who fell to their knees when rain finally broke over starving land, of Orpheus looking back not out of weakness but because the beloved voice behind him was worth more than obedience to the gods.

That was how Jack loved her already, helplessly and with the full surrender of a man who knew, even at twenty-two, that he had reached the place where his life would divide itself into before and after.

When they became one, it was not crude or careless, not some fleeting collision of bodies mistaken for intimacy, but a crossing of oceans, a meeting of weather systems, a sacred eclipse in which the sun and moon stopped chasing one another long enough to touch, and Jack, with Jamila close enough to feel like warmth beneath his skin and fate beneath his hands, swore with the kind of silent desperation men saved for battlefields, deathbeds, and altars that he would spend his life loving her if she allowed him the honor.

He swore it to every god who had ever meddled in the affairs of lovers, to Aphrodite rising from seafoam with mischief on her mouth, to Hera watching over vows with stern and ancient eyes, to Selene dragging her silver chariot across the night, to Poseidon roaring beneath the black belly of the ocean, to every power that had ever watched humans ruin themselves beautifully in the name of love.

He swore it on his mother and father, on the generations before him whose names he carried in his blood, on the bones of every Abbot who had known how to keep a promise, that Jamila would not be a season in his life, would not be a woman he remembered with regret, would not become some almost-love he spoke of years later with a glass in his hand and sorrow in his throat.

Jamila would be his wife.

Jamila would be his lover.

Jamila would be the woman whose name lived behind his teeth when he prayed, cursed, laughed, bled, survived, and came home.

And God, the way she held him close, the way she seemed to pull the very tide out of him, the way her breath trembled against his skin like wind moving over summer grass, the way his name left her mouth not as a sound but as a summons, made something in Jack tighten with such unbearable tenderness that he almost could not endure it, because desire was one thing, sharp and human and blinding, but being wanted by Jamila felt like being chosen by the sun.

He had known attraction before her, had known the quick flare of interest, the passing heat of pretty faces and easy conversations, but this was not heat alone; this was gravity, this was the earth learning the shape of its own orbit, this was a man standing at the edge of the known world and realizing the horizon was not an ending but an invitation.

“Jamila,” he breathed, and her name sounded different in his mouth then, less like a name and more like scripture, like a prayer he had not been taught but somehow remembered.

She touched his face with a softness that undid him more completely than any urgency could have, her fingers tracing him as if she were learning not merely the lines of his jaw or the slope of his cheek, but the man beneath the skin, the boy who had grown into discipline because chaos had frightened him, the soldier-in-training who trusted structure because tenderness felt too unpredictable, the young man who had looked at her across a dinner table and known, with no proof except the wild arithmetic of his own heart, that he was finished.

“You’re staring,” she whispered, laughter tucked into the words, breathless and affectionate and a little shy despite all the boldness she had shown him.

“I know,” he murmured, because lying to Jamila already felt impossible, and because even then, even before rings and vows and children and night shifts and gray curls, Jack understood that love demanded honesty before it demanded poetry.

“You always this intense?”

“No,” he said, and the answer came too quickly, too seriously, because he wanted her to understand that this version of him, this undone and open and almost reverent version, belonged to her alone. “Only with you.”

That made her quiet in a way that pleased and terrified him, because Jamila was quick, Jamila was sharp, Jamila had a mouth made for teasing and a mind made for dismantling foolish men brick by brick, yet she looked at him then as if he had reached into some hidden place and touched something she had not meant to show him so soon.

Outside, the moon climbed higher, pouring silver over rooftops and windowsills, and inside, the world reduced itself to the sacred hush of two people finding each other in the dark, not with the clumsiness of strangers but with the awe of lost kingdoms recognizing the same old flag, with the sea rushing toward the shore and the shore opening to receive it, with stars collapsing into constellations because chaos had finally been given a shape.

Jack wanted to tell her everything then, wanted to confess that he had already imagined her old beside him, already imagined her laughter in rooms he had not lived in yet, already imagined her hand wearing a ring he had chosen with the care of a man selecting a star from the sky, already imagined mornings where she fussed at him for leaving shoes in the wrong place and nights where he came home heavy with the world and found her waiting like a lighthouse refusing to let him drown.

But he did not say all of it, because even in the flood of feeling, he knew love was not proven by overwhelming a woman with the full weight of a man’s longing, and Jack would rather bite his own tongue bloody than make Jamila feel cornered by the force of what he already knew.

So he kissed the truth into the quiet instead, kissed it into her hairline, into her temple, into the bend of her laughter, into the places where speech became too small and feeling had to find another language, and every time she drew him closer, every time she answered him with that same impossible tenderness, the vow inside him rooted deeper.

He would earn her slowly.

He would study her properly.

He would learn the weather of her moods, the architecture of her ambitions, the passwords to her silence, the small ceremonies that made her feel loved, the sharp edges of her fears, the hidden softness behind her wit, and every private constellation that made up the universe of Jamila Vermont.

He would not rush her to the altar simply because his heart had already run there barefoot.

He would not place his certainty around her neck like a chain and call it devotion.

He would become steady enough for her to lean on, patient enough for her to trust, humble enough to be corrected, tender enough to be safe, and strong enough to stand beside her without trying to stand over her.

That was the vow beneath the vow, the one no god could witness because it was carved too deep for heaven to see, and as the night moved around them like dark water, as Jamila’s breath softened and the universe seemed to hold its own, Jack rested his forehead against hers and felt his whole future gather itself into one luminous point.

Her.

Always her.

Not because she had been promised to him by fate, not because myth or moonlight or desire had made the choice for them, but because in a world full of noise and ruin and brief, forgettable things, Jamila felt like the one truth he would spend the rest of his life proving himself worthy of keeping.

He remembered when he lost part of his leg during his time at war; it had been fifteen years now, fifteen whole years of scar tissue and prosthetic fittings and phantom aches that came with rain or exhaustion or memory, and still he remembered it with the bright, cruel clarity of yesterday, as if the wound had never truly closed but had simply learned manners, as if it had dressed itself in skin and time and let the world believe it had stopped bleeding.

Apparently army medics were not exempt from becoming casualties themselves, and Jack had learned that lesson not from textbooks or triage drills or the clean theoretical language of trauma training, but from the dirt, from the smoke, from the terrible red arithmetic of war, from a field where the earth had split open like some ancient god had struck it in anger and demanded payment in flesh.

He remembered the sky most of all.

That was the part that haunted him strangely, not the shouting, not the burning metal, not the sharp medical voices in his ear, but the sky above him, wide and blue and indifferent, an impossible dome of heaven stretched over the ugliest hour of his life, and he remembered thinking that the gods had always been cruel in the old stories, always watching men break themselves against war and love and destiny, always asking for a limb here, a heart there, a wife turned to shadow, a son sent across the sea, a soldier dragged home in pieces.

He remembered thinking, absurdly, stupidly, with blood in his mouth and his hands trying to do their work even when his body had become the emergency, that Jamila was going to leave him.

Not because she was shallow, not because she was cruel, not because she had ever once loved him in a way that depended on him being whole by anyone else’s definition, but because fear was not rational when it found a man already on the floor; fear was a vulture, circling low and patient, whispering the ugliest things in his own voice until they sounded like truth.

Good fucking job, pal, he remembered thinking, bitter and delirious and so furious at himself he could hardly breathe. You didn’t deserve her to begin with, and now she’s surely going to leave your ass.

He remembered all of it, the shame most of all, the hot, suffocating shame that rose in him before the grief even had language, because Jack had always known how to be useful, had known how to be steady, had known how to stand between disaster and the people he loved, and suddenly his own body had become a country after invasion, its map redrawn without his permission, borders broken, landmarks missing, the familiar terrain of himself turned foreign under his hands.

He wanted Jamila more than he wanted air.

And he did not want her anywhere near him.

That contradiction nearly killed him more thoroughly than the injury had, because the person who could soothe his woes most was the very person he could not bear to see, the woman whose hands had always known how to find the ache beneath his armor, whose voice could call him back from any ledge, whose love had once made him feel larger than fear, and yet the idea of her walking into that hospital room and seeing him reduced, altered, lessened — God, the word made him hate himself even as he thought it — felt like staring down a second battlefield.

He had imagined her face before she arrived, and his mind, being a cruel and gifted enemy, painted every version designed to ruin him.

He imagined pity.

He imagined shock.

He imagined her trying to hide grief too quickly, her smile trembling at the edges, her eyes falling where his leg no longer was and then lifting with too much effort, too much kindness, too much careful mercy, and he thought that if Jamila looked at him like something to be handled gently because it had been broken, he would not survive it.

He could take pain.

He could take blood.

He could take surgeons, morphine, military doctors speaking in clipped tones over him as if his body were a report they had to file by morning.

But he could not take Jamila’s pity.

He could not take being loved out of obligation by the woman he had once promised the moon to with twenty-two-year-old arrogance and a second-date ring size tucked in the secret chambers of his memory.

He remembered hearing her before he saw her.

That was Jamila all over, arriving not like a storm exactly, but like weather the earth had been warned about, like pressure gathering over the sea, like thunder still beyond the horizon but already making every living thing lift its head. He heard the sharp rhythm of her heels first, then her voice cutting through the sterile quiet of the ward with that polished, dangerous sweetness she used when she was one inconvenience away from ruining somebody’s afternoon.

He remembered hearing her before he saw her.

Not clearly at first, not as a voice with words and edges, but as a force moving through the corridor outside his hospital room, as unmistakable as thunder rolling over black water, as familiar as the moon dragging the tide toward shore whether the sea was ready or not. Even through the haze of pain medicine, even through the sterile hush of machines and the thick, shameful fog of his own fear, Jack knew that voice before his mind could fully hold it.

Jamila.

“Jack. Jack Abbot. I’m looking for my husband.”

Her voice was controlled, which somehow made it worse for everyone involved, because Jamila Vermont-Abbott did not need to shout to become dangerous; she had never been the kind of woman who mistook volume for power, and even then, even frantic, even terrified, she spoke with the sharp precision of a blade drawn slowly from its sheath.

“Yes, I am aware he doesn’t want any visitors,” she said, each word polished smooth with false patience, the sort of patience that promised ruin if tested one second longer. “And I’m also aware that you are standing between me and the man I married, Curtis, so either you let me see him, or I’m going to make your wife aware of your extracurricular activities.”

Jack closed his eyes.

Even half-broken, even with his body remade by war and his pride lying somewhere in the dust beside what he had lost, some stunned, horrified part of him thought, I told her that in confidence.

Of course she had remembered.

Of course she had stored it somewhere behind those pretty brown eyes like a queen keeping a dagger beneath her silk, not because she was cruel, but because Jamila believed information was a tool and fools were merely people who did not know how to use what they had been given. She had always been like that, brilliant and ruthless when necessary, sunlight with teeth, warmth with a warning label, the kind of woman who could kiss softness into a man’s forehead and then reduce an obstacle to ash without ever raising her voice.

There was a pause outside the door.

A small one.

The kind men took when they realized the woman in front of them had not come to negotiate, but to collect what belonged to her heart.

Jack could almost see Curtis through the wall, could imagine the blood draining from his face, could imagine the nurse at the desk pretending not to listen, could imagine Jamila standing there with her coat still on, hair probably pulled back in a rush, eyes bright with fear and fury, looking less like a worried wife and more like Hera herself descending from Olympus to remind mortals what happened when they confused protocol with authority.

And God help him, beneath all the shame and terror and pain, Jack loved her so violently in that moment that it nearly split him open all over again.

And God help him, beneath all the shame and terror and pain, Jack loved her so violently in that moment that it nearly split him open all over again.

Because only Jamila would arrive at a military hospital with fear clawing its way up her throat, with her husband lying somewhere behind a closed door and the worst day of their marriage unfolding in sterile white light, and still have the presence of mind to weaponize a man named Curtis’s infidelity like she was pulling a blade from her garter at a dinner party, polite as a duchess, deadly as Athena stepping fully armed from Zeus’s skull.

There was another pause, then a low male voice, nervous now, muffled through the door but not muffled enough to hide the surrender in it.

“Mrs. Abbot, I really don’t think—”

“You don’t need to think, Curtis, that’s clearly been part of the problem.”

Jack would have laughed if his ribs had not hurt, if his throat had not been tight, if the lower half of his body did not feel like a foreign country after war had burned the borders and left him stranded in the ash, but even then, even there, the smallest, most battered part of him stirred at the sound of her, because Jamila had always had that effect on him, always reached through whatever fog he was lost in and tugged him back by the soul.

Outside, someone cleared their throat, someone else shifted, and then Curtis, poor foolish Curtis, who had once spoken too freely to Jack during a late-night smoke break and assumed a married man would not repeat another man’s sins to his wife, finally seemed to understand that Jamila Abbott had not flown all the way here to be reasonable.

The door handle moved.

Jack’s heart stopped.

It was a strange thing, to have survived the blast, the blood loss, the hands pressing down on him, the morphine, the doctors talking over what remained and what could not be saved, only to feel, at the turning of a simple metal handle, that he had reached the true edge of himself.

He wanted her.

God, he wanted her so badly it felt animal, humiliating, almost holy, the way a man lost at sea wanted the first glimpse of land, the way Orpheus must have wanted one forbidden glance, the way every tide in the world wanted the moon even though the moon never came close enough to hold.

And yet he wanted the door to stay closed forever.

Because if Jamila crossed that threshold, then the thing he had been dreading would become real in a way even the wound itself had not made real, and she would see him not as memory, not as voice over a dropped call, not as a husband preserved in the bright amber of before, but as he was now, bandaged and battered and changed, with part of his body gone and the rest of him drowning in the ugly belief that war had finally revealed what he had feared all along, that he had never deserved someone like her and now had the evidence to prove it.

The door opened.

For one breath, no one moved.

Jamila stood in the doorway like a figure from myth, not fragile with grief but lit from within by it, her coat still buttoned wrong as if she had dressed faster than her hands could manage, her hair pulled back with several curls escaping around her face, her eyes dark and furious and wet, and behind her, Curtis lingered like a man who had just met Nemesis in a pencil skirt and regretted every decision that had led him there.

Jack saw her see the room first.

The machines.

The wires.

The bruises.

The bandages.

The emptiness beneath the sheet where there should have been shape.

He saw the storm pass over her face so quickly anyone else might have missed it, saw the flash of horror, not at him but at what had been done to him, saw the grief slam into her ribs and nearly fold her in half, saw her swallow it down with brutal discipline because Jamila, even in devastation, understood that this moment could not be about making him hold her fear when he could barely hold his own.

Then her eyes found his.

Not his leg.

Not the wound.

Him.

And Jack, who had spent hours imagining pity, revulsion, obligation, sorrow too heavy to bear, was completely unprepared for the simple, devastating fact of being recognized.

“Jack,” she said, and his name in her mouth was not a gasp or a cry or a funeral bell, but an anchor dropped into black water, something heavy enough to hold.

He turned his head away.

He hated himself the second he did it, hated the cowardice of it, hated that this woman had crossed oceans of fear to find him and he could not even give her his eyes, but shame was a hand around his throat and grief was a second body in the bed with him, and he could not bear the tenderness coming toward him, could not bear the possibility that her love might soften because softness, in that moment, felt too close to mercy.

“Leave,” he said, though the word broke so badly it sounded nothing like an order.

The room went still.

Behind Jamila, Curtis made the fatal mistake of breathing like he might speak.

Without turning around, Jamila lifted one finger.

Curtis shut his mouth.

Even ruined, Jack noticed.

Even heartbroken, even half-sedated, even lying there with his whole future split open like earth after a quake, Jack saw his wife silence a grown man with one hand and thought, stupidly and helplessly, That’s my girl.

Then she stepped into the room and closed the door behind her.

Not softly.

Not gently.

With finality.

Like a queen sealing a chamber before judgment.

“Don’t do that,” she said.

Jack stared at the wall, jaw locked so hard pain flared along his face. “I said leave.”

“I heard what you said.”

“Then why are you still here?”

“Because you are on drugs, traumatized, and acting stupid, so I’m weighing your request accordingly.”

A laugh tried to climb out of him and died somewhere behind his ribs, turning into something uglier, something wet and furious and too close to a sob.

“Jamila.”

“No,” she said, and he heard her coming closer, heard the careful drag of the visitor’s chair, heard the rustle of her coat as she sat beside him but did not touch him yet, because even furious, even terrified, she loved him with enough intelligence to know that some wounds needed permission before hands could come near them. “No, you don’t get to use that voice on me, Jack Abbott, not after you made me threaten Curtis in front of half this damn floor.”

He closed his eyes, and despite everything, despite the pain gnawing through him, despite the shame coiled low and poisonous in his stomach, his mouth moved with the ghost of a smile.

“I told you that in confidence.”

“And I held it in confidence,” she replied, calm as a priestess tending temple fire, “until confidence became less important than access.”

“That’s blackmail.”

“That is marriage.”

This time the sound that escaped him was almost laughter, small and broken and painful, but laughter still, and Jamila heard it the way a farmer heard the first rain strike dry land, the way sailors heard gulls after months of nothing but sea, the way Persephone must have heard spring waiting beneath the frozen earth.

“There you are,” she murmured.

The tenderness in those three words undid him more than the teasing had, and he clenched his eyes tighter because he could feel himself slipping, feel the armor cracking, feel the terrible need in him rising like tide under a full moon, dragging him toward her when every frightened part of him wanted to stay stranded on the shore.

“Don’t,” he whispered.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t look at me like that.”

Jamila was quiet for a moment, and then he felt her lean forward, not touching, only near enough that the space between them warmed with her presence.

“Like what?”

He swallowed, and the words tasted like blood and humiliation. “Like you feel sorry for me.”

The silence that followed was so complete he heard the monitor beside him, heard the soft mechanical proof that his heart was still doing its work despite the fact that he would have sworn it had fallen apart somewhere in the field with the rest of him.

Then Jamila laughed once, softly, but there was no humor in it.

“Oh, Jack,” she said, and the sorrow in her voice was not pity but grief sharpened by love. “You arrogant, hardheaded man.”

His eyes opened despite himself.

He turned just enough to see her.

She was sitting beside him with her coat still on, hands clasped tightly in her lap, knuckles pale from the effort of not reaching for him before he was ready, and her face was wet now, though her posture remained straight, regal, unbroken, as if Hera had learned to cry without surrendering the throne.

“I don’t feel sorry for you,” she said, each word quiet and deliberate, the way she spoke when she wanted him to hear her beneath his own noise. “I am sorry this happened to you, and I am sorry you are hurting, and I am sorry war took something from you that it had no right to touch, but I do not feel sorry for you like you are less than the man I married.”

His throat tightened so violently he almost could not breathe.

“You haven’t seen all of it.”

“I have seen you.”

“No,” he said, sharper now, because panic had teeth and it bit first. “You’ve seen the room, you’ve seen the monitors, you’ve seen enough to make a speech, but you have not seen all of it, Jamila.”

Her eyes did flicker then, briefly, toward the sheet.

Jack saw it and hated himself for watching.

He braced for the flinch.

It never came.

Her gaze returned to his face, steady as moonlight over dark fields.

“Then I will see it when you’re ready,” she said.

“And if I’m never ready?”

“Then I will still be your wife while you are not ready.”

He stared at her.

Something in his chest gave way, not fully, not enough to free him, but enough for the pressure to hurt differently.

“You say that now.”

Jamila’s eyebrows rose, and the room changed temperature.

“I’m sorry?”

He knew that tone.

Any other day, any other room, any other universe, he would have apologized immediately for invoking it, because Jamila’s I’m sorry? had ended arguments, corrected waiters, humbled insurance representatives, and once made his commanding officer reconsider a sentence he had technically been allowed to finish.

But he was hurt, and fear made him cruel in the way wounded animals became cruel, not because they wanted to bite the hand reaching for them but because they had forgotten any other way to stop the pain from being seen.

“You say that now,” he repeated, voice rough and low. “While it’s fresh, while everybody’s calling me brave, while you’re relieved I’m not dead, but months from now, when I’m angry and difficult and can’t do half the things I used to, when you’re tired of helping me, when you wake up and remember you married a man who came back in pieces—”

“Careful,” she said.

The word cracked through the room like lightning over open sea.

Jack stopped.

Jamila leaned forward, and now there was fire in her eyes, bright and old and righteous, the kind that had once sent goddesses into battle and turned mortal women into legends men were smart enough to fear.

“You can be angry,” she said. “You can be devastated, you can be terrified, you can grieve what you lost, you can curse God, the army, the doctors, the whole damn sky if you need to, and I will sit here and hear every ugly part of it because I love you, but you do not get to put words in my mouth so you can abandon yourself before you think I have the chance to do it.”

Jack looked away, but her voice followed him like tide around rock.

“You do not get to decide that my love is shallow just because your fear is loud.”

His eyes burned.

“And you do not get to call my husband a man who came back in pieces like the rest of him is not lying right in front of me breathing, stubborn, rude, and apparently still committed to hurting my feelings before breakfast.”

A broken sound left him then, half laugh and half sob, and he turned his face away harder, as if the wall could offer mercy she would not.

Jamila’s voice softened.

“There he is again.”

“Stop saying that,” he whispered.

“No.”

“Jamila.”

“No, because you keep disappearing on me right in front of my face, and I’m going to keep calling you back until you remember where you are.”

He shut his eyes, and in the darkness behind them he saw the blast again, saw earth and fire, saw the sky, saw hands, saw red, saw the impossible distance between the man he had been and the man he was terrified he had become.

“I don’t know where I am,” he admitted, so quietly it almost disappeared beneath the monitor.

Jamila’s breath caught.

For the first time since she entered the room, the queenly composure cracked clean through.

“Oh, baby,” she whispered.

And that was what did it.

Not the threats, not the jokes, not the fierce correction, not even the vow that she was still his wife, but that soft, old, intimate endearment slipping out of her like a hand reaching into the dark, the same voice she used when he came home exhausted, when fever made him restless, when grief sat too heavy on his shoulders, when he pretended he did not need care because needing care made him feel too human.

His face crumpled before he could stop it.

He turned toward her as much as his body allowed, the movement sending a white flash of pain through him, but he did not care, because suddenly she was standing, suddenly she was there, and when her hands came to him at last they came carefully, one to his cheek and one to the back of his head, gentle around every bruise, every wire, every place the doctors had marked and measured.

“I’m here,” she said, bending over him until her forehead touched his, until the scent of her skin cut through antiseptic and medicine and war, warm and familiar and impossibly alive. “I’m right here.”

Jack made a sound he would never be able to describe, something dragged from the bottom of him, from the place men buried terror and called it discipline, and Jamila held his face as his tears came with no dignity at all.

He hated it.

He needed it.

He had never needed anything more.

“I wanted you,” he confessed, the words breaking against her fingers. “I wanted you so bad, Mila.”

“I know.”

“But I couldn’t—” His breath hitched, and he gripped the sheet because he could not grip her too hard, would not make his pain a cage around her. “I couldn’t let you see me.”

“I know.”

“I thought you’d—”

“Don’t say leave,” she whispered, her own tears slipping now, falling onto the blanket between them like rain over scorched earth. “Do not give that word a shape in this room.”

He swallowed it down.

The silence held them.

Then, after a long moment, he breathed, “I thought you’d look at me and wish I hadn’t come back like this.”

Jamila went utterly still.

Not cold.

Not distant.

Still in the way the sea went still before a storm decided whether to spare the shore or swallow it.

When she spoke, her voice trembled with so much love it was almost unbearable.

“Jack, I thanked God you came back before I knew what came back with you.”

His eyes opened.

She was looking directly at him, tears on her cheeks, mouth firm, gaze unflinching, and in that moment she looked less like a woman made of flesh and more like something conjured from every faithful thing in creation, lighthouse and hearth flame, harvest moon and summer rain, Penelope at the loom and Aphrodite rising from the sea with the kind of beauty that made men foolish enough to believe the gods were kind.

“I thanked God when they told me you were alive,” she said. “I thanked God when I got on the plane, and I thanked God in the car, and I thanked God in that hallway while Curtis was fighting for his life and his marriage, because whatever war took, whatever it changed, whatever it left us to learn, it failed to take you from me.”

Jack stared at her.

His whole body shook once, hard enough to hurt.

Jamila kissed his forehead, then his temple, then the bridge of his nose, each kiss careful and reverent, each one landing like a star being placed back into a ruined sky.

“You are not inferior,” she whispered against his skin. “You are not less my husband. You are not less a man. You are not a burden I am politely accepting because I once made vows in a pretty dress. You are Jack Abbot, who took me ring shopping on the second date like a lunatic, who cannot season chicken unless supervised, who keeps putting things on the wrong side of the bathroom sink, who thinks I don’t notice when he stares at me, who loves like he’s trying to build a cathedral with his bare hands, and I am not leaving you in this bed, in this grief, or in your own head.”

A weak, shattered laugh escaped him. “I can season chicken.”

“No, you cannot.”

“Mila.”

“Not the point, but still true.”

He laughed again, and it hurt so much he winced, and Jamila immediately shifted, concern flashing over her face.

“Careful,” she murmured.

“You made me laugh.”

“You needed to.”

“I’m injured.”

“You’re also dramatic.”

His mouth trembled.

She saw that too.

She always saw.

“Come here,” she said, though he could not, not really, so she came to him instead, sitting on the edge of the bed where the nurses would probably fuss later, gathering as much of him as the wires and bandages allowed, and Jack leaned into her like a man collapsing against the only wall left standing after an earthquake.

Her hand found his hair.

Of course it did.

Even there, even then, before rosemary oil and gray curls and a sleeping child in the next room, her fingers slipped into his hair and began that slow, soothing motion against his scalp, the one that made his breathing change, the one that made something in him unclench no matter how stubbornly he resisted it.

He closed his eyes.

For the first time since the blast, the room did not feel like an underworld.

It felt like a threshold.

Not safe, not yet, not healed, not whole in the easy way people used the word when they wanted suffering to become inspirational quickly, but possible.

Jamila did that.

She did not erase the dark.

She stood in it with him until his eyes adjusted.

“I’m scared,” he said into her coat, the admission muffled and stripped bare.

Her fingers paused only for a second before continuing.

“I know.”

“I don’t know how to do this.”

“Then we’ll learn.”

“I might hate myself for a while.”

“Then I will love you loud enough for both of us until you remember how.”

He broke again then, quietly this time, not the first violent collapse but a softer grief, the kind that came when a man realized he did not have to perform bravery in order to be kept.

Jamila held him through it.

She held him as machines blinked and hummed, as footsteps moved outside, as the sky beyond the window darkened from blue to violet to the deep black of space, and somewhere above them, unseen behind hospital glass and city light, the stars burned on with their ancient indifference, not knowing that in one small room below, a man had thought himself abandoned by every version of the future and a woman had walked in with a threat on her tongue and devotion in her hands.

After a long while, when his breathing had steadied and exhaustion pulled at him like undertow, Jack opened his eyes and found her still watching him.

Not pitying.

Watching.

Guarding.

Loving.

“You really threatened Curtis?” he murmured.

Jamila’s mouth curved, and there she was again, his girl beneath the grief, sharp as ever, soft only where it mattered most.

“I gave him options.”

“You threatened his marriage.”

“I encouraged transparency.”

“You are terrifying.”

“I am your wife.”

His eyes filled again, though this time the tears did not feel quite as much like defeat.

“Yeah,” he whispered.

Her expression gentled.

“Yeah.”

He turned his face into her palm and kissed it, barely, because even that small movement cost him, but he needed the contact like a sailor needed the North Star, like earth needed rain, like the moon needed darkness to be seen.

“I love you,” he said.

Jamila’s thumb moved over his cheek, catching the tear there before it reached his jaw.

“I know.”

His mouth twitched. “You’re supposed to say it back.”

“I flew here, threatened a man with adultery exposure, bullied my way past hospital staff, and sat on this bed after you told me to leave, but yes, Jack, for clarity, I love you too.”

He laughed, hoarse and broken and alive.

Jamila smiled through her tears.

And now, twenty years later, with their son sleeping in the next room and the house wrapped in that particular blue-black quiet that only came after midnight, Jack stared at his wife with reverence, with all the love the world had ever managed to make and then some borrowed from the stars, his gray curls still damp from the oil she had worked into them with patient fingers, rosemary and cloves and some mysterious blend of herbs she had been mixing since the first year she knew him, because apparently Jamila Vermont-Abbot had decided at twenty years old that war, medicine, time, stress, and genetics could take many things from her husband, but they were not taking his hair if she had breath in her body and castor oil in her cabinet.

Twenty-three years of her hands in his hair, twenty-three years of her skin against his, twenty-three years of waking beside her and coming home to her and watching seasons pass across her face like sunlight over open water, and still Jack could not get enough of her, because how could he, when every year had only made her more impossible to survive, when age had not dulled her but deepened her, when she had become richer and warmer and more dangerous with time, like land after rain, like wine sealed in dark glass, like the moon growing full over a restless sea.

She sat between his legs on the edge of their bed, her own bonnet forgotten beside her, her hands glistening faintly from the oil she had just rubbed into his scalp, her house dress loose around her body and one shoulder slipping low enough to make him question every respectable thought he had ever pretended to possess. The lamp on her bedside table cast a honeyed glow over her brown skin, softening the line of her cheek, catching the small silver thread near her temple that she kept pretending was not there, and Jack, who had stitched arteries, delivered babies, survived war zones, and stood over more operating tables than he cared to count, found himself undone by the simple sight of his wife wiping oil from her fingers with a towel.

“Boy, you keep starin’ at me, I’mma have to call somebody.”

Her voice was low so she would not wake Miles, but the warning still carried enough heat and humor to make Jack’s mouth curve, because twenty years of marriage had taught him that Jamila’s threats were often love notes wearing church shoes and an attitude.

“Who you calling?” he asked, his voice rough with tiredness and something softer, something that had been following her around the room all night like tide following the moon.

“Somebody with authority.”

“I’m an attending physician.”

“You are a man sitting on my bed looking at me like you’ve lost your mind.”

“I lost it in 2003.”

Jamila paused with the towel in her hand, her brows rising as she gave him the look, the one that had humbled interns, contractors, bad customer service representatives, and Jack Abbot himself at least twice a week for over two decades.

“You think you’re cute.”

“No,” he said, leaning back on his hands, watching her as though she were still twenty years old beneath jewelry store lights, still laughing with one dimple showing while he quietly planned a lifetime around her ring size. “I think you’re cute.”

“Mmhm.”

“I think you’re beautiful too, but you get suspicious when I lead with that.”

“That’s because you only start talking like that when you want something.”

Jack’s smile turned slow.

“Jamila, I always want something from you.”

She tossed the towel at his chest, and he caught it with one hand, laughing under his breath as she tried to look offended and failed so badly that her mouth betrayed her at the corner.

“See, that right there,” she whispered, pointing at him. “That’s why I don’t let you oil your own scalp anymore, because you get too comfortable when I’m nice to you.”

“You never let me oil my own scalp because you said I don’t massage properly.”

“You don’t.”

“I follow instructions.”

“You follow medical instructions,” she said, standing to put the bottle back on the dresser, hips moving with the unhurried confidence of a woman who had long ago learned that her husband was weak and had made peace with using it against him. “Hair is different.”

Jack watched her cross the room, and the years collapsed inside him all at once, not disappearing, not being erased, but gathering into a single constellation of memory: Jamila at twenty with her face tilted toward a tray of rings, Jamila at twenty-five asleep beside his hospital textbooks with a laptop open on her knees, Jamila crying angry tears when he left for deployment and refusing to let him see her wipe them, Jamila learning the shape of his grief after he came home changed, Jamila helping him relearn parts of his own body with a tenderness that never once made him feel pitied, Jamila pregnant with Miles and cussing him out between contractions while he stood there half-doctor and half-terrified husband, Jamila holding their son for the first time with sweat on her brow and heaven in her eyes.

All of her lived in the woman before him now.

Every version.

Every year.

Every battle.

Every blessing.

“You know,” he said quietly, and something in his tone made her slow before she turned around, “I used to think loving you would get easier to explain the longer I did it.”

Jamila leaned back against the dresser, arms folding over her chest, her expression softening in spite of herself.

“And?”

“And I was wrong.”

The room seemed to shift around the confession, the shadows along the walls stretching like dark water, the moon beyond the curtains laying its silver hand over the floor as though Selene herself had paused her chariot to listen.

Jack sat forward, elbows on his knees, the lamplight catching in his full head of gray curls, the same curls she had saved with oils, patience, threats, and love, and he looked at her with such bare devotion that Jamila’s smile faded into something quieter.

“I understood it better when I was twenty-two,” he said, his voice low enough not to disturb the sleeping child down the hall, yet deep enough to settle into the room like thunder far over the sea. “Back then, it was simple because I didn’t know anything, so all I had was certainty, and that certainty was loud enough to make me brave, stupid enough to take you ring shopping on the second date, arrogant enough to swear to every god that would listen that you were going to be my wife.”

Jamila’s eyes warmed at that, because she remembered that boy, remembered the serious set of his jaw, remembered the ridiculous audacity of him opening her car door outside a jewelry store like the world had not lost its whole mind, remembered thinking he was insane and then, privately, dangerously, wondering why his insanity made her feel so seen.

“And now?” she asked.

Jack looked at her as if the answer cost him something beautiful.

“Now I know better, and somehow I’m worse.”

Her breath caught softly.

He stood then, slow because the day had been long and his body carried its histories in old scars and quiet aches, but there was still something deeply commanding about the way he moved toward her, not with the cockiness of a young man trying to impress but with the gravity of a husband who had crossed half a lifetime to stand in front of the same woman and still felt like he was approaching an altar.

“Now I know what loving you means,” he said, stopping close enough that she had to tilt her chin to keep his eyes. “It means your bonnet on my pillow, your lotion on my side of the sink, your cold feet under my leg, your laptop cords everywhere, your tea going cold because you start arguing with the news, your mouth fussing at me while your hands are fixing whatever hurts, your voice in my ear when I’m too deep in my own head, your face across from me at breakfast, your rings on the dish by the bed, your hair in the shower drain, your fingerprints all over every part of my life.”

Jamila stared up at him, her arms loosening, her defenses lowering one by one like sails folding after a storm.

“And I still don’t know how to explain it,” he continued, softer now, his hand lifting to brush the silver-threaded curl near her temple with the kind of tenderness that made her heart turn over. “Because it isn’t one thing anymore, honey, it’s everything, it’s the whole damn sky, it’s land and sea and weather, it’s the moon pulling at water it never has to touch to move, it’s Demeter grieving the earth barren and bringing spring back when her girl returns, it’s Odysseus refusing immortality because a goddess could offer him eternity and still not be home.”

Jamila swallowed, and because she was Jamila, because she could be moved down to the bone and still refuse to let him fully win, she whispered, “You been reading again?”

Jack smiled, but his eyes stayed serious.

“Only because you told me twenty years ago that a man with no books in his house was a red flag.”

“I said that?”

“You did.”

“Well, I was right.”

“You usually are.”

“Usually?”

His hand settled at her waist, warm and familiar, respectful until she leaned into it, which she did, because twenty years of marriage had not made her immune to him any more than living beside the sea made a person immune to the sound of waves.

“Always,” he corrected.

“That’s better.”

He bent his head, not quite kissing her yet, just hovering close enough that the space between them became charged, alive, full of all the things they had been saying to each other for two decades without needing words.

Jamila’s hand rose to his hair again, her fingers slipping into the oiled curls at the nape of his neck, and Jack’s eyes closed for a second as if she had put him under some old spell, as if Circe herself had brewed nothing half as potent as his wife touching his scalp in a bedroom that smelled faintly of rosemary, cocoa butter, sleep, and home.

“You keep touching my hair like that,” he murmured, “and you’re going to have to call somebody for real.”

Jamila’s smile came back, slow and wicked enough to make him twenty-two again in all the worst ways.

“Boy, please.”

“I’m serious.”

“You are always serious.”

“Not always.”

“With me you are.”

He opened his eyes, and the yearning in them was not young anymore, not frantic or untested or hungry without wisdom, but grown and rooted and impossibly tender, like an old olive tree gripping the side of a cliff above the Aegean, weathered by salt and sun and still green with life.

“With you,” he said, “I learned what serious was.”

That shut her up.

Only for a moment, but Jack loved the moment because he had earned it across years, across bills and surgeries and grief and parenthood and arguments about counters and laundry and who moved whose things, across nights when they did not like each other very much but loved each other too deeply to leave the room without reaching back.

Jamila reached for him then, both hands sliding from his hair to his face, her thumbs moving over his cheeks with the same care she had given him when they were young, when he came home exhausted, when pain made him short-tempered, when fatherhood scared him, when the hospital took too much and left him quiet in the doorway.

“You still look at me like that,” she said, and her voice had gone smaller, not weak, never weak, but honest in a way she rarely allowed herself to be without teasing around it. “After all this time.”

Jack turned his face and kissed the inside of her palm, lingering there as if the lines of her hand were scripture.

“I see you better now.”

Her eyes shone.

“Jack.”

“I do,” he said, because once the truth started in him there was no stopping it, not with her standing there soft and warm and beloved beneath his hands. “Back then, I saw the sun and thought that was all there was to worship, but now I know you’re the whole system, Jamila, you are morning and eclipse and harvest moon, you are coastline and deep water, you are the storm and the harbor after it, you are every season I have survived and every season I still want.”

She closed her eyes briefly, shaking her head like the words were too much and exactly enough.

“You cannot just say things like that to me at one in the morning.”

“I have to say them when Miles is asleep because he keeps interrupting me.”

At that, she laughed, pressing her forehead into his chest to muffle the sound, and Jack wrapped his arms around her immediately, holding her with that old instinct that had never left him, the one that said her body belonged safe against his not because he owned it but because he had spent half his life being trusted with the privilege of sheltering it.

They stood there in the quiet, swaying without music, though Jack had always thought their love made its own, something with low strings and brass and soft percussion, something composed of her laugh, his breathing, Miles turning over in the next room, the hum of the refrigerator, the distant hush of traffic, the moonlight on the floor.

“You need to sleep,” Jamila whispered against him.

“I know.”

“You worked all night.”

“I know.”

“You have clinic tomorrow afternoon.”

“I know.”

“And yet here you are, being dramatic in my face.”

Jack smiled into her hair.

“I missed you.”

“I was here.”

“That doesn’t mean I didn’t miss you.”

She pulled back enough to look at him, and the softness in her expression nearly undid him more thoroughly than any seduction could have.

“Come to bed then,” she said.

It was not grand.

It was not mythic.

It was not Shakespearean tragedy or Greek ruin or moon dragging oceans across the earth.

It was better.

It was Jamila turning down the lamp, Jamila tugging him toward the bed by two fingers hooked in his shirt, Jamila fussing at him to put a towel on the pillow because she had just oiled his scalp and she was not washing that pillowcase again, Jamila climbing beneath the covers with a sigh while he followed her as if he had been made for nothing else but finding his way back to her in the dark.

And when he settled beside her, when she tucked herself against him with the easy entitlement of a woman who had slept beside him for twenty years and still somehow fit like the final piece of creation sliding into place, Jack stared at the ceiling for a moment and felt the old vow rise in him again, not as desperate as it had been at twenty-two, not as feverish, not as startled by its own certainty, but deeper now, carved into him by time.

Jamila would be the love of his life.

She had been.

She was.

She would remain.

And when she pinched his side beneath the covers and muttered, “Stop thinking so loud,” Jack laughed quietly, kissed her forehead, and held her closer, grateful beyond language that the gods, the stars, the sea, or whatever ancient force had once pulled the sun and moon into eclipse had seen fit to leave him here, twenty years later, with rosemary oil in his hair, his son sleeping down the hall, and his whole universe breathing against his chest.

It was making Joe worry how much you were taking on while also being a present wife and mother as he stared at you knocked out on the couch opposite of him as you had fallen asleep mid conversation.

And trying to balance everything else going on in your life, he took notice of you failing miserably.

Your attempt to do everything had been good for a while, but when more things started to pile up on your plate, it proved to be more difficult than you had originally anticipated.

Kiran was now fourteen months old and walking and getting into every possible thing around the house. As the two of you previously discussed, you began to work part time from home and would slowly make the transition of being full time when he was officially old enough to go to school.

If you happened to get pregnant again, the plan was to do the same thing all over.

But truth be told the stay at home mom life was looking more appealing every day.

Joe had an idea but knowing how his wife was, he knew you probably weren't going to go for it.

However, he would bring up the idea to you anyway. For now, Kiran was occupied as Joe was playing with him while you were still out of it.

Once you fluttered your eyes open, that was all Kiran had to see as he jumped off of Joe and ran across the living room to you.

He didn't even bother waiting for you to help him up onto the couch and did it himself. When he was satisfied with being right up under you with your noses touching, he turned his face to kiss your cheek and snuggled up to you making you smile.

“Hi KK.” You said as you slowly rubbed his back.

“Damn, he just forgot about me over here.” Joe commented and you let out a laugh.

“You know that he switches back and forth about who his favorite parent is.” You replied as Kiran smirked at Joe and hugged you tighter.

“Babe…”

“Yes?”

“I want to suggest something, but just listen to me before you say no.” Joe told you as you looked over at him.

“What is it?”

“That I was thinking we could use a nanny.”

“No.” You immediately responded, not even giving him a chance to explain.

“Babe! Just listen to me for a minute.”

“Your sixty seconds start now Joseph.” You replied as you slowly sat up and took Kiran with you.

“It'll help take some of the pressure off of you. You're constantly running around and trying to keep up with everything. I know you're stubborn as hell, but baby we could use the help. You're starting to work more and take on more patients and I don't want you to burn yourself out.”

“I'm fine, Joey.”

“You literally fell asleep in the middle of a conversation with me earlier. You are in fact not fine.” He shot back and you immediately frowned.

“I'm just a little tired. No harm in that.”

“Yeah, I noticed and you would be less tired if you went with my suggestion.”

“I don't know how Kiran will adjust. He's literally always around us and no one else. Who knows if it will be good for him?”

“He's our child and will adjust just fine. I'm really starting to worry about you. Can you just think about it before giving me your final answer?” Joe pleaded with you as you sighed and slowly nodded your head.

“Okay, I'll think about it.”

“Thank you.” Joe replied before getting up and coming over to lean down to place several kisses on your lips, much to Kiran's protest who tried to push Joe away.

“Uh? Excuse me little man, if it wasn't for me loving on your mother, you wouldn't be here.” Joe told him and all he did was give him a blank stare.

You laughed as you looked down at Kiran and thoughts began running through your head.

It honestly wouldn't be a bad idea and you would be able to focus a little bit more on your patients and get an adequate amount of sleep.

Because right now you couldn't remember a night where you slept for more than four or five hours.

“Joey?”

“Mmm?”

“If I say yes, do we have any recommendations of who to get?”

“I can ask around and see if anyone knows anybody and then I'll let you know. We'll interview them and then make a final decision.”

“Hopefully it's someone that will fit right in with us. Please don't make me regret saying yes to you about this.”

—

Gabriela.

That was her name and she was quickly being added to your shit list.

She interviewed extremely well and you and Joe both saw nothing but green flags.

Now she was about six months in, making Kiran twenty months old when something deep in your gut started not to feel right. You couldn't quite put your finger on it but her interactions that she had with you seemed as if you were annoying her when you asked her to do something.

But with Joe, she was all smiles.

You tried to brush it off, but too many incidents had been happening and you wanted her out.

But bringing that up to Joe fell on deaf ears.

“Babe, I… there's something about her that I don't like and I want her gone.” You honestly told him one night as the two of you were laying down.

“What? I thought you were okay with having her around and now you're backing out? She's made our lives ten times easier.”

“And I will give her credit all day for the good things that she has done, but… I have a bad feeling.”

“Honestly? This might be you feeling guilty about not being around Kiran as much as you were before.”

“Joey, no it's not. I have a very bad gut feeling about her and it's never been wrong about these types of things before. Like I obviously don't know what it is, but…” You said before trailing off and Joe cut you off with a kiss.

“It's nothing, babe. I promise.” He said as he tried to reassure you, but all you did was sigh.

He wrapped his arms around you and you quickly hugged him back tighter as his hands went up and down your spine.

“Everything is finally falling into place and this is helping us more than we could have ever hoped.”

“I just… maybe I can stay home a little more so she doesn't have to be over here so much.”

“You are literally making up imaginary problems in your head about Gabriela.”

“Then Gabriela needs to change my mind about her and she is the only person that can do that. And why did you say her name like that?”

“Like what? I literally just said her name.” Joe replied, which made you roll your eyes.

“And I also don't like how close she has to get to you when the two of you are in the same room.”

“Baby, what in the world are you even talking about?”

“The way she interacts with me and the way she interacts with you is very different.”

All Joe did was look at you.

“Oh, so you don't believe me?”

“I… I don't want to say that, but I just haven't noticed things about her that you have noticed.”

“She wants you to herself I bet.” You replied and Joe's eyes went wide.

“Wants me to herself for what? I don’t want that girl.”

“Hmm, apparently she's the one who didn't get the memo so you might have to spell it out for her.”

“Spell it out how? I wear a damn ring on my finger.”

“Doesn't mean anything nowadays.”

“Well to me it does! I would never do anything to mess up what we have.”

“Then you'll fire her?” You asked as you batted your eyelashes at him.

“Baby, no. I don't have a legit reason.”

“Uh? Your legit reason is that your wife doesn't like her.”

“That isn't exactly…”

“Yes it is because I said so. Happy wife, happy life and I'm not happy right now.”

“Just… let's see how it goes. If we eventually have to do it, then we will.”

“And why not now?”

“Because we're in the middle of the season, babe. At least wait until it's over.”

“Joey, that is at least two months from now.” You whined as you lightly hit his shoulder.

“And we need her if you want to admit it or not. Let's just sleep on this, okay?”

“We can sleep on it all we want except my answer is not changing. I want her gone.”

“Would me eating you out take your mind off of it?” Joe asked as he slowly reached under the shirt you were currently wearing, which was one you stole from him and lifted it above your head.

Once he tossed it to the side, he placed several kisses on your lips and you eagerly nodded.

“Maybe a little.”

“Then come and sit on my face.”

–

Another week or so had passed and to ease your concerns, Joe spent the better part of the morning installing cameras around your house on the inside to keep a closer eye on Gabriela while she kept Kiran occupied.

They were hidden around different areas of the house and if someone walked in, they honestly wouldn't be able to tell where they were. As soon as you got back to the house from dealing with patients all day, he would show you where each one was and also install the app on your phone so that you would be able to watch the cameras wherever you were.

For now, Gabriela had just put Kiran down for a nap and made her way downstairs to leave out while Joe was reviewing film to focus on the upcoming game this week.

“Hey, he's finally down so I was going to head out. Anything else you need from me?” She asked as she gently placed her hand on his shoulder before sitting down next to him a little too close for his comfort and instantly moved away from her.

It was no secret that Joe didn't really like being touched, especially by someone he didn't particularly know that well. And she was entirely too close for his comfort.

“Oh no. I'm good, you can go. Y/N should be here soon.” He said without even bothering to glance at her.

“Well I'll be here tomorrow around seven.” She replied as she stood up from the couch and began to walk away.

She looked back to see if Joe was paying her any attention and much to her dismay, he wasn't and she instantly got a frown on her face.

“Yep, see you tomorrow.” He finally replied and waited to hear the front door close so he could finally be by himself to wait for you.

He was missing you more than usual and blamed it on it being the middle of the season and you beginning to transition back into the office for a few hours a day.

It was usually only four hours Monday through Thursday but it still took some getting used to.

Joe quickly pressed pause on the film and quickly grabbed his phone that was placed on the table in front of him.

Opening it with his pass code which happened to be your birthday, he went to his hidden folder that had a series of pictures and videos with his wife being the main character. He knew that you would be back soon, but couldn't wait any longer.

He quickly opened the one that you two were in Cabo and your back was facing him as you were riding him and he slowly began to palm himself through his boxers.

It took no time at all for him to get bricked up and pre cum slowly leaked out as he had suddenly flipped you over in the video and was pounding into you as you whimpered underneath him and begged for him not to stop.

“Fuck.” He quietly said as it slipped between his lips and he stroked himself to the sound of your voice and skin slapping against skin.

He couldn't wait until you walked through the front door so he could have his way with you and prayed that Kiran stayed asleep.

Just as Joe was about to reach his peak, he was rudely interrupted by the door opening and once again hearing Gabriela's voice which made him roll his eyes and curse to himself, seeing as he forgot to lock it.

First thing he did was lock his phone.

“Did you need something?” Joe flatly asked as he sat up and placed his hands in his lap so she couldn't see any evidence of what he had been doing.

“I just forgot my jacket. Are you okay? You look a little flushed.”

“I'm fine.”

“Are you sure? Because…”

“Yes I'm sure. Anything else?” Joe replied as he got annoyed and was trying to get his release as soon as possible.

“You know I would do absolutely anything for you, Mr. Burrow. Just name it.”

“Gabriela, I don't know how many times I tell you that you don't have to call me that.”

“I know, but I just like it.”

She walked over to the couch across from him and reached to the back of it to grab her jacket making sure her dress rode up in the back with the goal that Joe could see her red thong even though he wasn't even looking at her before promptly walking back over to him and sitting in his lap and straddling him.

“Uh!? What the hell are you doing!?”

“Giving you what your wife has been neglecting to do for you. I overheard you talking the other day. She doesn't have as much time for you as you want so I'm filling that void.”

“I… what the hell you need to do is get off me and get out of my house before I throw you out. And that is none of your business.”

“You sure? Because your body is telling me otherwise.” Gabriela replied as she had already begun to grind on him and was surprised to feel how hard he was, not knowing that the entire reasoning behind it was you.

“You want me just as bad as I want you. I can take better care of you then your wife can, just let me show you.”

“Uh let's not.”

Gabriela had him pinned and the last thing he wanted was to cause her any harm, but he needed to get her off of him as soon as possible and it looked like the only way that it was about to happen is if he pushed her off.

As soon as Joe was about to push her off, you walked into the living room and dropped the bag that you were holding in your hand which made him quickly force her off of his lap.

Once he did, he then stood up from the couch and there was no denying how hard he was and you narrowed your eyes at him.

He stood there awkwardly as you and him made eye contact before you opened your mouth.

“I fucking knew it.”

“Babe! No, it's not what it looks like! I swear!” Joe pleaded immediately as he shook his head.

This would have to fucking happen when all he wanted to do was spend time with you.

“That is the oldest saying in the fucking book, Joseph do you think I'm dumb? And as for you…” You started to say and trailed off as you were looking down at her since Joe had pushed her to the floor.

“You're lucky that I have a license to protect because if I didn't, I guarantee you that you would not have thirty two teeth sitting in your mouth right now. Get the fuck out of my house and do not ever come back.”

“I… but I need this job. This is how I pay for school!” Gabriela said as tears began to form in her eyes but all you did was roll yours.

“Should have thought about that before you did what you did. You have three seconds to get out of my sight before I drag you out.”

As Gabriela got up off the floor, you had opened the front door and held your hand out for her to give back the spare key that you and Joe had given her.

“And you won't be getting your last check so your bitch ass better not ask me for one.”

Once you closed the front door behind you, you turned around to see your husband making his way towards you and you quickly held up your hand telling him to stop.

“So other bitches get you hard that aren't me? And make pre cum leak out of you?”

“Babe…”

“Answer the FUCKING question.”

“I…”

“You were about to fuck her weren’t you?”

“No! Now would you please let me explain? I just…”

“No, because I don't want to hear it. No wonder why you wanted to keep her around and pushed so hard to do so. You've been cheating on me with her behind my back all while my child is in the house. I should have known. And you're still fucking hard now. I can't do this anymore, I'm out.” You told him as you hopped up the steps two at a time with him quickly coming right up behind you.

“You're not going anywhere until we talk about this. Because what you think happened didn't and I would never do that to you. I've told you this from day one! Just please let me explain, baby.”

“There is literally nothing you could possibly say to me right now that would make me want to stay within a ten mile radius of you.” You replied as you were throwing different clothes and shoes in your suitcase before moving to Kiran's room.

“You aren't taking my child.”

“Last time I checked, I'm the one who gave birth to him and he's OUR child and I damn sure am taking him. I don't want him near his cheating ass father.”

“I didn't cheat on you! And I never would!”

“Well your dick proved otherwise.”

You tried to be as quiet as possible, but failed as Kiran woke up as you were packing his bag while Joe stood in the doorway running his hands through his hair.

“Y/N, where are you going? You know that we have a rule and neither of us is allowed to leave the house angry or upset. We work through everything and talk about it.”

“That rule went out the window the second I saw what I saw.” You told him as you grabbed a few of Kiran's toys.

“So therefore we have nothing to talk about.” You added as you picked up Kiran and walked past him.

After you had packed a bag for both you and Kiran, you loaded him into the car and began driving with no destination in mind to go, despite the protests coming from your husband.

At least thirty minutes had passed before you ultimately decided that you needed to get out of Ohio. Looking down at how full your gas tank was, you looked at the time and saw that it was close to 5 in the evening. Kiran was knocked out cold once again, so you figured why not?

Home it is.

Home as in Maryland.

Attempting to dry your tears as well as put the address in your GPS, you set out on the almost nine hour journey.

The long drive would give you time to think about what you witnessed, which you never thought would happen in your marriage in a million years.

Caught your husband in the act of cheating on you with the nanny that HE hired. It was true that you had accused him of cheating in the past, but maybe the intuition that you had wasn't far off.

Your phone began ringing once again with Joe's ringtone and you quickly hit ignore. You weren’t quite sure how many times he had called you since you had left the house, but it was getting close to double digits.

Before you began driving, you made sure to turn off your location on every device you had and take the car that did not have a GPS tracker on it so Joe had absolutely no way of knowing where you were.

At this point, he didn't deserve to.

He had broken your trust and the only thing you had to do now was move forward.

You never thought in a million years that you would be a single mother, but it looked as if that was slowly becoming your reality.

He wasn’t going to hurt you again because you weren't going to give him the opportunity to.

As you pulled into the gas station, you opened your phone to see a notification of you being tagged on Joe's story on Instagram. You rolled your eyes before opening it and once you did, your jaw dropped.

If anyone sees my wife and son around Cincy, contact me immediately

Shit.

The sooner you get out of Ohio, the better.

It was close to two in the morning when you finally pulled up to your house on the family compound property and much to your surprise, Kiran was awake.

“Come on baby, so we can sleep in a comfy bed.” You told him as he gave you a small smile.

As you opened the back door and unstrapped him from his car seat, he clung to you as you placed the key in the lock and opened the front door.

You sat him on the couch with a few toys in front of him so that you could grab all the bags out of the car uninterrupted.

Once everything was in the house and after giving him a bath, the two of you settled in for the night.

Since Kiran probably wasn't used to sleeping at the compound just yet, you placed him next to you in your bed and he was looking around and taking in his new environment.

Once your head hit the pillow everything but sleep came to you.

It was finally hitting you what had happened earlier in the day and you were still in disbelief on how and why he would do something like that.

You finally grabbed your phone from the nightstand to see all of the missed calls from Joe, Isabella, Mallory, Ms. Jackie, and your in-laws and simply sighed before plugging your phone in.

The good thing was that you highly doubt anyone would come all the way down here to look for you and probably think that you're still somewhere in Ohio.

Your thoughts were interrupted as you heard Kiran's small voice.

“Daddy?”

Him missing Joe broke your heart all over again.

“Daddy's not here right now, baby. It's just me and you.” You replied and he looked at you confused.

“Want daddy.”

“I…. You'll see him soon, okay? Right now go back to sleep.” You told him as he hugged a small stuffed version of Who Dey tightly to his chest and kept looking at the bedroom door to see if Joe would appear.

Once you turned out the light, it took Kiran at least another hour before finally falling asleep while you were laying wide awake.

You knew a headache would follow soon after because you hadn't slept, but you would deal with it when the time came.

The next morning, you woke up to Kiran pulling on your arm and you were actually surprised that you got any sleep at all.

It was around ten in the morning and since you would usually let your parents know when you were coming so that way they could stock the fridge, this was obviously a last minute thing so you knew it was empty and quickly opened your door dash app on your phone to grab something for the two of you.

“KK, pancakes?” You asked him and his eyes instantly lit up as he eagerly nodded.

“Pancakes it is for my favorite boy.” You told him as you added it to the cart.

Before you could hit the cart to check out, you were interrupted by a knock on the door and your heart immediately sank.

Was it him?

No, it couldn't be. There was no way in the world he knew that you were here.

With Kiran on your hip, you padded downstairs to open the door and were face to face with no one other than your mother.

“What's wrong? Because you obviously got here in the middle of the night. I looked out the window this morning and saw your car and I had to come and check on you.”

“Hi to you too, mom.” You replied as you moved to the side and let her in to close the door.

“Just saying. Hi Kiran! Look how big you are!” She said as she took him from you and bounced him up and down.

“So, are you going to talk? Where's your husband?”

“At home, I guess.”

“What do you mean you guess?” She asked as she stopped playing with Kiran to look at you.

“Exactly what I said.”

“Does he even know where you are?”

“No and you aren't going to tell him.” You told her as you added some French toast to the cart before you checked out.

“Y/N!!!”

“No and I don't want to hear it.”

“Touchdown is his baby too and he would at least want to know that you two are safe.”

“The least you can do is let me handle this on my own as I see fit. I wouldn't have done this if I didn't have a reason.”

“So, what is the reason?”

“You're clearly already on his side so is there any point in telling you?” You asked as once again your phone began ringing in your hand with Joe on the opposite end of it.

“I'm not taking sides! I just want the two of you to fix whatever this is. And is that him?”

“It can't be fixed and why does it matter?”

“It can't be fixed or you don't want it to be fixed?”

“I love him but…”

“But?”

“What happened is something that you can't come back from. If I have to get used to being by myself then so be it.”

“Y/N, did you even talk to him about it?”

“There's nothing to even talk about at this point.”

“I highly doubt that. You're just as stubborn now as the day you were born.”

“Okay, can we be done with this conversation?” You asked as your mom sighed as Kiran was looking towards the door before he suddenly turned to you.

“Want daddy.”

—

Meanwhile Joe was losing his mind trying to get you to answer the phone and talk to him and lost track of how many people he called trying to figure out if they knew where you were or had seen you.

When the call went to voicemail for what felt like the hundredth time, he simply tossed his phone to the side of him and deeply sighed.

A few minutes had passed before he heard it ringing and immediately jumped up hoping it was you, but a look of disappointment went across his face when he saw it was a facetime call from his mom.

“Hey mom.”

“Hey, I saw your Instagram story. Where is my daughter and my grandbaby?” She asked, getting straight to the point.

“I actually don't know.”

“What do you mean you don't know!?”

“I…. We got into a disagreement and last night she took off and took Kiran with her.”

“Would this have anything to do with that nanny you pushed for the two of you to get?” Jimmy asked as he poked his head in the frame and eyed him.

“Something like that, but she wouldn't even let me explain and went straight off the deep end. We have a rule to not go to bed upset or mad at each other but I guess all she saw was red and said "forget it.” Joe replied as he ran a hand through his hair.

“I was hoping that I might have heard from her by now because literally no one has and I don't know what to do anymore. I can't even focus on anything because I'm worried about them.”

“Just have to give her time, I guess. She'll come around.”

“As stubborn as she is?”

“Well what is your other option at this point? And I know you're not talking about anyone being stubborn.”

“Calling her mom was my next option.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, sure enough his phone vibrated to let him know he had a text message from your mom and quickly opened it.

Mom-In-Law- Y/N and Kiran are here. She didn't want me to tell you but KK keeps asking for you. I know she's going to be mad at me but we'll cross that bridge when we get there.

“She's in Maryland. I need to hurry up and look at flights.”

—

It was around eight at night when you and Kiran were having a Disney movie marathon when there was a knock on the door.

Kiran was munching on a piece of cheese that he had been holding onto for at least two hours when you paused The Lion King and walked to the front door to see who it was.

“Hold on KK, let mommy see who that is. I'll be right back.”

Once you opened it, your breath hitched in your throat.

There your mom was…

And your husband.

“I thought I told you not to tell him where I was! So it's just fuck my feelings at this point!?” You said as you looked at her.

“Y/N, baby girl I know you're mad at me….”

“Pissed is more like it!”

“Language Y/N!” Your mom scolded as you rolled your eyes.

“I just need you to hear me out because it's not what you think.” Joe said as you gave him a blank stare.

You guess that Kiran had heard the commotion at the door and was now hugging your legs from behind to try and be nosey.

Once his eyes landed on Joe, it was a wrap.

“Daddy!”

He squeezed past you and immediately went to Joe who squatted down to hug him and pick him up.

“Hey, KK.”

“The two of you need to talk about whatever it is and get on the same page because this one is counting on the both of you.” Your mom stated as she pointed to Kiran which in turn made you roll your eyes.

“I cannot believe you.” You told her as you had your arms crossed.

“You'll thank me later.” She said as she turned and began to walk back to your parents house.

“I highly doubt that.”

“So, can we talk now?” Joe asked and the only thing you did in response was move to the side so that he could walk inside the house.

Once you closed the door behind you, you made your way back into the living room to see Kiran climbing all over Joe and sat on the opposite couch.

“It's past his bedtime.” Was all you said as Joe looked at you.

“Well how about I give him a bath, put him to sleep and then we can talk?”

“I guess.” You replied as you started to clean up Kiran's toys that he had out.

When Joe went upstairs with him, the only thing you could think about was your mother telling him where you were when you had specifically told her not to.

Well you know if something happened in the future that she would be the last person you told and you probably wouldn't be back to visit them any time soon.

Joe was upstairs for about an hour and a half before he made his way back down to where you were and promptly sat down next to you.

He opened up his phone and handed it to you.

“What are you handing this to me for?” You asked as your arms were crossed.

“It's my proof about what happened because I told you that I didn't cheat on you and that I didn't want anything to do with that girl.”

Sighing deeply, you took his phone from him and pressed play.

“I installed the cameras just like you asked and it's a good thing I did because otherwise I would have had no way of proving it.”

You watched with curious eyes as the scene unfolded before you as it first showed Joe watching film and what looked as if Gabriela was gathering her things to leave and Joe paying her absolutely no attention and only replying when he needed to but not even bothering to look in her direction.

It then moves onto Joe unlocking his phone and beginning to what it looks to be jerking off before Gabriela quickly comes back into the frame.

You saw the frustrated look on his face before she proceeded to straddle him which made his look of frustration turn to a look of being startled. As he pushed her off, you then see yourself walk into the frame and begin to yell at the both of them.

“The only reason why I was hard was because I was watching a video of the both of us before she walked in and straddled me saying all this shit that she knows I'm not satisfied, and that she can treat me better than you can and I shut that shit down immediately. As I was pushing her off of me, you walked in and then you started yelling at me which obviously made me get even harder seeing you like that and now we're here. So again like I said, I would never ever do anything to mess up what we have.”

You sat there for a minute taking it all in and proceeded to hand him his phone back.

“Only woman that I get hard for is my wife. That's it and that's all. I just wished you would have heard me out so we could have avoided all this. And don't be mad at your mom, she only wants the best for us. I actually didn't even get a chance to ask her if you were here, she just simply told me.”

“I'm sorry I accused you and didn't hear you out. But it was a little hard not to believe what I saw in front of me.”

“And I'm sorry for not believing you when you originally told me about Gabriela. I should have shut it down right then and there.”

“But…” You started to say as you looked at him.

“What baby?”

“You are too nice sometimes to these women and it gives them the wrong idea. And I've told you that before. Be a little mean and say that my wife knows how to fight.”

“Which she actually does and okay, Laila Ali.” Joe replied as he smirked and you shook your head.

“And another thing. You know we have our rule.”

“Yes, I know and at that moment, I didn't want to catch a charge for knocking you upside the head so I left the house.”

“Hmm, fair enough. So, are we good now and can you come home?”

“Yes, but on one condition.”

“And what is that?”

“No more nannies. Ever.”

“Fair enough, but I need to do something else first.” He said as he leaned over to kiss you.

“What's that?”

“Our son is asleep so you should already know.”

“I'm going to need a girls trip after this.”

“Just tell me where you want to go and it's a done deal.”

—

Joe's body was moving against yours at a slow and even pace and you knew for a fact that you were about to lose it.

Thank goodness that he actually put Kiran in his room across the hall and that he was knocked out cold.

“Yeah, I feel you baby. That's my good girl. So damn tight. I told you this was your dick. Didn't I tell you?”

“Fuck, I'm about to cum.” You blurted out as he smirked down at you.

“Oh, I know, baby. Cum on daddy’s dick like a good girl, get that nut. Use this dick, it’s yours and no one else's.”

“Shiiit. I…”

“What baby girl? Let it out. Tell daddy what you need.”

“Mmm.” Was the only thing you could mutter as Joe captured your lips in a kiss and it was broken by you moaning into his mouth.

“I'm still waiting for you to cum all over this dick. What are you waiting for, baby?” He asked as he dug in deeper at an even slower pace, making you absolutely lose your mind.

The scratches up and down Joe's back from your nails digging into him were evident, but right now were the least of his worries because his only mission at the moment was making you feel good.

Your back arched off the bed as you had finally squirted all over him while he had kept his same pace.

Joe cut your moans off with a series of kisses in the hopes that you wouldn't wake up your sleeping child.

“That's it, baby. But I want more and need more from you. Do it again.” He told you as he leaned down and his tongue lightly grazed over both of your nipples as he didn't let up his pace for one second.

“Oh fuck, baby you're going to make me cum again.”

“Oh really? I think you can show me better than you can tell me.”

He put you over the edge once more and still didn't let up and you couldn't even form a coherent sentence with how good he was making you feel.

“You're the only woman I want. You understand?”

“Yes!”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, daddy. FUCK!” You screamed and squirted for a third time all over him as he laughed to himself.

He slowly slid out of you before slapping his dick on your clit, making another moan escape from your mouth.

“I hope you know I'm not done with you yet.” He whispered against your lips before kissing them and sliding back in making you gasp.

“You forgive me now? Or do I need to apologize again?”

“Say it again, I want to hear it.”

“I'm sorry baby. You hear me? I promise nothing like this will ever happen again. I don't want anybody but you. I only want this pussy.” He told you as he bottomed out, pulled all the way out and slammed back in making your eyes roll back.

“Shiiit!”

“This pussy is so fucking good and I wouldn't think about being with anyone else.”

As Joe flipped you over on your stomach and sped up his pace without warning, you knew that you were about to lose it.

“You going to talk to your husband instead of running?”

“YESSSSSS!”

“Yes? You going to stop disappearing so I don't have to call the police to look for your ass?” Joe asked you as a hard slap came down on your ass.

“YESSS DADDY! FUCK!”

“Good fucking girl. Go ahead and cum on your dick.” Was the last thing you heard before once again squirting all over him and feeling him release inside of you.

You collapsed on your stomach on the bed before Joe promptly flipped you over.

“You're mine and I'm yours and you better not fucking forget it.”

The next day, you woke up to an empty bed and Joe's space being cold which you knew meant that he hadn't been laying next to you for awhile.

Grabbing your phone from the nightstand, the numbers 3:45 were staring back at you and you did a double take.

You wasted no time in going into the bathroom and brushing your teeth along with washing your face before taking a quick shower.

Joe heard your light footsteps come down the stairs and turned to look at you.

You wanted to wipe that smirk immediately off of his face.

“So, how'd you sleep baby?” He asked before you rolled your eyes and proceeded to straddle him.

“Why do you proceed to fuck me like an animal when you have a point to prove? And where is my baby?”

“Because I do. Had to let you know you're not going anywhere. Ever. And he's with your sister.”

“Still got hard for another woman and had a leaky ass dick.” You quietly mumbled, but the slap that landed on your ass let you know that he heard it.

“Another round, you said?”

“Ow! I can barely walk as it is! Them heavy ass hands!”

“That's exactly what I thought so cut the shit.”

“Still doesn't change what happened.”

“I was already hard thinking about MY WIFE when her ass walked in and hopped on my lap uninvited. Like I told you.”

“You should have pushed her off faster.”

“Oh trust me, I just didn't want her ass hitting her head on the floor with the force I was about to use.”

“I…”

“Imagine you getting ready to beat your meat to a video of you fucking your wife and the nanny plops in your lap right as your wife gets home. And then he remains hard during confrontation because he likes it when she yells at him and can’t explain it. Like I said, I would never do that.”

“Um..”

“And that's why I fuck you like I do because your ass doesn't know how to listen unless I'm drilling into you.”

“No need to call me out like that. Not too much on your wife.”

“Such a fucking brat.” He whispered in your ear as you scrunched up your face.

“You did this, you know! I'm a brat and spoiled because of you!”

“No, your parents did and they don’t accept returns after 60 days so I’m stuck and so are you. Till death do us part so get over it.”

–

As promised, when the season was over Joe sent you on a girls trip along with your sister, Mallory and Isabella and his current task was to pick you up from the airport.

After Joe threw your suitcase in the back and slid in the front passenger seat, he began driving and noticed how unusually quiet you were.

“Baby, everything okay? Why are you so quiet over there?” He asked as he took hold of your hand.

“I couldn't really enjoy my vacation because of how nauseous I was.”

“Wait, why was that happening? Is your period coming?”

“No.” You replied as you stared out the window.

“Then what is it, babe? Can't help you if you don't tell me.”

“I'm pregnant.”

Joe quickly looked at you in disbelief before looking back at the road.

“With WHAT?”

“A baby obviously. Yours to be exact.”

“We got to stop having make up sex.” Joe proposed as he got off the next exit, intending to find a McDonald's so that he could buy your chicken nuggets which he knew you were about to ask for.

“No shit, Sherlock.”

“Been going raw for years, but it only seems like you get pregnant when I'm making it up to you.”

“Joey, being forty and pregnant is literally INSANE. Like what the actual hell!?” You exclaimed as you were beginning to freak out.

“Just think about how beautiful you're going to look when your belly starts growing.”

“I didn't know how good I had it last time with not showing and now I'm going to be a whale.”

“I don't know about that but at least you don't look a day over 25. Black doesn't crack, and my white doesn't crack by association with having a black wife.”

“Joey, I'm going to need for you to be quiet the rest of the way home.”

Liked by joeyb_9, lahjay10_, bengalswags, teehiggins, mallory-marie, and 2,187,643 others

nursebae: 40 and pregnant is absolutely insane 😭

-> joeyb_9: and you'll look like a bad ass while doing it 😍😍

-> nursebae: my feet hurt and I want spicy pickles

-> lahjay10_ : surprised joe didn't put oops x2 as a caption

-> nursebae: he did and I made him change it

On top of Kai asking the same question 40 times a day, he’d started calling him Joe, which was cute. And mildly irritating.

Joe, can I have a snack? Joe, can we go to the park? I want Cookie Monster pjjs, Joe.

It was never just pjs, always pjjs and it was usually hilarious.

“Kai, buddy. We talked about this. I’m dad, not Joe.”

“But that’s your name.”

“That’s my name to everyone else. To you and peach? My name is dad.”

“Peach calls you daddy. And she can’t talk all the way.”

He sighs, sounding exasperated. “That’s the same thing. How about this, let’s make a deal. You stop calling me Joe and I’ll take you to the golf course and you can learn. Sound good?” His curly haired son nodded his head up and down so many times Joe thought he’d make himself dizzy. Kai was usually the calm one so he figured maybe a double scoop of ice cream earlier wasn’t the best decision.

That’s how he ended up spending a ridiculous amount of money for kids camp at a country club for two weeks. He hated how uppity it sounded but when Molly brought him home every afternoon with a bright smile on his face he felt less dumb about negotiating with a person who is 3 feet tall. Kai had overheard you and his dad discussing his foundation’s annual golf tournament the day after his kids camp ended and of course was interested.

“Can I come with you, dad? I can play.”

You and Joe shared a look and you placed your hands on the counter. “Pumpkin, the golf tournament is kind of a grown up thing. Dad’s gonna be with Mimi and Papa talking to people, he’s not really gonna have time to hang out.”

“I’m not hanging out.” He puts up his fingers and lists his role for the day. “I play golf and I listen. I be good.”

“You promise?” Joe asks him, eyes narrowing.

“Five finger promise. I’ll be super good.” Kai holds up his hand and Joe high fives him and interlocks all five fingers. The toddler started calling it a five finger promise, allegedly stronger than a pinky promise and the name has stuck. If you five finger promise, you really really mean what you say.

Joe smiles at him and fully bends down to eye level. “If you’re gonna come, we have to practice, yeah? I wanna see what you’ve learned.”

“‘Kay. I show you.”

He was an absolute angel the next few days, cleaned his playroom without being asked twice, did not hit his sister when she knocked down his magnet block tower and he even ate his carrots at dinner without even an ounce of protesting. Morgan’s eyes were so wide they seemed seconds from bulging out of his head. He made eye contact with Joe, who was silently pleading with him not to make a big deal out of it so the chef promised to be cool. Even when Kai said “thanks for dinner Mo” like he meant every word.

“Do not fall for that,” Joe whispered.

Two days of being on his absolute best behavior made you give in. Kai wasn’t a monster by any means but he definitely had his moments, he liked things a certain way, his way, and if that didn’t happen he wasn’t exactly afraid to voice his displeasure. In words—or screams—if he felt compelled to do so.

As soon as you got home from the office, you changed into more comfortable clothing and went into Kai’s room where he was reading a book with Molly and Peach. “Hey guys,” you greeted and your daughter crawled out of Molly’s arms and made a beeline for your ankles. “I got her,” you told Molly as she rose to her feet. “Kai, I have a surprise for you downstairs. Do you wanna see what it is?”

“Yeah!” He sprang up, tossing aside whatever he was previously holding in his hands, some toy you’d never seen. But then again it was impossible to keep track of his stuff most of the time. “What is it mom?”

“Well if I tell you silly boy, it’ll ruin the surprise.”

“Fine,” he sighed walking down the stairs. Kai immediately gasped upon the big reveal.

The dramatic prolonged reaction from the toddler made you laugh. “You like it?”

“I love it! Can I show dad?” His eyes were as bright as his smile and he hugged you and said thank you twice before going upstairs to Joe’s office. After about a minute of hushed conversation and Peach putting her hands on your face to give you a kiss, your husband came down the steps carrying Kai like his own personal trophy. The kid was still smiling.

Joe laughs. “You got him a golf bag? And little clubs?”

“Yeah and it has my name on it,” Kai points, asking Joe to put him down so he can touch the crisp white lettering on the outside pocket. “This is my name, right?”

“Sure is, Kai B,” his dad confirms, ruffling his hair. “Guess we gotta go practice now, huh?”

Joe had always secretly hoped that his son would get into sports soon. He had just signed him up for Children’s Soccer Experience starting in June, wrapping up in August, giving Kai his first experience with organized sports. Soccer was the first sport he tried and seemed harmless enough so why not give it a shot. This golf thing had kind of come out of nowhere and Joe really didn’t play that often because he wasn’t great at it but maybe if he got Kai started soon enough he’d be on the PGA Tour one day and it’d be a lot stressful for both of you regarding his safety. Being a parent now himself made him feel bad for his, every time he took a hit and didn’t pop up right away. He’d been frighteningly close to tears the first time Kai needed first aid spray and a Band-Aid. Golf seemed doable. And safe.

They started small. Carson had called in a few people and had a mini golf course set up in the backyard, putting to start and a few long drives off towards the lake. “Let’s see what you got, little man.” Joe handed Kai his golf swing trainer, fit for a person his size and could tell that you’d done some research on what he needed since your agreement that he’d be golfing. He reminded himself to give you a few cool mom points tonight before focusing his attention on the kid in the sunglasses, in his perfect golf stance, showing off everything he’d learned in class.

“Ready, buddy?”

Kai nods. Joe gives him some space, silently repeating you can do this in his head.

His son takes a deep breath, looking down and getting set. “I can do this.” The first swing hit the grass and he seemed upset for a minute before his dad stepped in. Joe knew the tiny gears were turning in his head, Kai wanted to be perfect. God this kid reminded him so much of himself.

“It’s okay, you’ve got it,” he nods, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Give it another try, it’s just practice. You and me, hanging out. This is how you get better.”

Kai steps forward again, eyes on the ball the entire time, following through on his swing, smiling as it was inches away from the hole. “Nice job, dude!” He high fived him but Kai wasn’t completely satisfied.

“I wanna go again, ‘til I make it in.”

Joe helps him reset. “Okay, go again.”

He stayed out there with him until 8PM, 23 successful puts before the child felt comfortable going inside for dinner. Joe would be out there any night Kai asked and could see him in a few weeks in a golf cart, hanging off of his hip as he got tired throughout the day. And as much as he wanted to protect his kids’ privacy and allow them to live a normal life, he also wanted them to experience cool opportunities like this. Kai was vibing with golf at the moment, why not feed his interest in the sport while also spending quality time with him? These were the moments he’d dreamt about.