Page 21

TWENTY

DIA

Like a bear protecting its cubs, fiercely guard your dreams and aspirations.

" — Unknown

The cancer center smells like bleach and peppermint gum.

Toon stands next to me in the hallway, one hand resting on the stroller handle, the other in mine. He’s wearing his favorite worn-out hoodie, and his eyes are tired—but his shoulders are straight, and his skin doesn’t look as gray as it did last month.

This is his final treatment.

Final.

God, I can barely believe it.

Benjamin’s chewing on his fist in the stroller, wide-eyed like he knows this day matters. Maybe he does. Maybe some part of him remembers all the times we sat in these halls, waiting for his dad to come out pale and worn down and stubborn as hell.

The nurse waves us over with a warm smile. “Mr. Miller. Last round.”

He nods.

I squeeze his hand.

He squeezes back.

He doesn’t need to say anything. I already know.

This has been the longest fight of his life.

And it’s not over yet. But today is a win.

The treatment ends fast. They unhook him. Pull the needle. Bandage the skin. Then the nurse gestures to the gold bell on the wall.

“The floor’s yours, Mr. Miller.”

Toon stands. Walks up to the bell.

I hold my breath.

And when he rings it—three loud, clear chimes—I nearly cry.

He turns, eyes locking with mine.

There’s a half-smile on his face, the kind that says I made it, but I’m still not sure how.

I stand with Benjamin and kiss him hard in front of the entire damn waiting room.

They all clap.

But I don’t hear them.

All I hear is the sound of hope cracking open inside me.

We settle in at home. Toon’s passed out on the couch, one arm over his face, the other cradling a bottle of Gatorade. Benjamin’s in his bassinet in the nursery, breathing deep and steady.

I’m sitting on the edge of our bed, hands clasped, heart racing.

I should feel safe.

But I don’t.

I feel terrified.

Because for the first time since Benji died, since Toon got sick, since my body split open to bring our baby into the world... I have everything I ever wanted.

And some part of me doesn’t believe I’m allowed to keep it.

I curl my arms around my stomach—empty now, but still stretched and soft from the life it carried just a couple of months ago.

I hear the floor creak.

Toon steps into our room, rubbing his neck. He gives me a crooked smile. “Sorry I passed out.”

I try to smile back.

He notices. Of course he does.

“What’s wrong?”

I shake my head. “Nothing.”

He sits beside me on the bed, close but not pushing.

“Dia.”

I look at him. Really look at him. He’s still thinner than he was, but his color is back. His strength. His humor. The man I fell for is still there—but tempered now. Stronger in quieter ways.

“I’m scared,” I whisper.

“Of what?”

“This,” I say, waving a hand toward the house, the nursery, the ring he doesn’t wear yet because I asked him to wait. “Everything. I feel like… like this is too good. Like the universe is going to take it away.”

He nods slowly, eyes soft. “I know that feeling.”

I curl into him, my head on his chest.

“Every time you got sick,” I say, “I’d lie to Benjamin in my belly and tell him Daddy was just tired. And I’d pray I wouldn’t have to explain why you weren’t coming back. I wondered how I could tell my son he lost two dads. I don’t want to lose you, not just for me, but for our son.”

He wraps both arms around me. “You never will.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I don’t,” he admits. “But I know I’m not quitting.”

I breathe him in.

His warmth. His steady heartbeat.

Then I whisper, “Make love to me.”

He pulls back just enough to look at me. “You sure? It’s only been nine weeks. There’s no pressure, darlin’. No rush to bounce back to anything.”

He’s right. It’s been nine weeks since I gave birth. Nine weeks of healing. Nine weeks of adjusting. Nine weeks of holding my body together while it mended and figuring out how to be a mother. I’m not the same me I was before baby and for this moment, I need to feel like Dia Crews. I need to feel like myself.

I don’t have it all figured out yet, but I know this.

I want this man. I want every bit of him for the rest of our days. It’s not just the way he touches me. It’s the way he sees me. The way he’s always seen me. The way he still finds me beautiful and strong even if I needed help putting on disposable underwear and icepacks for my pads. He makes me feel like I’m his.

“I need to feel it. All of it. You. This. That it’s real.”

I climb onto him, knees folding beside his hips. He watches my every movement like I’m his entire universe. He kisses me gently.

“You sure?” His voice is rough.

“I know you’re tired from treatment. I’ll do the work. But Justin I miss you. I want to feel close to you.”

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for days. He reaches up, fingers brushing my cheek, then sliding into my hair as he pulls me down gently. His lips meet mine in a kiss that is slow and filled with so much love my chest physically aches.

He undresses me like it’s the first time.

No rush. No urgency.

His hands slide over my waist, my hips, the soft places my body never had before the baby. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. Just kisses every stretch mark like it’s holy.

“You made our son in this body,” he says. “I don’t think you’ll ever understand how beautiful that is.”

His hands glide down my back, careful. He is gentle like he’s learning me all over again. Maybe because he is. I’m different. I’ve changed. This body carried life, bore pain, and survived both the beautiful and terrifying.

Somehow in all the changes though, he makes me feel like I’m sacred. I’m a treasure.

He kisses down my neck, across the curve of my shoulder until I’m trembling. Not from cold.

But from being seen. Being heard. And being understood.

The way he worships me without a single word makes me fall in love all over again.

He shift us gently lowering me back onto the pillows as his body is stretched over mine. He’s holding himself over me, like I’m precious, fragile. His lips move against mine, delicately. Then my jaw, then lower. He kisses every stretch mark whispering about their beauty. He cherishes each mark on my body from our son. I blink fast against the tears forming as my chest tightens in appreciation for the man with me.

“You’re gonna make me cry,” I tell him the truth.

“Then cry. Whatever you need to do, darlin’ I kiss every tear. I’ll treasure every inch of you, every emotion you feel, and I’ll give you everything you need for the rest of our days with every breath in me.”

This isn’t about sex. It’s about connection. About being us outside of the diapers and sleepless nights. It’s about us.

Justin settles between my thighs, his fingers stroking softly, his mouth trailing kisses all over me. My hands tremble as I touch him. He goes slow, reading my body, my breath, the shift in my hips, until I’m coming alive under him.

When he finally inches inside me, it’s careful, tender. It’s like he’s taking up space not just in my body, but soul deep. That’s our connection.

I gasp in pleasure as the flood of emotions hit me. Overwhelmingly raw. I didn’t realize how much I missed this. I missed him. I missed being loved not just in words, but in being with him.

He still inside me, his forehead pressed to mine, both of us panting, not moving though, just existing as one.

I wrap my arms around his neck and whisper, “I’m okay. I’m here and you’re here. I love you, Justin.”

His hips move, slow, like a steady heartbeat. My body aches in new ways. My insides softer remind me I’m still alive, still whole. He kisses me through every shift, every moan, and every shaky breath.

Tears slip from my eyes and Justin kisses them away like a quiet vow to wipe them away for always.

“I love you, Dia.” He whispers against my lips. “Every inch, every change, I love them all. You’re move beautiful now than ever imaginable.”

I let his words wash over me. Putting me back together. In this moment, I don’t feel broken, tired, lost, confused.

No, I feel completely loved.

I don’t answer.

I just hold him closer.

He moves again, remaining slow, patient, steady—like he knows I need to be touched where my fear lives. Where my doubt lives. Where the part of me still expecting loss is hiding.

His lips brush mine between every whisper:

“I’m here.”

“You’re safe.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

I cry when I come.

He holds me until my breathing slows.

Afterward, we lie tangled in the sheets, our fingers laced.

“Two reasons,” he murmurs.

I turn my head. “What?”

He kisses my knuckles.

“You gave me two reasons not to give up.”

He touches my heart.

“And then our son.”

I smile through the tears.

“I don’t deserve either of you,” he adds.

“Yes, you do.”

“Then I’ll spend every day earning it.”

I fall asleep with his hand on my belly, his breath in my hair.

And for once, I let myself believe in a future that doesn’t end in loss.

There is a new road in front of us. The one behind us was a rough ride, but we are better for it. And this new ride is one I can’t wait to embrace.