Page 13

Chapter thirteen

Patrick

She’s still crying as I pull up outside her house. Not just quiet sniffles or the occasional stuttered breath. Real, gut-wrenching sobs that have her crumpled in the passenger seat, face buried in her hands, whole body shaking.

“Come on,” I say softly, reaching across to unbuckle her seatbelt. “Let’s get you inside.”

Her legs are shaky, steps uneven, so I keep my arm tight around her waist as I guide her out of the car and into her house, taking her straight upstairs.

Her shirt’s soaked through from her tears, clinging to her like a second skin.

“Levana,” I say as I sit her on the edge of her bed. “You need to get out of these clothes, alright? I’ll grab you something more comfortable.”

She doesn’t answer, just sits there staring at the floor like she’s not even in the room. I head to her dresser first, but change my mind and go for my bag. I grab one of my shirts, a pair of my sweats and some socks. I know she doesn’t need a whole outfit change, but I want to wrap her up in me entirely.

“Here,” I say gently. “Let me help you.”

She lets me peel her damp shirt over her head, her arms heavy as I guide them through the sleeves of mine. The fabric falls soft and loose around her, swallowing her up in warmth. Her legs tremble when I lift each foot to slide off her pants, so I take my time, being as careful as I can. I pull the socks on next, then ease the sweats up her legs, tying the waistband loosely at her hips.

Now she’s bundled in my clothes.

Warm. Soft. Mine.

“Okay,” I murmur, easing her back against the pillows. “Come here.”

I slide in beside her, tucking my arm around her waist and pulling her close. She turns into me instantly, fingers tangling in my shirt like she’s scared I might disappear if she doesn’t hold on.

For a while, it’s just her breathing, shaky and uneven, like she’s trying to keep herself from falling apart completely.

“I had a daughter,” she says, so softly I almost miss it. “She was born too early. Thirteen weeks too early.”

There it is. Had a daughter.

When her mom mentioned Violet, I was confused.

When she said ‘ she’s just a baby,’ the confusion ran deeper.

When she said ‘ she’s your little girl,’ something knocked loose in my chest, and my mind set off racing a million miles an hour.

All the time we’d spent together, I’d never seen her daughter.

The long nights, the early mornings.

She’d never mentioned her at all. There were no photos. No stories. Nothing.

That was why.

Had.

I understand. Saying their name out loud can burn. It can sting so bad your throat threatens to close for the rest of your life.

I understand.

She exhales hard through her nose, like she’s forcing the words out before they choke her. “They didn’t think she’d make it.”

Her whole body tenses, like she’s bracing for something. For me to ask questions, or say I’m sorry too soon, or just react in the wrong way.

But I don’t. I stay quiet, because I know she needs this—needs to say it her own way, in her own time.

“But she did,” she says, her voice lifting just a little. “She was so strong. Fought so fucking hard. She spent months in the NICU. Wires everywhere, tubes down her throat, monitors stuck to her skin. God, she was so small. Just this tiny thing, barely bigger than my hand.”

She draws in a shaky breath, but it falters halfway in. “I didn’t even get to hold her at first. I just had to sit beside her and watch her fight. I’d talk to her, sing to her sometimes.”

There’s another pause as she sniffles up.

“And then she got stronger,” she says. “Started feeding on her own, started breathing without the machines. The doctors said we could take her home just before Christmas.”

Her voice cracks on Christmas , and she lets out a soft, broken laugh.

“Shit, I was so scared. I thought I was gonna break her. I didn’t even sleep that first night. Just sat there by her crib, watching her chest rise and fall to make sure she was still breathing. But she was fine. She was happy.”

Her body relaxes just a little.

“She loved music,” she tells me. “Couldn’t get enough of it. I used to sing to her all the time, just to get her to sleep, and even when her eyes were closing, she’d still be smiling at me.”

Her breath stumbles, and I can feel the tension winding back through her body.

“But it just happened.” Her voice catches, breaking on the words. “So fast. One minute she was laughing at me wiggling her toes… and the next, she was just—”

She stops cold, her whole body locking up like every muscle’s turned to stone.

“I woke up one morning,” she whispers, “and she wasn’t breathing.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and awful. Then a horrible, broken sound tears out of her throat—raw and jagged, like the grief’s been dragged up too fast, too hard.

“I tried,” she chokes out. “I tried CPR. Her dad tried CPR. I called an ambulance. I did everything. I did everything . But she was just… she was gone.”

Her dad.

That must be the Dominic guy her mom mentioned.

I’m assuming he’s long gone by the way they both reacted to his name.

Thank fuck. There’s no time to get jealous over someone who isn’t even around.

Fuck, no. There’s no time to get jealous at all when Levana’s like this.

I press my hand to the back of her head and pull her closer, holding her as tightly as I can. She cries into my chest, breathless and messy.

Her sobs slow eventually, but the shaking doesn’t stop. She trembles so hard it feels like it’s rattling my bones, like she’s falling apart right there in my arms, and all I can do is hold on.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t,” I say, my voice sharper than I mean it. “Don’t say you’re sorry.”

She doesn’t answer. Just shifts closer.

I stroke her hair slowly, fingers threading through the strands. Her breath hitches against my chest, but she’s quieter now, just sniffling softly, like she’s too tired to cry anymore.

This is it. This is why.

We’ve been through the same damn thing. The same loss, the same fucking hole in our chests where something beautiful used to be.

She gets it. Gets the ache that never really leaves, the way the memories sneak up on you when you’re least expecting it. The way you wake up some mornings feeling like you can’t breathe.

The puzzle pieces slide into place quicker than I can catch up with them.

This whole time, I thought Levana was the one who was supposed to help me. How did I never even realise that I was supposed to help her too?

She’s perfect. So fucking perfect.

And this is so much better than I ever could’ve imagined.

We can carry this together, build something stronger out of all the things we’ve lost.

She can fix me. I can fix her. We can fix us.

Together.

One solid, family unit.

“I need to sleep,” she mumbles against me. “Is it okay if I just—if I sleep on you?”

“Of course,” I say, tucking her closer. “I’ve got you.”

She lets out a shaky breath and my arms tighten around her, one hand stroking slow, steady circles along her back. I press a kiss to her warm, damp forehead, and just hold her.

Little by little, she starts to unwind, the tension fading out and her breathing slowing until she’s soft and still against my chest.

I wait a few minutes longer, just to be sure, before easing my arm out from under her, and pulling out my phone.

We’re getting closer.

I hit send, lock it, and set it on the nightstand.

Carefully, I shift beneath her, easing her off me and onto her side. She stirs, letting out a soft, breathy sound that makes something tighten in my chest as I slide in behind her, pulling her close until her back presses flush against my chest.

I can picture it. Her skin stretched tight and smooth beneath my hand, her belly rounding with my baby. Our baby. Her curves softer, fuller, glowing with something richer than just health. Something instinctive. Something primal.

She’d be stunning. I’d come home to find her resting on the couch, one hand cradling her stomach, her shirt pulled up just enough to show the gentle curve of it.

I’d feel our baby move. Little kicks, rolling beneath her skin, tiny signs of life pushing against my hand— ours , growing strong and safe inside her. I’d talk to him or her every day, my mouth brushing her belly as I whispered how much I loved them both. Her. And the little life growing inside her. I’d tell Levana how beautiful she was, how perfect. I’d tell our baby how much they were wanted—how much they were already loved.

I make cute kids. Little messes of blonde hair, big hazel eyes—sweet, perfect faces that could charm the hell out of anyone. But Levana… Levana’s something else.

Would they take after her? Would they have her hair? Deep auburn that catches copper in the sun? Or would they get mine? Pale gold, soft like corn silk? Her freckles maybe, scattered across those sweet round cheeks?

Maybe we’d have twins. Mally and Dolly were the third set of twins born in my family in four years. Maybe twins would be inevitable for us. Maybe we’d be destined for a perfect pair. Maybe one of each—one with my hair and her eyes, the other with her hair and my smile. Both of them tumbling around our living room, laughing and shrieking, climbing all over her as she pretends to wrestle them. I can almost hear it—those breathless giggles, her warm laughter rolling through the house like music.

I’d take care of her. I’d make sure she had everything she needed. The right food, the right vitamins, the right doctors. I’d never leave her side. I’d watch her every second if I had to.

We’d go to appointments together. I’d hold her hand as they ran the ultrasound probe over her stomach. I’d see our baby’s tiny flickering heartbeats on the screen. I’d bring her warm drinks and extra pillows when her back ached. I’d rub her feet, stroke her hair, make her feel loved every second of every day.

Mrs. Levana Dalton, with my babies in her arms.

I swallow hard. My head feels light, like I’m drunk.

This can happen. It has to happen.

That grief suffocates you, it sticks in your chest like tar. It eats away at you, it warps you. But she doesn’t have to feel it anymore. She doesn’t have to hurt.

We can fix things, and we can rebuild. Piece by piece.

I’ll hold her hand every step of the way. I’ll keep her safe. I’ll show her she isn’t alone anymore.

“You’re going to have a family again,” I whisper, curling my arm tighter around her waist. “I promise you, baby. I promise.”

She’ll be incredible. I know she will. She’s so strong, so loving.

She’s going to be the perfect mother.

They’ll love her. They’ll all love her. Completely, unconditionally, the way I do. And she’ll know then, won’t she? She’ll see how right this is. How everything fits exactly the way it’s supposed to.

She just needs me to guide her there.

I hold her closer, pressing my face into her hair, breathing her in.

Soon.