Page 50 of Falling for the Bombshell (Falling for #1)

Naming a Fighter

The NICU became their second home. It was filled with a strange sort of quiet, one Linnie had never known.

It wasn ’ t silence—it was the soft hum of machines, the faint beep of heart monitors, and the whispering voices of nurses and doctors moving through hallways like shadows.

It was a world that ran on hope and sterile routines.

He was thirty days old when they finally said it aloud.

His name.

Linnie looked over the top of her son's isolette, eyes rimmed red but soft with love.

"He's stubborn. He ’ s a fighter. He ’ s calm… but when he wants something, he lets everyone know."

Blaine smiled, rubbing her shoulder. “ That ’ s you and me, all right.”

A nurse walked in then and asked, “ Have you two officially named him yet? His birth certificate is waiting.”

Blaine looked to Linnie. She looked back at him. It was unspoken but already decided.

“ Beckett Jack Austin,” Linnie said. Her voice cracked with emotion.

“ Beckett,” Blaine repeated softly. “ Strong and bold. Just like him.” Jack—for Blaine ’ s grandfather. Austin—for them. For everything they ’ ve been through. For the life they were building, mile by mile.

The nurse smiled. “ That ’ s a good name for a miracle.”

Three Weeks Later

Linnie ’ s body was healing, but her heart—her spirit—still trembled like thin glass.

The scar from her C-section was healing, slowly.

Her swelling had gone down. Her blood pressure had stabilized.

But the emotional recovery? That was something else entirely.

The night she ’ d flatlined lived in Blaine ’ s head like a bad dream he couldn ’ t wake up from.

He ’ d wake in the middle of the night, clutching her hand just to make sure it was warm.

She ’ d reach over and whisper, “ Still here.”

He ’ d exhale in relief every time.

One night, Blaine brought in a tiny orange and navy Broncos beanie, one that had been too big for Beckett when he was born. They slipped it over his little head together.

“ I can ’ t wait until he ’ s big enough for his first game,” Blaine whispered .

Linnie rested her head on his shoulder. “ One day, he ’ ll walk out onto a field and know we were there with him every step of the way.”

One Month Later

Beckett was growing. Two pounds became three.

Then three and a half. Then four. He had the softest tufts of golden brown hair and big blue-green eyes, just like Lynnie.

And his fists? Always curled tight—ready to take on the world.

He ’ d passed his breathing test. He ’ d started learning how to bottle feed.

His little feet kicked hard when Blaine changed his diaper, and he already hated the cold wipes.

The doctors circled a date on the calendar.

If all went well, Beckett could go home by his original due date.

Back at home, Linnie sat on the nursery rocker, folding another Broncos onesie as Blaine painted a sign to hang above the crib: "Welcome Home, Beckett.

" They were almost there. Their story—marked by near goodbyes, impossible love, and strength found in the scariest moments—was growing. So was their son.