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TWENTY

F allon

I wake to a hand on my shoulder.

It’s gentle, but it yanks me straight out of sleep.

My body jolts, heart jackhammering before I can even remember where I am.

I twist under the blanket, breath caught in my throat, and my hand flies up as if to protect my hair as I wait for the fingers that usually woke me with a fistful of it.

It’s instinct now. It shouldn’t be, yet still I brace for the pain that doesn’t come.

“Fallon,” Leone says, softly, his palm cups my cheek, his thumb stroking below my eye. “It’s me. You’re home. You’re safe.”

I blink at him, disoriented. Then I take in the room, the muted sunlight filtering through the curtains, the cool weight of the sheets over my legs, the lingering ache in every muscle. And the man in the corner, back turned, fussing with a giant bag, pulling out equipment and cords.

Dr. Stevens. My eyes widen not expecting to be woken for some impromptu doctor’s visit when I realize I’m naked beneath the blanket.

Cold sweat coats my skin. I tug the sheet higher up over my chest, my heart thudding all over again for a completely different reason, wondering if I even want to know.

Leone sees the panic rising in my eyes and crouches beside the bed.

“Hey.” His voice is gravel. Tired. “It’s just Dr. Stevens. He needs to check you and the baby. Nothing’s wrong, we just want to be sure. You’re safe, Fallon.”

I nod, still clutching the blanket. Dr. Stevens turns then, and at least he has the grace to keep his gaze fixed somewhere above my head.

“Good morning, Fallon,” he says. “Sorry for the intrusion, I wanted to do this sooner rather than later.”

I nod again, unable to voice my words. My throat’s dry. My limbs feel like they’re underwater.

Leone reaches down, grabs the hem of his shirt, and tugs it off. “Here,” he says, holding it out. “Take this.”

I take it with shaking hands. It smells like him, cologne, sweat, cigarette smoke. It swallows me whole, hanging off my shoulders. When I look up again, he’s already digging through a drawer, tossing a pair of soft black track pants onto the bed.

I slide the pants on under the blanket, limbs stiff, like they don’t belong to me anymore. I sit up slowly. My head spins for a second, and I place a hand on the bed to steady myself.

Milo appears silently, settling into the chair beside the bed like he never left. His eyes are rimmed red, like he hasn’t slept, and his hair is a mess.

I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything, even as Leone moves toward the balcony to peer out the window.

Leone turns watching the doctor set things up, his brows drawn tight. He doesn’t come all the way back to the bed. Instead, he paces near the window, arms folded. Like he’s preparing himself for bad news that’ll punch a hole straight through him.

Dr. Stevens wheels a computer monitor over and nods at me. “You ready?”

No. I nod, anyway.

He rolls up the shirt and pulls the waistband of the pants down slightly, exposing my stomach. His hands are clinical, not cold, but still I flinch when he presses the gel to my skin. The machine clicks on, a soft electronic hum filling the room.

I hold my breath.

Milo doesn’t. I feel his hand slip into mine, fingers curling around mine like he needs me more than I need him as he moves to slip on to the bed beside me. I squeeze back, maybe harder than I mean to.

Leone has his chin pinched between his fingers as he stares at my stomach as Doc moves the device around.

Then he turns around like he can’t handle watching.

A sound cuts through the room, loud and impossible. A rhythmic thump-thump-thump-thump-thump —fast, steady, and definitely there.

The heartbeat.

I break instantly. I sob. I didn’t even know I had tears left. It hits me like a tidal wave, this sound, this proof that there’s still life inside me, that something survived all that chaos. That I didn’t lose everything. That my baby made it.

Milo makes a strangled noise. I glance over and see him blink hard, jaw clenched, eyes glassy. Tears spill over anyway, track down his cheek, and he lets it. Doesn’t wipe it. Doesn’t flinch when I realize that’s the first time I’ve seen him cry.

I look toward Leone.

He’s frozen. His back still to us, his head lowered. When he turns, his expression is unguarded for the first time. His eyes are shining. He walks over slowly, then reaches out and places a hand on my knee.

Dr. Stevens smiles faintly. “You got lucky,” he says. “The baby’s strong. Heartbeat is excellent. No signs of distress.”

Lucky. That word. It hammers into my chest. I look between the two of them. Milo is still holding my hand, Leone touching me like I might vanish again, or he misheard Dr. Stevens.

You got lucky.

The words rattle around inside me, catching on every sharp edge of what we’ve been through. Dr. Stevens does some more tests, checks every inch of me over before doing another screening when Leone demands another like he still can’t believe it.

Dr. Stevens wipes the gel from my stomach with a towel. “You’ll be sore. From what I can tell right now? You and your baby are fine.” He says before looking at Leone. “They’re gonna be okay.” Leone nods slowly.

Milo kisses the back of my hand. Just once.

Leone exhales like he hasn’t breathed since I went missing.

“Thank you,” I whisper. I don’t even know who I’m thanking. God. The doctor. My baby. My mother.

All of them.

Dr. Stevens nods. “I’ll leave you to rest.” He packs up, already half-invisible to me as the relief sets in like heat from the sun after a long storm.

Leone stands, looking like he wants to say something.

Milo doesn’t let go of me.

I close my eyes, and for the first time in days, maybe weeks, I let myself believe that everything might actually be okay.

Or if not okay… at least survivable.

We got lucky.

And those three words may now just be my favorite.