Page 111 of Once Upon A Second Chance

“You holding up all right?” I ask.

She nods. “Sure. I just wanted to give her a minute to rest before they wheel her out.”

Her hand brushes her stomach again, fingers splaying out a little, like she’s grounding herself.

And something in me justaches—with love, with wonder, with the weight of everything this is going to mean.

We’re going to be parents.

There’s a world before those words, and a world after.

And we’re already in the after.

“I was watching you,” I say quietly.

She arches a brow. “Oh yeah?”

“You’ve been holding your stomach.”

She pauses, looking down, then smiles faintly. “Have I?”

“Yeah.”

She doesn’t offer an explanation, and I don’t press for one. Instead, I reach for her hand—the one not pressed to her belly—and link our fingers together, gently.

“I’m not sure I know what I’m doing,” I admit. “But I know I want to do it with you.”

Her grip tightens around mine.

And just like that, the waiting room hum fades, the charting noises dim, and it’s just us again.

The road stretches ahead, quiet and familiar. We’ve driven this route a dozen times now—back from late shifts, from my place to hers, from the Farmer’s Market on weekends. But tonight, it feels different.

Like we’re suspended in something softer, more fragile. The world around us is hushed, wrapped in that velvety darkness that only small towns get after midnight.

I keep one hand on the wheel and glance sidewaysat Penny.

She’s resting her head against the window, her legs pulled up slightly in the seat. Her eyes are open, but she’s not looking at anything—just letting the trees blur past like background noise.

She’s curled in on herself a little, arms crossed not tightly but unconsciously. Protective. Still processing. Maybe a little shaken by the sudden turn of the night.

Her other hand drifts down to her stomach again, fingers splaying absently.

It’s not dramatic or self-aware. She’s not playing to anyone.

It’s instinct.

And God, it undoes me.

I look back at the road and let my mind drift to the idea that’s been quietly taking root ever since we sat side by side in her bathroom and read the word together.

Pregnant.

The word still knocks the wind out of me. In a good way. In a terrifying way. In a way that feels like it’spressing against every rib in my chest with a slow, steady pressure.

I want to marry her.

It’s not new—not some reaction to the test. It’s been there, under the surface, all along. Something patient, something steady. A truth waiting for its moment.