Page 49 of Angel
She’s listening.
And that alone scares me more than any positive test ever could.
Because it feels… real.
We don’t touch the test that night. It stays in the bathroom drawer, not hidden, not displayed.Just there. Maybe, a quiet question mark we both agree not to interrogate.
We eat dinner like normal. Talk about nothing important. The weather. A new job coming through Havoc Security. Pandora yelling at Tank for something stupid he probably deserved.Normal. It feels sacred.
When we go to bed, Stevie curls into me without hesitation.
No tension.
No edge.
Her forehead presses to my chest, and I wrap my arms around her like this moment is enough even if tomorrow rips it away. That’s new for me. Before, I would’ve been calculating timelines in my head. Counting days. Bracing. Now, I focus on her breathing.
The appointment is three days later. Three days of quiet check-ins of watching her eat breakfast again. Laugh once at something dumb on TV. Stand at the sink washing dishes like she belongs there. Like she never left. I don’t hover. But I notice everything. The way her hand rests low on her stomach sometimes, not gripping, not pleading.
I ride us to the clinic because she asks me to. Says she wants the wind in her hair, to feel the road under her bones. I don’t argue. She wraps her arms around my waist and leans into me like she trusts the road again. That’s bigger than she probably realizes.
The clinic parking lot feels too small for what we’re carrying. Inside, the waiting room smells like antiseptic and burnt coffee. A TV mounted too high plays some daytime talk show no one’s watching. A couple sits across from us whispering, their knees pressed together like they’re trying to become one person. Stevie’s knee bounces. I lace my fingers through hers and feel the tremor there.
“You can let go if you need to,” I murmur.
She shakes her head. “Don’t.” So, I don’t.
The nurse calls her name. Stevie stands first, she’s braver than I feel. The exam room is dim when the ultrasound machine hums to life. The sound hits something in my chest I wasn’t ready for.
I focus on Stevie’s face instead of the screen. I’ve learned that lesson. Her breath hitches when the wand presses against her belly. Her fingers dig into mine hard enough to hurt. Good, pain I understand.
The doctor is kind. That matters more than I expected. She moves the wand slowly, clicking keys, measuring shadows I can’t interpret. The seconds stretch. Stevie’s breathing gets shallow. I lean in, press my shoulder to hers, ground us both. Then the doctor pauses.
“Okay,” she says softly. “I’m seeing something.”
My heart slams into my ribs so hard I think she might hear it. Stevie’s eyes snap to mine.
“Is—” she starts.
“Just a second,” the doctor says gently. “I want to measure.”
Time becomes elastic. Every click of the keyboard is thunder. The doctor studies the screen. Tilts her head slightly. Then she looks at us.
“Well,” she says, smiling softly. “It seems you might be further along than you thought.”
Stevie blinks. “What?”
“Based on what I’m seeing,” the doctor continues, turning the screen slightly, “You’re measuring a bit ahead.” she checks something, then looks back at Stevie “You are measuring about twelve weeks.”
Further than before, the thought echoes around my head, as my eyes meet Stevie’s.
Further.
Than.
Before.
Stevie makes a sound I’ve never heard, half laugh, half sob and clamps a hand over her mouth. My own vision blurs. I don’t speak as I’m not sure I could trust my voice right now.
