Page 6 of Angel
“I can’t talk about this right now.”
And just like that, she’s gone again, into the bathroom, and the door is closing softly. I sit there for a long time. The bed is still warm where she was. And I realize somethin’ that twists my gut raw. She’s fightin’ her body like it’s the enemy. And I don’t know how to stand between them without losin’ her altogether.
Because if I push too hard, she’ll see me as another obstacle, something she has to fight through. And if I stay quiet, she’ll disappear completely.
I’ve led men into gunfire. Negotiated peace between clubs that wanted blood. Buried brothers and kept my head clear enough to hold the line.
But this?This quiet war in my own house—I don’t know the right move. All I know is the woman I married used to laugh loudly, pull me into the shower with her, and lean across the table at the diner and steal fries off my plate like she owned the world.
Now she owns a notebook.An app. A schedule.And I’m startin’ to feel like I’m just a means to an end. That thought alone makes me feel like the worst kind of man. Because I know that ain’t her intention. But intention don’t stop impact.
I lie down beside her when she finally comes to bed, and she faces away from me. Phone glowing in her hand. I reach out anyway and wrap my arm around her waist. She goes still for a second and then lets me.
I press my face into her shoulder and breathe her in. Shampoo. Soap. That faint, sterile scent that still won’t leave.
“I love you,” I murmur.
“I know,” she whispers.
And that’s when it hits me hardest. She didn’t say it back. Not because she doesn’t. But because right now, love ain’t the fight she’s focused on winning.
And I’m standin’ on the sidelines of a war I don’t know how to stop.
Chapter Three
Stevie
There’s a right way to do things, and I know that now. That’s what all the articles say. All the forums. All the women who swore they cracked the code after years of heartbreak and disappointment, and doctors who shrugged like they were out of answers.
Do this.
Don’t do that.
Cut this out.
Add this in.
Track everything.
If you just do it right, your body will fall in line. That’s the lie I’m clinging to. Because the alternative is worse, the alternative is that this is random.Uncontrollable.That my body decides without consulting me. And I refuse to believe that.
I wake before my alarm, heart already racing like I’ve missed something. The room is still dark. Angel’s breathing deep and steady beside me. He sleeps on his stomach, one arm thrown over my side of the bed like he’s claiming space even in dreams. I watch him for a second. He looks peaceful, and he deserves that.
I slip out carefully, easing his arm aside without waking him, and pad into the bathroom with my phone clutched tight in my hand.Same routine. Same ritual.
Thermometer. Under the tongue. Five minutes. Don’t move. Don’t breathe too hard. Don’t fuck it up.
I sit on the edge of the tub, back straight, eyes on the clock app counting down. The house feels too quiet. Every tiny sound is amplified, like the hum of the fridge. Pipes settling. My own pulse in my ears.
The beep sounds too loud when it comes. I wince. Then stare at the number like it’s going to either save me or damn me. 97.84. Higher than yesterday. Not enough to mean anything yet. But enough to make my pulse kick. I log it immediately. The chart updated. Line rising. Hope creeping in like it owns the place.
I brush my teeth while scrolling through graphs, comparing mine to strangers’. Women, I don’t know but somehow trust more than my own body. They talk about luteal phases and progesterone dips like they’re decoding ancient runes. I read every word.
Someone says a temperature rise of 0.4 degrees changed everything for her. Someone else says consistency matters more than spikes. I screenshot both.
Angel knocks once on the door.
“You okay in there?”
