Page 93 of Priest

“You might want to consider maternity leave soon,” she adds gently. “Get off your feet.”

Blue nods without committing.

Stubborn woman.

As the doctor turns toward the door, Blue clears her throat, the movement subtle but intentional.

“I was hoping,” she says, tone easing into something more collegial than clinical. “Any chance you’ve got a minute for a quick look? I know it’s not scheduled.”

The doctor pauses, already halfway out, then glances back at her with a knowing smile. “Just curiosity?”

Blue’s mouth curves faintly. “Professional courtesy? Daddy here hasn’t gotten to see the baby yet.”

There’s a beat, the unspoken exchange of favors banked and owed, and then the doctor sighs, good-natured.

“Alright,” she says. “I think we can manage that, head into the other room. But we don’t tell anyone I did this for you.”

After Blue gets settled on the table and the screen flickers to life, I forget how to breathe.

That’s my kid.

A shape. A movement. Proof that this life exists whether I’m ready or still trying to catch up. My throat tightens hard enough it almost hurts.

“You know what we’re havin’?” I ask.

Blue smiles. “I decided to wait.”

I want to argue. Want to know. Instead, I nod. “Okay.”

We walk out together a few minutes later. At the doors, she pauses and looks back over her shoulder.

“You alright?” I ask.

She hesitates, fingers tightening briefly around the strap of her bag. “I just got the strangest feeling.”

I glance at her. “What kind?”

She shrugs, almost dismissive. “Probably nothing. I can’t really explain it.”

I smile, trying to keep it light even as that answer sits wrong in my gut. “You work long shifts. Your brain’s allowed to mess with you a little.” I let the moment settle, then take the chance before I can talk myself out of it. “I was wonderin’ can I come by later, make you dinner again? Maybe we can talk? Or I can help with anything else you need done in the nursery?”

“Um,” she says, hesitating as her hand drifts to her stomach.

I wait, every part of me praying she gives in, gives me this chance, gives me this opening.

“Yeah, I guess. I mean, I hate cooking and you do seem to make some decent food.”

I laugh at that with relief.

“You want me to walk you out?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

She shakes her head. “No. I’m good. You go visit Deacon. I really am glad he’s finally awake.”

Then she gives me a quick hug before walking off.

I watch her go, more out of habit than concern, the weight of the appointment still sitting warm in my chest. The image of that screen. That small, impossible life. Our future.

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