Page 67 of Dissonance

She sighs, her entire upper body practically deflating. “I know. You’re right.”

Thea checks us in at the front desk while I hang back, watching the efficient way she works through the admin. The receptionist hands her a clipboard, and she nods, smiling politely as we move into the waiting area. Her pen moves quickly over the form, filling out her name, address, insurance, her foot tapping lightly against the floor as she writes.

It’s quiet, with only a handful of other women scattered around the room. One of them is heavily pregnant, one hand resting on the curve of her stomach while her partner scrolls on his phone beside her, oblivious.

My gaze lingers before I glance sideways at Thea. From here, you’d never know. No change, no curve, no obvious sign of the life growing inside her. But the image sticks—months from now, that will be her, round and heavy with our child.

And I’ll be there for every bit of it.

We haven’t talked about any of the logistics yet. What it means, what we’re doing, where this is going. There’s been moments—evenings that felt close—but then she’d be exhausted before the words came, or the morning sickness would kick in, or she’d fall asleep on the sofa before either of us got the chance. And I’m not going to push. Not when navigating pregnancy is such a challenge.

She’d need a clear head for that conversation, and so would I. There are things I’m working toward that I’m not ready to voice yet, not to her, not until they’re solid enough to be an actual plan. But I’m getting there. Quietly. The same way I do most things.

“You okay?” she asks, biting the inside of her cheek, curbing the smile trying to spread on her face.

“Aye. You?”

She lets out a long breath. “I’m a little nervous, honestly. I mean, this is the first time we’ll actually see anything.”

Her fingers hover over her stomach before she pulls them back, sliding the clipboard onto the table. When her hands twist together in her lap, I reach out and cover one, and she turns it over slowly, letting her fingers slide through mine.

Somewhere down that hallway, there’s a screen that’s going to show me my kid for the first time.

Our kid.

Her grip tightens when her name is called, not letting go as we walk to get her vitals, or when we’re shown into the exam room. A narrow bed sits in the middle, a monitor beside it, wires running to a small machine that hums steadily in the background. Sun streams in through the window, trees moving outside while the ultrasound tech walks over and pulls the blinds closed.

“Can you hop up here for me? And if you could tuck your pants down as low as comfortable, that would be great.”

Thea gives me one last look and climbs up, the paper-covering rustling as she settles back, hands loosely resting on her thighs, waistband folded down below the flat plane of her lower stomach. The tech rolls a stool closer, shifting her blouse and reaching for the gel.

“This might feel a little cold.”

Thea sucks in a sharp breath as the tech presses the wand to her skin, eyes fixed on the monitor as it flickers to life. It’s gray at first, nothing but static shapes and blurry shadows shifting across the screen.

“Everything looks good,” she says as she moves the probe and adjusts the angle. Thea nods, not looking away once. Her hands curl into fists at her sides, lips slightly parted as she watches, waits. I step forward, taking one in mine again, our fingers lacing wordlessly together.

The screen sharpens, and there it is. Small, curled, a tiny shape floating in a dark pocket of space. I lean forward at the same time Thea does, unable to breathe.

“Oh.” The word leaves her like she didn’t mean to voice it out loud.

The tech smiles, eyes wrinkling at the sides. “There’s your little one.”

I stare at the screen, listening as she points out body parts: the head, legs, arms, each one more remarkable than the last. The most precious, impossibly real small thing I’ve ever seen.

“See that wiggle?” she asks. “Baby’s moving.”

Thea lets out a quiet breath beside me as she stares, unblinking, at the screen.

“Okay…now let’s listen for a heartbeat.” The tech adjusts the wand, pressing some buttons on the machine. The room goes still, and for a second, there’s nothing, and then—

Rapid, insistent thudding fills the room, a tiny galloping that sounds like it belongs somewhere else and not on the screen. Thea’s head turns to me, a slow smile breaking across her face, green eyes bright and shining.

Her grip tightens around mine, squeezing hard as I stand there, holding on, listening to that sound. Thea’s thumb moves slowly across the back of my knuckles, grounding herself against me as she watches. I don’t think she knows she’s doing it. I don’t say a word.

Because that… This is real. Not a conversation, not a test result, not a blurry idea on a screen. That’s our child.

“Strong heartbeat,” the tech says, nodding to herself.