I leaned back and closed my eyes. This wasn’t combat. No one was going to die if I didn’t move fast enough. Still, my chest ached with that same old tension, the kind that used to make my trigger finger itch.
A test. A possible baby. A future I hadn’t planned for.
This wasn’t war, but it was life—and somehow, that terrified me more than gunfire ever had.
The bathroom door clicked open, and I looked up quickly. Lilly stepped out, pale but steady, her hair a little mussed from where she’d run her hands through it. She caught my gaze for half a second before looking away.
“It’ll take a few minutes,” she said, voice low and even, the way someone talks when they’re trying not to let the room tilt.
She crossed to the couch and sat beside me. Our fingers found each other automatically, with no thought in it—just instinct and muscle memory from too many nights where words hadn’t been necessary. Her hand was cool, smaller than mine, but the grip was firm.
I studied her profile while the seconds stretched out, the soft angle of her jaw, the curve of her neck. She looked calm on the surface, but I could feel the tremor in her palm. She was brave, stronger than she probably realized, and that only made the tightness in my chest worse.
I wanted to say something that would make it easier, but there wasn’t anything that would. I felt protective and useless all at once—two things that shouldn’t exist in the same body but always did in mine.
The silence grew heavy, filled with the ticking of the old clock on her wall and the wind brushing the eaves outside. Then she said softly, almost like she was afraid to break the quiet, “If it’s positive, I don’t want you to feel tied down. I can handle things, but I’d want your help with the baby.”
The words hit like a body shot—solid, unexpected, and straight to the ribs.
I swallowed hard, forcing calm, hearing Monique’s voice in my head again:Listen for what’s underneath. Fear doesn’t always sound like fear.
I turned to her, kept my voice even. “Let’s see what it says first.”
Her chin dipped in a small nod. But the way her fingers tightened around mine told me she was already bracing for whatever came next.
The faint buzz of the timer jolted through the silence. For a heartbeat, we sat frozen on the couch. Then I stood, my pulse hammering in my ears, loud enough that it drowned out everything else. It felt like a countdown—one I couldn’t stop, one that would end in something permanent no matter what.
Lilly rose beside me, smoothing her palms over her jeans like she could wipe away nerves. We didn’t speak as we walked down the short hallway. The air felt heavier there, thick with the smell of soap and something faintly metallic from the sink.
She paused in the doorway first, her shoulder brushing mine. On the counter sat the plastic test, face down on a tissue. For a second, she just looked at it, not moving. I could hear her breathing—shallow, uneven—and the fan’s gentle breeze above us.
When she finally flipped it over, I swear the sound of the plastic hitting porcelain echoed.
Two lines. Bold. Undeniable.
Lilly exhaled, a shaky breath that came out somewhere between a laugh and a sob. Then, to my surprise, she smiled—a small, fragile thing that caught the light like glass.
I didn’t feel the same release. The world seemed to narrow until all I could register was the sound of her breathing beside me. Everything else fell away—the walls, the years of training, even the air in my lungs.
“This is…” I started, but the words caught. I cleared my throat, tried again. “This is new. And unexpected.”
Her gaze flicked up, meeting mine. “Yeah.”
She tried to hold my gaze, but I saw the flicker of uncertainty there—the look of someone waiting for rejection, for the man beside her to bolt.
I wanted to tell her I wasn’t going anywhere, but my mouth wouldn’t move. My pulse still hadn’t slowed.
She set the test down carefully and stepped back, her hands trembling just enough for me to notice. I reached for the counter to steady myself, pressing my palm flat against the cool surface. The tile edge bit into my skin, grounding me.
I’d faced chaos before. Fire, loss, noise. But this—this quiet moment in a small bathroom with two pink lines staring back at me—felt more life-altering than anything that had ever come before.
I reached for her hand before I could talk myself out of it. “I want to be here—for you, for this baby,” I said quietly. “But I need to talk to Monique first.”
Her brows drew together, confusion morphing across her face. “Your counselor?”
“Yeah.” I nodded, feeling the word stick in my throat. “She runs the VA therapy group. I’ve got work to do before I can promise anything.”
The admission burned on the way out, but it was the truth.
