Not since we walked in.
Jackson is on the other side of her, leaning close, his hand moving gently through her hair, smoothing it back from her face, tucking it behind her ear, undoing the mess it had been left in after everything that happened.
Every few minutes, he leans down and presses a kiss to her temple, her cheek, her forehead, like he needs to remind himself she’s real, like he needs the contact just as much as she does.
“Come on, sweetheart,” he murmurs quietly, his voice softer than I’ve ever heard it. “You’ve slept long enough. You’re going to wake up and tell me I look like shit, yeah? That’s what you do. You insult me and then pretend you didn’t.”
There’s a small break in his voice.
He swallows it down.
Keeps going.
“You don’t get to skip that part. I’m waiting.”
She doesn’t move.
Doesn’t react.
And the longer it stays like that, the heavier the room feels.
I drag a hand over my face slowly, my fingers catching on dried blood I haven’t cleaned yet, and I don’t stop to fix it. I don’t want to leave the room long enough to wash it off. I don’t want to step away from her at all.
My gaze drops to her stomach without meaning to.
Lower abdomen.
That’s where the doctor said.
That’s where...
My chest tightens.
Pregnant.
The word still doesn’t sit properly.
It keeps catching on everything else.
On the image of her on that floor.
On the blood.
On the way her body didn’t move.
And now this.
Six weeks.
That means she didn’t even know.
Or maybe she did.
Maybe she was going to tell us. The thought lands wrong. Heavy. Sharp.
“What are you thinking?”
Jackson’s voice pulls me back.
