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The world tilts on its axis.
“I didn’t lose them,” I breathe, as the truth crashes in like a rogue wave.
He nods.
Tears spring to my eyes, stinging and sudden, hot as lightning. “How?”
“You got in the Uber,” he says, voice rough, like each word scrapes his throat on the way out. “You never made it to the airport.”
My breath stills.
“There was a head-on collision,” he continues, quieter now. “The other driver crossed into oncoming traffic. No warning. No chance to stop.”
He doesn’t mention the blood. The sirens. The call that shattered everything. He doesn’t have to.
“I didn’t call you,” I murmur, more to myself than to him. “You didn’t know.”
His eyes darken. “Reese called me. She—she was the one listed on your emergency contact forms.”
A beat of silence falls between us.
“I was alone?” I ask, even though I already know the answer. My heart does. It’s breaking around it.
The floor disappears beneath me.
And I fall.
But Fletch catches me.
Arms solid and warm and shaking as he holds me against him like I’m the only thing tethering him to this moment.
“I’m sorry,” he chokes out. “I wanted to be there sooner. I should’ve been.”
I cry into his chest, the dream splintering around us like ice beneath our feet. I cry for the babies I never held, for the months I believed a lie because it hurt less, for the man in front of me who was once mine and maybe still is and maybe never will be again.
“Why now?” I whisper against him. “Why is this happening now?”
“Because,” he breathes, lips brushing the top of my hair, “you’re getting stronger. Your body’s healing. And your mind… it’s trying to decide whether it wants to wake up or stay in the lie.”
I lift my head slowly.
“Which one do you want?”
His gaze meets mine.
And I swear I’ve never seen anything as raw.
“You.” His voice breaks on the word. “I just want you.”
He holds me like he’s afraid I’ll vanish. Like I’m the dream and he’s the one desperate to stay asleep.
But we both know that’s not true.
“I don’t want to go,” I whisper, voice trembling like the rest of me. “Not if it means losing them… this.”
His arms tighten, but not possessively. Not to keep me here.
To say goodbye.
