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“Take me to see him,” I tell Rudy, and he gives me the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen.
He really is a gorgeous man. Too gorgeous. Makes me feel all weak and wobbly inside.
But he’s strong, too, and he doesn’t shy away from the tubes and equipment and bandages over me. He doesn’t protest like my mother does about me moving, he just brings a wheelchair over and helps me into it, then smooths my hair back and puts a strong hand on my shoulder. I reach up and cover his hand with mine, letting out a long sigh.
Then Rudy wheels me to the NICU, and I go and meet my baby.
“I’m sad I didn’t get to experience birth,” I say quietly. After everything I’ve been through over the past few months, I wanted that moment when I got to push, when I got to feel my baby’s skin against my chest.
One of the wheels of my wheelchair gives a squeaky whine with each turn. Rudy rumbles softly at my back, pushing me steadily down the bright hallway. “I experienced it for the both of us,” he says grimly. “You’re lucky you were asleep for it. I don’t think I’ve ever been so scared.”
We turn a corner and I see signs pointing to the NICU. “Your mom died when you were born,” I say, remembering one of our first conversations, realization dawning. “You thought I was going to die too.”
He huffs, and I wish I could see his face. Instead, we head down the hallway and turn into the ward.
My baby is in an incubator wearing a diaper that looks too big. He has a shock of black hair on his head and the most perfect fingers and toes I’ve ever seen. I suck in a breath, leaning forward in my chair until the stitches in my stomach protest. Rudy engages the brakes on my wheelchair and moves to the other side of the incubator.
Dragging my gaze away from my son, I look at Rudy. He meets my eyes over the baby and smiles gently. “He’s perfect, Iliana.”
Moisture gathers in my eyes as I look down again, slowly threading my arm through the hole to touch my baby’s soft, soft skin. “He is,” I whisper. “He’s finally here.”
Rudy hesitates on the other side of the incubator, then clears his throat. “May I?” he asks, hands near the holes on the other side.
I nod, unable to speak. With infinite care, he runs one of his long, masculine fingers over my son’s ear and down his arm. My baby immediately wraps his fingers around Rudy’s index, and we both let out a surprised laugh.
“He likes you,” I say. “I’m trying not to be jealous.”
“I came here and read him some fairy tales earlier,” Rudy says, redness rising on his cheeks. “I didn’t know if you’d want me to touch him so I didn’t, but I thought he might like some company in the first few hours of his life. He probably recognized my voice.”
A hard, painful fist grips my heart. This beautiful, caring man dropped everything today to be here, and even made sure that my baby wasn’t alone. We stay there for a while, until I shift in the wheelchair and Rudy notices me wince. Then, we’re rolling that squeaky wheel all the way back to my room. I fall asleep with a smile on my face and my fingers intertwined with Rudy’s.
Those first few weeks are hard to keep track of. I learn that I had a placenta abruption, where the placenta pulled away from my uterine wall. I could have lost the baby if Rudy hadn’t gotten me to the hospital so quickly. My son, Liam, was born at thirty-three weeks, three weeks shy of full-term. They’ll have to keep him in the NICU for a while, but the doctors tell me he’s doing great, and they don’t think he’ll have any long-term health problems.
I keep waiting for Rudy to tell me he’s busy, that he has to leave. I keep waiting for his eyes to dim as he tells me that this is too much for him, and that he didn’t sign up for a woman in remission from breast cancer with a preemie baby.
But every day, Rudy’s here beside me. It doesn’t matter what the weather is, what day of the week it is, or what’s going on with his business. He always comes back, and I’ve started relying on his presence. I wonder if all the weeks I spent alone have been for naught, because I’ve just gone ahead and asked him to save me anyway.
One day, a week after I give birth, Rudy enters my room as he slides his phone into his pocket. He’d stepped out to talk to one of his employees, and he comes right back to take a seat beside my bed.
“So when’s your flight?” I ask, voice carefully casual.
Rudy frowns. “My flight?”
“You said you were leaving for the holidays.” I pause, holding my breath, because suddenly I feel awfully nervous about facing days or weeks without him by my side.
But Rudy just laughs. “Lily, you’re going to have to try a lot harder than that to get rid of me. I’m spending the holidays right here. And if you get out in time, I’m spending the holidays at my house.” A twinge of disappointment passes through me, until Rudy slides his broad hand over my jaw to cup my cheek. “And so are you.”
I blink. “What?”
“Your apartment is tiny, and it’s too small for the three of us. You’ll move in with me.”
My brows lower. There are a lot of things in those two sentences that I have to question, because it sounds like he’s ordering me around. A lot of assumptions Rudy seems to be making, including the fact that he seems to think I’m moving in with him, and he’s using words like “the three of us.” I’m ignoring the fact that I kind of love the way those words sound.
“Do I get a choice in the matter?” I snip, arching a brow. “Or are you going all caveman on me again.”
“I’m going all caveman on you,” Rudy informs me, dead serious. “If you don’t want to move into my place, fine. I’ll deal with your apartment, even if it does smell musty and moldy as hell. But I don’t care, because I’m staying with you, Lily. We’ve wasted enough time dancing around each other. I’ve watched you bear these burdens on your own for the past six months, and I’m sick of standing aside. You made your point, babe, you’re strong and brave and you kick ass. And now you’re mine.”
My heart just…melts.
