Chapter 67 Michael’s First Nightmare About Losing Them
1094 Words
Michael had not dreamed in years.
Not the kind that lingered.
Not the kind that clawed its way into his chest and stayed there long after his eyes opened.
Sleep, for him, had always been clinical—necessary, measured, controlled. He closed his eyes, his body rested, and his mind shut down. No chaos. No wandering thoughts. No fear.
Until that night.
It began without warning.
He was standing in a hospital corridor, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the air sharp with antiseptic. The hallway stretched endlessly in both directions, doors lining the walls—each one labeled, each one closed.
He knew this place.
Too well.
His hands were trembling, though he didn’t know why at first. He looked down and realized they were empty.
No charts.
No gloves.
No control.
“Marnie?” he called out.
His voice echoed, swallowed by the corridor.
Panic crept in, slow and cold.
He ran.
His footsteps sounded wrong—too loud, too hollow—as he passed door after door. Each one he tried was locked.
“Marnie!” he shouted again, louder now.
At the far end of the hall, a single door stood open.
Light spilled from it—warm, golden, out of place in the sterile white world.
He rushed toward it.
Inside, the room was impossibly quiet.
Marnie lay on a hospital bed, pale and still. Machines surrounded her, their screens dark, their wires tangled uselessly around her body.
“No,” he whispered, rushing to her side. “No, no, no—”
He reached for her hand, but his fingers passed through it.
Like she wasn’t real.
Like he was already too late.
He turned frantically, searching the room.
Two bassinets stood near the window.
Empty.
His heart slammed violently against his ribs.
“Where are they?” he demanded, his voice breaking for the first time. “Where are my children?”
There was no answer.
Only silence.
Then, from somewhere behind him—
A flat, mechanical sound.
A long, unbroken tone.
He spun back toward Marnie, dread tearing through him—
And woke up.
Michael gasped, sucking in air like he had been drowning.
The room was dark.
Quiet.
Real.
His heart pounded violently, sweat soaking the back of his shirt, his hands clenched into fists against the sheets. For a split second, disorientation gripped him—his body still trapped between dream and waking.
Then he felt it.
Warmth.
Weight.
Life.
Marnie stirred beside him, her brow furrowing as she sensed his distress even in sleep. His arm was still around her, his hand resting over her belly exactly where it always was.
The twins kicked faintly, as if responding to his racing pulse.
Michael pressed his palm down gently, grounding himself.
They were here.
She was here.
He closed his eyes, breathing slowly, deliberately—like he taught his patients in moments of panic.
In through the nose.
Out through the mouth.
Still, his chest ached.
“Michael?” Marnie murmured sleepily. “Are you okay?”
Her voice—soft, alive—cut through the remnants of the nightmare like light breaking through fog.
He turned toward her, careful not to wake her fully. But when he saw her eyes flutter open, concern already forming, something inside him cracked.
“I’m fine,” he said automatically.
She frowned.
“You’re not,” she replied quietly. “Your heart is racing.”
Of course she noticed.
She always did.
He hesitated, then sighed, pulling her closer until her head rested against his chest.
“I had a dream,” he admitted.
She stiffened slightly. “A bad one?”
“Yes.”
She waited.
He rarely talked about his fears. When he did, it mattered.
“I lost you,” he said simply. “And the babies.”
Her breath caught.
She lifted her head, searching his face in the dim light. His expression was controlled, but she could see it—the tightness in his jaw, the faint sheen in his eyes.
“You didn’t,” she said firmly. “We’re here.”
“I know,” he replied. “But it felt real.”
She placed his hand more securely over her belly.
The twins responded again, stronger this time.
Michael swallowed hard.
“I’ve spent my entire life believing that if I was careful enough, skilled enough, prepared enough, I could prevent loss,” he said quietly. “That knowledge was protection.”
She listened, her hand rubbing soothing circles over his chest.
“But with you… with them… I realize now how fragile everything truly is.”
Her voice softened. “That doesn’t make you weak.”
“It terrifies me,” he confessed. “Because I don’t know how to exist in a world where I can’t control the outcome.”
She shifted, sitting up slightly so she could look at him properly.
“Michael,” she said gently, “you don’t have to control everything. You just have to be here.”
He met her gaze, vulnerable in a way he rarely allowed himself to be.
“What if being here isn’t enough?”
She reached up and cupped his face, her touch warm and steady.
“Then we face it together,” she said. “Just like we are now.”
He closed his eyes briefly, leaning into her hand.
After a moment, he whispered, “I didn’t realize how much I loved them until I thought I’d lost them.”
Her lips curved into a soft, sad smile.
“That’s how I knew you were going to be an incredible father,” she said. “You love them even in your fear.”
Silence settled between them again, but it was no longer heavy.
Michael lay back down, pulling her carefully against him. This time, he held her tighter—not out of panic, but out of gratitude.
“I’m sorry if I woke you,” he murmured.
She shook her head, resting her cheek over his heart.
“I’m glad you did,” she replied. “Now I know what keeps you awake at night too.”
His heartbeat gradually slowed, syncing with hers.
As sleep finally claimed him again, the nightmare did not return.
Because this time, when he closed his eyes, he wasn’t standing alone in a sterile hallway.
He was exactly where he needed to be.
Holding the woman he loved.
Protecting the lives growing between them.
And learning—slowly, painfully, beautifully—that love was worth every fear it brought with it.
- Writer
