The Test
866 Words
Week 20. Exactly halfway.
Damian was still on light duty. No lifting. Doctor’s orders. He hated it. Followed me around the apartment like I was made of glass.
“Water?” he asked, already pouring.
“Feet up?” He had a pillow before I sat.
“Breathe with me?” He’d learned the breathing exercises from a YouTube video at 2am.
I laughed. “I’m pregnant, not dying, Mr. Overprotective.”
He didn’t laugh back. Just kissed my knuckles. “You’re carrying my world. I get to panic.”
That night, I woke up wet. Not water. Blood.
One spot on the sheets. Small. Red. Terrifying.
My breath caught. “Damian.”
He was awake instantly. Like he never slept deep. Saw the sheet. Saw my face.
And the man who faced down Isabella, fire, and bankruptcy went white.
“Don’t move,” he said. Voice flat. Scared. He was already dialing 911 with shaking hands. “Ambulance. 20 weeks pregnant. Bleeding. Please hurry.”
I grabbed his wrist. “Damian, breathe. It’s okay. Maybe it’s nothing—”
“It’s not nothing,” he snapped. Then broke. “Ava, please. Don’t you dare leave me. Not after Chapter 20. Not after the cribs. Not after I promised them I’d be here.”
He scooped me up. Bandaged ribs screaming. Carried me to the door in just his hoodie and my bare feet.
“I got you,” he whispered the whole 4 flights down. Sweat on his brow. Pain on his face. “I got you. I got them. Don’t you leave me. Don’t you leave us.”
The EMTs took over at the curb. Loaded me in. Damian tried to climb in too.
“Sir, only one—”
“I’m the father,” he said. Eyes wild. “I’m the husband. I’m not letting go.”
The EMT looked at him. Bandages, hoodie, terrified. Nodded.
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*County General - Again*
Room 6 this time. Ultrasound machine cold.
Doctor moved the wand. Silence. Too long.
Damian held my hand so tight I lost feeling. Stared at the screen like he could will the heartbeats to stay.
“Okay,” the doctor said finally. “Baby A is fine. Strong heartbeat. Baby B… there’s a small subchorionic hematoma. That’s the bleeding. But both babies are stable. Heartbeats are good.”
Damian didn’t exhale until she said “stable”.
He dropped his forehead to our joined hands. Shook. “Thank God. Thank God.”
The doctor gave me bed rest orders. No standing for 48 hours. No stress.
Damian nodded at everything. Wrote it down on his hospital wristband with a pen he stole.
When we got home, he didn’t let me walk. Carried me to the mattress on the floor. Set me down gentle. Covered me with every blanket we owned.
Then he sat on the floor. Back against the bed. My hand in his.
“I thought I lost you,” he whispered. Eyes closed. “In Chapter 15 I pulled you from fire. Tonight I almost couldn’t pull you from this.”
I stroked his hair. “You didn’t lose us. We’re here. Both of them. Both of us. Because of you.”
He looked up. Eyes red. “I can’t fix this with money, Ava. I can’t sign a contract and make the bleeding stop. I can’t burn a company and make you safe.”
I cupped his face. “You don’t have to fix it. You just have to sit here. Hold my hand. Talk to them.”
He did. For hours.
Pressed his ear to my stomach. “Hey, baby girl. Daddy’s here. Don’t scare us like that again, okay? Stay put. Grow big. Mama needs you to be brave.”
Then the other side. “Hey, little man. I know you’re strong like your mom. Hold on for her. Hold on for me. I’ll hold on for all of you.”
He fell asleep like that. Talking to them. Hand on me. Tears on his cheeks.
I watched him. The CEO who owned towers. Now reduced to prayers and whispers.
And I realized: this was the man I chose in Chapter 10.
Not the billionaire. Not the boss.
The man who’d carry me down 4 flights with broken ribs because “don’t leave me” mattered more than “don’t get hurt.”
At dawn, he woke. First thing he did was check my stomach with his palm.
“Still there?” he whispered.
“Still here,” I said. Kissed his forehead. “We’re all still here.”
He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath all night.
Then he pulled out the scrap wood from Chapter 19. Set it by the bed.
“I can’t lift it,” he said. “But I can sand it. I can talk to you while you rest. I can build, even broken.”
And he did. Sat there for hours. Sanding wood with one hand. Holding mine with the other. Talking to our babies about a world he’d make safe for them.
Broke. Bandaged. Terrified.
But present.
That was his superpower now. Not money. Not power.
Presence.
- Writer
