The waiting room was a whisper of white noise—muted conversations, the occasional rustle of paper, a nurse’s soft voice calling a name. Isabelle sat beside Sebastian, her hands folded tightly in her lap, her fingers picking nervously at a loose thread on her sleeve.
Sebastian couldn’t stop staring at her hands.
Her knuckles were pale, tight. Her nails bitten short. He wanted to reach for them, cover them with his own, steady her. But he didn’t know if he’d be holding her hand for her sake or his.
The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and lavender-scented hand sanitizer. That smell had been haunting him for days. Ever since the hospital. Ever since he’d carried her limp body through emergency doors, heart in his throat.
Now they were here.
A maternity clinic.
A real appointment. Not
