Page 67 of Better as It

I smile faintly. “You were watching out for me even then.”

“I didn’t want to be,” he admits. “Not at first. It felt wrong. You were his.”

“But you still wanted a connection to me.”

“Yeah,” he says softly.

I trace the tattoos on his forearm with my fingertips.

“I’m scared,” I admit.

“Of labor?”

I shake my head. “Of what comes next.”

He pulls me closer, resting his forehead against mine.

“You don’t have to be brave right now.”

“I want to be.”

“I know,” he says, brushing a kiss against my cheek. “But it’s okay to be scared too.”

His voice sounds stronger tonight. Not physically, his body’s still wrecked from treatment earlier this week, but emotionally.

Like he’s already crossed into whatever comes after fear.

I want to follow him there.

We get out of bed around midnight and sit on the back porch wrapped in a blanket. The autumn air is crisp, but not cold. The kind that smells like pine and smoke and something ancient.

Justin hands me a mug of warm milk—my grandmother’s old sleep trick according to my mom—and takes a sip of his own tea.

We don’t speak for a while.

We just sit.

Rocking slightly in the wooden chairs Tank fixed for us last month.

The stars are bright tonight.

Justin leans over and says, “Do you think they know? Babies? When it’s time?”

“I think they do.”

“I think ours is stubborn,” he says, smirking.

I laugh. “Wonder where they got that from.”

He grins.

But it fades too fast.

His face goes serious. Quiet.

“If I don’t make it,” he says, “I need you to know.”

“No,” I cut him off. “Don’t do this.”

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