Page 80 of Last Hand

Leone turns watching the doctor set things up, his brows drawn tight. He doesn’t come all the way back to the bed. Instead, he paces near the window, arms folded. Like he’s preparing himself for bad news that’ll punch a hole straight through him.

Dr. Stevens wheels a computer monitor over and nods at me. “You ready?”

No. I nod, anyway.

He rolls up the shirt and pulls the waistband of the pants down slightly, exposing my stomach. His hands are clinical, not cold, but still I flinch when he presses the gel to my skin. The machine clicks on, a soft electronic hum filling the room.

I hold my breath.

Milo doesn’t. I feel his hand slip into mine, fingers curling around mine like he needs me more than I need him as he moves to slip on to the bed beside me. I squeeze back, maybe harder than I mean to.

Leone has his chin pinched between his fingers as he stares at my stomach as Doc moves the device around.

Then he turns around like he can’t handle watching.

A sound cuts through the room, loud and impossible. A rhythmicthump-thump-thump-thump-thump—fast, steady, and definitely there.

The heartbeat.

I break instantly. I sob. I didn’t even know I had tears left. It hits me like a tidal wave, this sound, this proof that there’s still life inside me, that something survived all that chaos. That I didn’t lose everything. That my baby made it.

Milo makes a strangled noise. I glance over and see him blink hard, jaw clenched, eyes glassy. Tears spill over anyway, track down his cheek, and he lets it. Doesn’t wipe it. Doesn’t flinch when I realize that’s the first time I’ve seen him cry.

I look toward Leone.

He’s frozen. His back still to us, his head lowered. When he turns, his expression is unguarded for the first time. His eyes are shining. He walks over slowly, then reaches out and places a hand on my knee.

Dr. Stevens smiles faintly. “You got lucky,” he says. “The baby’s strong. Heartbeat is excellent. No signs of distress.”

Lucky. That word. It hammers into my chest. I look between the two of them. Milo is still holding my hand, Leone touching me like I might vanish again, or he misheard Dr. Stevens.

You got lucky.

The words rattle around inside me, catching on every sharp edge of what we’ve been through. Dr. Stevens does some more tests, checks every inch of me over before doing another screening when Leone demands another like he still can’t believe it.

Dr. Stevens wipes the gel from my stomach with a towel. “You’ll be sore. From what I can tell right now? You and your baby are fine.” He says before looking at Leone. “They’re gonna be okay.” Leone nods slowly.

Milo kisses the back of my hand. Just once.

Leone exhales like he hasn’t breathed since I went missing.

“Thank you,” I whisper. I don’t even know who I’m thanking. God. The doctor. My baby. My mother.

All of them.

Dr. Stevens nods. “I’ll leave you to rest.” He packs up, already half-invisible to me as the relief sets in like heat from the sun after a long storm.

Leone stands, looking like he wants to say something.

Milo doesn’t let go of me.

I close my eyes, and for the first time in days, maybe weeks, I let myself believe that everything might actually be okay.

Or if not okay… at least survivable.

We got lucky.

And those three words may now just be my favorite.

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