"So you said you had some bleeding since the last check-up. We'll take a look and see if we can figure out why. Ready?"

And she nods her head again and looks away, she can't stand the wait. He's holding her hand, trying to calm herdown, but really just trying to calm down. And the gel is cold, and then the machine is pressing into it, her abdomen's the playing field.

And then, then there's a sound. The sound to set their hearts to.

And she looks at him, then at the screen, and it's barely there, barely visible. It's a miracle, it's everything, it's the dream, their dream. They're lost in it, in the moment the dream clashed with reality. They're too busy taking it in to notice the doctor trying to see, zooming in pensively. And then the quiet settles in, the doctor looking at them reassuringly. "Why don't you get dressed and we can go over everything in my office." It's not a question, it's an instruction, it's the next step, it's the first step. But they don't know, no, they're oblivious to it all.

And he's getting her clothes, helping her put them on, clumsily, childishly aware of the irony. It's making them both chuckle, making them smile.

They're sitting down, their hands are on her leg, they're talking, planning, living ahead. They don't notice the doctor's come in until she's sitting down, and instantly they can tell, her somber expression is a giveaway. And now, he's squeezing her hand, as if to say, "It will be OK", but all that comes out is, "What's wrong?"

"Liv, you have a condition called Placenta Previa. It means that your placenta is lower than we'd like."

He can see the panic flashing across her face; she doesn't understand; he doesn't understand.

"What does that mean?"

"There is a danger of bleeding during pregnancy, and it will be a high risk delivery."

No, that can't be right. And her knuckles are white, she's holding onto him for dear life.

"What are the risks?" She's trying to sound matter-of-factly, trying to change the answer, alter the truth by the fake calm of her voice, but they both know, they're in for a storm.

"In the best case scenario it could just mean that we will have to take special care during delivery."

"But this is not a best case scenario." It's an admission of defeat, not a plea for hope.

"No, it's not. We will need to do more tests, but it seems likely that you are a grade three or four, which means that there is a risk for severe bleeding. That means in the best-case scenario we will have to deliver by C-section, but there is a risk of pre-term contractions, and pre-term labor." And there's a pause, a pregnant pause ironically, that's not it, there's more, they all know. "That means there is increased danger of fetal and maternal death."

Silence. The clock is ticking away, the sound of passing time.

"What are our options?"

"We do more tests. You take it one day at the time until we know more. It is likely you will have to be on bed rest towards the end of the pregnancy and hopefully, that prevents hemorrhaging. If it does happen, then you will get blood transfusions. We can give the fetus steroids for lung growth, just in case. And we monitor you closely. I mean, Liv, the worst case scenario is unlikely. We will do everything we can to make sure both of you come out of this just fine." And she's giving them a reassuring smile, but they're completely frozen in time. "There is another option, but with your history…"

"No."

"Liv, you might want to consider it, especially since we caught it relatively early. Usually it's not diagnosed until well into the second trimester. Termination is a possibility. You could…"

And she's cutting her off, "What try again? No. This baby is a miracle, so that is not an option."

"Well you can take a few days to think about it." And she's saying it to him, and he knows what that means.

She hangs her coat on the rack and takes her heels off before sinking onto the couch.

"We need to talk." And he hates himself for it, for being the devil's advocate, and she'll hate him too, but it's worth it – saving her.

"One minute. Just one minute. I just want to pretend for one minute. Please." And it's the please that breaks his hear, the plea and the desperation in her voice, he can't say no. So instead, he sits next to her and she cuddles into him, her arms pulling him in. And his are around her, one squeezing her shoulder,; while the other one hovers above her abdomen. For a minute they can pretend. He kisses her temple, and with that the moment is gone, the pretending done.

"I don't want to terminate."

"I don't want you to either. But we could lose the baby anyway."

"It's a remote possibility. This, on the other hand is final. I'm not doing it. I want this baby."

"Liv you could die. Or did you miss that part? You matter, to me, to this baby." And he pauses, he's going in for the punch. It's playing dirty, but it has to be done. "You grew up without a mom Liv, and you know how much it sucked. Can you honestly tell me you'd want that for this baby."

And she's stunned. She didn't think he would, she didn't think he could play that card. She's furious. "You're trying to guilt me into this! And I get it, you're scared, but guess what – I'm scared too. I'm terrified. But this baby, it's you and me. It's us. Your eyes and my lips, and your charm and my stubborn streak. It's you and me. And I can't, I don't want to give that up." And the tears are no longer burning in her eyes, no, now they're rolling down her face, they're in freefall. And she's telling him, she's letting him in. "I'm terrified. I'm terrified I could die and leave you behind. I am terrified, and I need you. I want this baby, and it's the scariest thing in the world, so I need you. I need you to hold my hand, and I need you to tell me it's going to be OK, I need you to lie, and to pretend, because I can't. If I don't do this, it will kill me. I might not die, but it will kill me." And she's sobbing, barely breathing; the breaths shallow and uneven; terrified. She's unraveled before his eyes, she's finally showed him her vulnerable side. No shield, and no walls, she's not pushing him out, she's pulling him in. She needs him and it's the scariest thing.

And he realizes that this is it, the moment she's completely let him in. She needs him, and it's the scariest thing.

"Hey, hey, hey." And he's holding her now, her head firmly pressed against his chest; his heartbeats steadying her breathing. He's drawing circles on her back, and he can feel her calming down; he can feel her coming up, no longer drowning. "It's going to be OK."

And that is a promise.

A/N: OK, so it is a storm, but they're in it together.

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