A/N: Hi everyone!

This is a big chapter, both in size and feelings :-)

Hope you enjoy!

Elizabeth

"I blame myself," Henry said, almost crumbling in her arms. He'd had a few too many drinks, but she could understand why—what led him to drinking to an excess that he normally wouldn't.

Losing something and feeling as though it was your fault will often have that affect.

She cradled him gently in their bed, their sleeping one-year-old down the hall in the small house they'd just moved into after Henry had gotten home from deployment. Unsure how else to comfort him, she just held him in silence, trying to breathe as steadily as she could in hopes that he would keep breathing, too, and maybe take some of that blame off himself.

He couldn't have done anything—not from his position in the sky. Yet, the blame had been eating at him so badly. She knew something was wrong, but he finally broke today and told her. As a pilot, she knew that there were tough decisions to be made, but knowing Henry blames himself for one of the members in his crew dying was something a little more unbearable for her.

As she gently rocked him side-to-side, acting both as mother and best friend and wife all at once, she thought about the situation again, the scene that Henry had so incredibly described. She pulled his head closer to her chest and closed her eyes, knowing that for him he feels like he'd lost control of the situation, and that she, too, would have felt the same way. Not that she thinks Henry is justified in his thinking, that he should blame himself or that he was the cause of all this going awry, but just that she can understand where he's coming from. She sighed gently, giving him all the grace that she could possibly fathom—way more than she would've given herself.

As she stares up at the ceiling, she listens to the beeping of her heartrate, and the beeping of another heartrate alongside hers. When she finally looked at all the wires hooked to her abdomen, the straps and the needles everywhere around her body it seemed, she wondered if the hospital had any wires or tools left in the entire building. She felt as though they were all being used on her.

The TV flickers in the dark room, creating an almost candle-like ambiance while Henry sits to her side with his head drooped into his palm. He'd fallen asleep in the chair again, much like he did last night and the night before, and probably the two nights before that which she doesn't remember from being unconscious. She'd tried to get him to go lay on the cot, but he refused. "I'm right here," he'd said, and she promptly replied, "You can be right here from over there with your head on a pillow."

But he refused, and here he is sleeping in a position that looks like he'll have a neckache for two weeks. Yet she knows he won't complain—he hasn't complained about any of this, not even about having to grade his students' work from that chair. He hasn't left her side, but he's continued on with his duties and even taken on more than she could've asked for in a husband.

She turns her head slightly to face the TV, clocking that it's David Letterman and another late-night talk show that she doesn't care to watch. She's kept it on for the noise, but when she noticed Henry was asleep, she wanted him to be able to get some good rest, so she muted it. Now, she's watching Letterman talk, and she can read his lips almost perfectly.

Why couldn't I have kept the CIA skills that were actually useful? She thinks ironically, knowing that if she could've fought back with Adnan, she might not be so bad off.

A pain shoots through her wrist, and she glances at the clock, knowing the nurse will be coming in to dole out her nighttime medicines soon. She sighs quietly, hoping that the nurse is quiet, hoping that Henry can stay asleep, but ultimately knowing that's all wishful thinking.

Her non-bandaged hand rests on the top of her abdomen. For such a tiny swell compared to all things big in this room and in this life, she feels the weight of it crushing her, and there's been a strangling sensation resting on her throat since she woke up the other day from her little vacation from earth.

Whenever Henry isn't in the room, she feels more apt to talk to the baby, but all she can get out is "I'm sorry" usually. Nothing else comes to her mind except the crushing weight of the blame—the blame for pregnancy in the first place, the blame for being unable to keep the baby safe. Everything felt like it was crushing her, and she didn't have the heart to tell Henry since he was already so worried about her wellbeing (or lack thereof).

Ultimately, she feels out of control of her entire life. Just when she thought they were regaining control after the big move to the farm, the career change, along comes an even bigger change that feels as though it took every ounce of agency she once had and stuffed it deep in a hole somewhere.

She stares blankly at the TV, now advertising some ridiculous sitcom that she simultaneously thinks looks like something she should watch in all her spare time.

This whole situation was, to say the least, a painful contradiction. After having two surprises in form of pregnancies, Stevie and Alison, they had decided to be intentional with planning for the third. They had always said that would be their last, no matter if it was a girl or boy. When he was born, everything about their life felt complete. Even before 9/11, they'd known that Henry would have a vasectomy and that this was the amount of kids they'd always have.

Yet here she was, staring back and forth between David Letterman and the ceiling tiles as she feels the weight of another unexpected pregnancy, even after they had done everything "right." Life has its own agenda, and it's one that doesn't seem to include or take into account her own careful calculations.

With Stevie, the surprise scared her. It was her first time at motherhood, and all the fears that flooded along with that almost drowned her while Henry was deployed. Having to do it alone, too, was no help—all while he was overseas. With Alison, she was a surprise, but one that Elizabeth and Henry almost expected. They were busy people—Elizabeth's career was in its heights and Henry's first book had just been released and had, surprisingly, taken off in popularity outside just the academic circle. Though he'd finished his doctorate, he was working on his second book and teaching at the same time, and yet they still were wrapped up in each other's arms too many times a week for it to come as a complete surprise to them.

They both knew deep down that they could only rely on the pill so much until the percentage of a chance actually happened.

It took time with Stevie, but not with Alison. Either way, they grew to embrace the surprise and the challenge and the new roles—motherhood to motherhood of two.

When will I embrace this? She thinks to herself, her fingers still drifting over the skin on her stomach with the weight of butterflies. How do I embrace a situation that was so out of my control?

She swallows thick and closes her eyes, and just moments later she hears Henry shuffling. Her head droops over slightly as the rustle of the hospital pillow becomes obnoxious underneath her, "Hey," she whispers, "Did I wake you?"

He glances around the room, looking like he'd woken up in another dimension. Stretching, he rubs his eyes and looks at the clock, "No," he murmurs, then looks back at her, "You okay?" He asks, "Why aren't you asleep?"

She snorts, "I've only slept all day," she says, which was half the truth. She has slept all day, just on and off. In reality, she hasn't gotten much sleep since her long sleep. Her mind had been racing too much, and she hadn't been able to bring herself to tell anyone. She thinks the doctor might have even expected it, though, after the news he delivered to her. The baby wasn't much better off than when she'd woken up, so she expects them to understand why she hasn't been sleeping much.

He smiles tiredly and lays his hand on the inside of her elbow, just above the cast on her arm. He rubs gently as he yawns, rubbing his eye again and taking a deep breath. "Has the nurse brought your medicine yet?" He asks.

She shakes her head, "Not yet," she says, then studies him for a moment and considers her options. She swallows thick, unsure if she wants to bring this up so late, unsure if she wants to even mention it at all. Her eyes flit to the clock and then back at him, and he's growing suspicious of her. He asks what's on her mind, and she looks up at the ceiling again and blows out a breath slowly.

"Do you feel like this is out of control?" She asks.

It throws him off, she can tell. "What?" He asks.

"This," she says, her hand moving underneath the blanket on her belly as though he can see. He must understand, though, because the confusion melts from his face and switches to concern instead. "It just…I feel like I'm caught in this storm and like I didn't ask for any of this yet I have this other life in my hands that I'm responsible for." She says, swallowing hard and looking at him again. "Do you ever feel overwhelmed with all the lives we're responsible for?"

Her voice is so small, so childlike, that she almost cringes at her own question. His hand is resting still on her elbow, and his fingers drift across her skin gently and mindlessly. "All the time," he whispers, looking up into her eyes. He leans in a little closer, "I always felt this way in the Marines—I knew that lives depended on me doing my job. But then when I became a dad…" his voice trails off and he swallows hard, looking down momentarily and finding his words. He takes a deep breath, "I realized it was a totally different ballgame. I had all that responsibility for another adult in the Marines, but then I had all the responsibility for someone who doesn't know anything—who doesn't know that fire can hurt them or that scabs do eventually heal."

He pauses, waiting a few breaths, "But I also realized that I had you to lean on—I wasn't alone in teaching them that fire is hot and can burn their little fingers and I didn't have to kiss the boo-boos alone. You did it, too. You picked up where I left off, and I hope I did the same for you."

"You did," she answers quickly, afraid that he'd think otherwise. She's never felt alone in parenthood—not even when she found out she was pregnant with Stevie and he was thousands of miles away. She felt loneliness, but not aloneness. "I never felt like I was alone."

"Me either," he affirms, leaning down and resting his cheek on her bed rail. He's watching her and she can tell he's thinking, but she doesn't know what about. She wants him to speak, to tell her everything he's thinking, but she doesn't press. She knows she doesn't want to be pressed right now, either, so she just waits.

"I keep wondering when I'll embrace this one," she whispers, afraid to admit it out loud. She finally decided she couldn't keep that secret any longer, and though it was painful to hear herself say, she immediately felt the weight lighten on her chest. "I feel like I'm in free fall, like it's constantly surprising me and that I can't quite…" she moves her fingers, wriggling them like she's grabbing at something. "Grasp." She breathes, swallowing thick and moving her eyes to Henry again.

He's watching her still, and he just sits up straight after a moment and leans into her, kissing the side of her head. "You're not in a free fall," he assures, and she wonders what he'll follow up with. She raises her brow while waiting. "Well," he chuckles, "You may be. But I'm right there with you, holding your hand through it all."

She swallows thick and rests her head deeper into her pillow. "What if I don't feel like I'm ever ready? Like we're not going to land on our feet?"

"Babe," he whispers, sliding his hand gently down her cast with a featherweight and gently taking her fingers in his hand. "I think we're getting ahead of ourselves."

It's a sobering reminder, but it's one that she maybe needed nonetheless. She closes her eyes and thinks about the last update from the doctor. "No news is good news…" Henry had said, though his voice sounded uncertain too. The baby's heart rate had not gotten back up to normal yet, though it had improved slightly. No one wanted to get their hopes up for a good outcome—not yet.

"I want to feel excited," she whispers, staring up into the ceiling again. "I want to feel the way I felt when I knew I was pregnant with Jason."

"Maybe you won't," Henry replies quietly, his voice far from hostile and instead loving and caring, though his words are serious. "Maybe it'll be something entirely different from any of our kids. Why wouldn't it be? We're older, we have older kids, we have different lives than we did all three other times," he reminds.

She swallows thick. He's right, she thinks, But I'm not going to tell him that.

Henry

"Give yourself some grace," he says, squeezing her fingers just slightly, being careful to not hurt her hand. "I don't have the answers right now, and I don't think anyone expects you to, either." He says, "Just focus on the love—like we always have. The love for our family, the love of our life."

He can tell he's not getting through to her. She's still got the same worried expression and hasn't let up one bit, and she's still staring blankly into the ceiling tiles as though God Himself is standing there and talking to her.

He sighs, brushing his thumb across her fingers carefully, "I know that this changes our life," he whispers, "But we've always adapted, haven't we? We've always came around to the…the curveballs life threw us. Look at you," he says, "And Will. You both overcame something traumatic and terrible before you were even able to vote."

With that, she looks at him, but she still doesn't say anything. Moments pass by, and he wonders if he's upset her, but then she talks again, "I know we've faced challenges before," she admits quietly, "It's not even just about adapting anymore—it never was simply about adaption. Not when you got a vasectomy, not now." She says, reminding him of the reasoning behind their vasectomy.

Not only had they decided that three was the number, but 9/11 sealed it for them both. There was too much going on in the world to bring another life into it, and that's how they knew they should be done. Aside from her career and the dangers it sometimes brought. And now, as she's laying in the hospital thanks to a character from her past life, his fist balls up on the railing and he picks his face up from the bed as he thinks about the picture he saw of Adnan. He wishes he weren't dead so that he could kill him all over again.

He swallows down the anger and straightens his back, stretching to each side and clearing his throat. "I know," he whispers, breathing out quietly. "It's okay to be scared," he reminds her gently, "That means you take it seriously enough to respect it, to cherish it. I'd be worried if neither of us were scared, I think."

She smiles sadly, looking over at him finally. He smiles down at her and stands up, kissing her on the top of the head. "Henry," she whispers as he's pulling away, and he pauses and looks at her and fears the worry in her voice, "Do you still blame yourself?"

They hadn't addressed it since the other night. They haven't really addressed it much at all. He shrugs, trying to write it off again, but she shakes her head. She's adamant tonight, he can tell. He scooches her over gently in the bed and he crawls in, hugging onto her carefully and draping his arm over her belly, resting his palm on top of her good hand. "Yes," he admits, no point in sugar coating it tonight. She's going to get to the bottom of it. "It was my fault in the end."

"How could it possibly have been—"

"I've always felt like this," he admits, shaking his head quietly and looking over toward the TV, too. "I remember when you were in labor with Stevie and all I could think about was how badly I hated myself for doing this to you."

"It took two."

"I know." He swallows thick, "But it's…you had to do all the work. Everything except the start of it all. I was the culprit for all that pain and agony."

"But it took two." She reminds again.

"I know," he says, "And I knew it for the other two—both times after that I knew going into it that this was part of it and that the sickness and misery of your body changing through it all—I knew that it was part of it all. Yet I still couldn't bring myself to any kind of mercy."

"I give you mercy," she whispers, and he gets chills across his forearms as her hand rests on his, "I wouldn't have my babies without you, Henry, and I can't imagine my life without them."

He swallows thick and cranes his head down to look at her, "Then give yourself some mercy, too." He whispers, "Don't beat yourself up for not being excited."

She looks at him for a moment and clears her throat, snuggling into him a little deeper. He matches her breaths, feeling the heat from her nose blowing gentle breaths onto his neck, and he settles his hand gently on top of her hand, sandwiching it between him and her belly.

No matter if there's a lack of enthusiasm, there's no lack of love. Even if she thinks that she might not be able to love a baby like she does her other three, he knows that she's just in shock. He isn't worried about love for this kid, even though his fear also outweighs it sometimes. And sometimes, right now, his fear of losing the baby outweighs everything else. Quite the dichotomy of feelings he's living in.

"Can we just…" she whispers, and he smiles at the sleepiness in her voice, "Let's agree that we're doing this, that…" she's so sleepy that she can't seem to gather her thoughts quite the way she wants, "That we're having this baby. That we both love it and we're both scared," she concludes, "And that it's both of our faults."

He snorts, nodding a little and gently rubbing her hand, "Okay," he says, "I'll agree to that."

Before long, he heard her quiet snores, and he was content again. He closes his eyes, too, and for the first night since Thursday night, they both slept through the night together with her wrapped up in his body safely.

Elizabeth

Two more days passed by, and though she remembers telling Henry that they should just agree that they're scared and that, ultimately, this baby is loved, she still feels an intense amount of fear about the entire situation. She still gets the nagging feeling to blame herself, no matter how she tries to shrug it off. She assumes Henry feels the same occasionally, too.

She's talked to the kids. They don't understand why she's still here—why, if it was just her hand that was injured, she's being hospitalized. Stevie is asking questions, and she's stirring up Ali and Jason. Henry's parents are also concerned—no one knows, still, other than Will.

That morning, she's pulled away from the phone when she hears a knock. "I gotta go," she tells Stevie, "I love you, have a good day at school."

She hangs up the phone as the doctor walks up to their side, and Henry is sitting in the chair beside her. "Good morning, Mrs. McCord," he says softly, and for once, gives her a genuine smile. "I wanted to talk to you about your condition and the baby's."

Elizabeth feels her heart beating up in her throat, and she takes a shaky breath and manages to nod. She feels Henry's hand on hers, and he doesn't squeeze because it's her bad hand, but she looks down as he's rubbing his fingers across her skin gently. "First, I want to say that the recent tests we conducted show that your baby is in a much better state than we initially anticipated," the doctor begins, his tone steady but warm. "The ultrasound indicates that the heart rate has stabilized, and we're seeing improved blood flow, which is encouraging. However," the doctor continues, his expression turning serious again, "It's crucial that you understand the need for caution moving forward. While the immediate threat to the pregnancy seems to mostly be behind us, you're still in a very delicate situation. Cold exposure and the stress your body endured can have lasting effects."

"Like what?" Elizabeth asks, sitting up a little straighter as she feels that heartbeat residing in her throat again.

"The main concern right now is ensuring that the blood flow to the uterus remains optimal," he explains, pulling out a chart to reference. "You need to avoid any activities that could further constrict blood vessels or cause undue stress on your body. This includes avoiding extreme temperatures, both hot and cold, as well as strenuous physical activities."

She nods, trying to absorb all this information. "So, what does that mean for…" she looks at Henry to search for her own words, then blinks, "Normal life?" She asks the doctor.

The doctor looks at her, a hint of a smile breaking through his seriousness. "It means you can go home and resume your daily life, but with caution. I encourage you to take things slowly, prioritize rest, and listen to your body. You mentioned you are a professor, and I presume you're in finals," he says, and she nods in confirmation, "So go with caution. If you experience any unusual symptoms—like severe cramping, bleeding, or significant fatigue—reach out to us immediately."

Henry leans in a little closer, his brow furrowed with concern. "And what about Elizabeth's activities? Are there specific things she should avoid?"

The doctor nods, "Yes, I recommend avoiding heavy lifting, high-impact exercises, and situations that may expose her to extreme temperatures or stress. It's also essential that she stays hydrated and eats a balanced diet to support both her recovery and the baby's development."

Henry nods, satisfied with the answer. Elizabeth stares into her lap for a moment, blinking and swallowing thick. She hesitates to ask, knowing she should just ask her regular doctor, but also knowing that she doesn't have an appointment with her until three weeks from now. "What about—" her voice chokes out a little and she clears her throat, "What about intimacy?" She asks sheepishly, avoiding eye contact with the doctor.

When she does look up at him, his expression is kind and his eyes even have a little flicker of understanding, she notes. "It's a valid concern," he tells her, and she feels like she can breathe a little easier, ""While intimacy is generally acceptable in a healthy pregnancy, given your recent complications, I would advise caution. You should avoid anything too vigorous and ensure that you're both comfortable. Communication with each other is key, as is paying attention to how your body responds."

"Communication is key," Henry repeats, and Elizabeth feels her face get hot.

"Thank you," she tells the doctor, avoiding eye contact again. You're thirty-five years old, for God's sake, Elizabeth. You're allowed to talk about having sex with your husband who you've been married to for over a decade and have three—four kids with.

"Of course," the doctor says, shoving her chart into the holder. "We just have to finish your paperwork and you'll be on your way out of here."

An excitement flickers in her, and she can't wait to hug her kids. She thinks about that for a moment and then remembers Henry's parents are there babysitting. We need to tell them, she thinks, waiting to hear the door shut behind the doctor. She looks over at Henry and smiles nervously, letting out a deep breath that she felt she'd been holding in too long. "We're out of here," she whispers happily.

"Yes we are," he says with a smile.

She sits up a little more and swallows thick, "I think we should tell the kids."

"Are you ready?" He asks gently.

She shrugs, "Maybe," she whispers.

He tilts his head, a look of worry on his face.

"Maybe we should wait," she says.

"It's up to you," he whispers, "I want you to wait until the time feels right."

When will it ever feel right? She thinks, but she nods.

She knows that she shouldn't have gone back to work the very next day, but she also couldn't stand the thought of all the work she had piling up in her office from her students' papers they were turning in. Another factor was that she knew Henry would insist on staying with her, and while she loved the idea of a day at home alone with him, she also knew that he, too, had loads of work piling up. They were going to be lucky to get grading finished by Christmas, let alone by grade entry deadlines next Friday.

As Henry drives, she looks out the passenger window, resting her chin in her palm as she thinks about coming home yesterday. She'd considered, at the hospital, telling the kids last night. But when she got home, none of it felt right, and she never gave Henry the cue.

"I know," she breathed as they walked into their bedroom and shut the door, though he hadn't said anything to garner that reply. She slid her shirt off over her head and tossed it to the dirty clothes, going from her comfy coming-home clothes to her comfy pajamas.

"I didn't say anything," Henry reminded.

"But we're both thinking it." She replied.

He looked at her and raised his brows, then takes a breath and shrugs, "Okay," he said, "Sure, we're both thinking it. Why didn't you want to tell them?"

She shook her head, "I just kept imagining Noodle," she said, stepping into her sweatpants, "And the heartbreak she'd go through if something happened to this baby. I know the other two will be sad, but I think Alison would have an even worse time. You know how it went when Hope died," she reminded him, and the image of their family dog appeared in her head. The dog passed earlier in the year, and while every single McCord was devastated, Ali took it the hardest. She slept in their bed for two weeks and cried herself to sleep the entire first week, and then Henry finally made a deal with Alison that if she slept in her own bed, he would go and fall asleep with her. It took a month altogether to get her back to sleeping normal.

When Henry didn't say anything, Elizabeth felt she knew she made the right choice to not tell them.

She sighs as she thinks about the fact that she's pretty sure Elaine knew right away what was going on, but she didn't tell her, either. Patrick had no idea. Elaine, though, has picked up on Elizabeth's pregnancies every single time, usually having already known by the time Elizabeth and Henry announced it to them. She wondered sometimes if that's what it would've felt like to have her mom here with her.

The clicking of the turn signal gets her from her daydreaming, and she looks over at Henry and at the school to the side of them. She swallows thick when she glances at the sidewalk where Adnan's guys had grabbed her, freezing and staring a hole through the windshield as they wait to turn.

"You sure you're going to be okay?" Henry asks, reaching over for her casted hand.

She jumps a little and looks at him, then nods, "I'll be okay," she assures, and before long, they're parked and headed into their offices.

When they have to split off to go to their own buildings, Elizabeth noticed Henry sticking right by her. "Henry," she says, "Aren't you—"

"I'll walk you to your office today," he says, and Elizabeth shoves her hands in her coat pockets a little deeper, looking at the ground and their feet as they walk. He's scared too, she thinks, swallowing the lump that has suddenly risen in her throat. What if Adnan wasn't the last of her ghosts coming back to haunt her? Her heart feels like it's fluttering now, and he opens the door to her building. She unlocks her office and goes in, walking around the desk like everything's normal.

She looks at him and forces a smile, "All good," she says, trying to reassure him. "Thank you for walking me here," she adds.

His hand rests against the back of the chair as he stares at her across her desk, "You're sure you're going to be alright today, babe?" He asks again, and though it mildly irritates her to be asked the same question over and over again, she keeps in the forefront of her mind how scared he must have been to learn she had been taken.

They haven't even talked about that—they haven't really talked about Adnan at all. They both, she's pretty sure, were too angry and too upset about it to bring it up yet. Besides, life has a funny way of leaving us behind if we don't try to keep up with it, and if she breaks down about it all now, she'll be left in the dirt.

"I'm sure," she says again, taking her coat off and hanging it on the back of her chair. "It's just meetings and grading today anyway," she reminds him, "Tomorrow I have to proctor that exam and that's all I have to do outside of my office."

He nods, though he doesn't seem as though he's sold on any of this. "Okay," he finally says, patting the back of the chair and swallowing hard, "I'm a text away," he reminds.

"I know," she says with a smile, soft and sweet. She sits in her chair and swallows thick, looking at the pictures of her kids on her desk briefly before looking back at him, "I love you," she says, "I'll see you at lunch."

"Love you too," he says, coming over and leaning across her desk to give her a kiss.

She gladly leans into it and when they part, he leaves, and she looks at the impending stack of papers she has to grade. With a sigh, she takes the first one from the bottom of the stack, knowing it was turned in first, and she starts grading them one by one. About halfway through the third paper, she leans back and feels a soreness that is familiar yet so foreign.

She puts her back on the chair and looks down at her sweater, and with her non-injured hand, she slides her fingers underneath her belly and rubs across where it's sore. Her other babies made her feel this way too—like her pants were too tight and like she'd just done an ab workout. The doctor had always told her it's ligaments that are stretching, and something about it happening now makes her feel a sudden rush of emotions.

She takes a deep breath, sharp and quick, and licks her dry lips. "You're growing," she whispers, closing her eyes and steadying herself. She rests her head against the back of her chair and swallows hard, keeping her hand there underneath the slight swell of her stomach and thinking, for the first time, what this baby might be like.

A brother for Jason to finally have after the phase he went through at age four, begging for a little brother? Or a sister for him to be a big brother to for the rest of their lives? She reimagines the memories of her babies being born—the way she immediately knew which features were Henry's before she could tell which features were hers. No denying the McCord genes in any of them, but Henry had immediately pointed out the little bits of Elizabeth that they all had.

She opens her eyes and thinks about Henry sitting in the chair across from her, holding a little and bundled up babe in his arms. Knowing herself well and her past record, she'll be back at work far before she should be. The imagined scene plays out in front of her, feeling as if it were actually real, and Henry shifts the baby in his arms.

When she blinks, it all goes away, and she looks down at the sweater that covered her stomach and brings her injured hand over to set it on top. Her lips go dry again and she has to clear her throat, and she gets a ringing in her ears as she drags her tongue across her lips, "Even with all this fear," she whispers, trying to get the nagging feeling to go away that is telling her she's crazy for talking like this to, basically, herself. "I promise I do love you," she whispers, blinking a few times as though the words taste like something bitter on her lips. "Even when I'm afraid, and I'm so…I am so afraid," she admits quietly, her voice shaky, "And even though this was such a surprise and I'm scared that I'll never accept it the way I did your siblings, I still love you. I can't not love you—a…" she takes another breath to steady her voice, "A piece of me, and a piece of your father, and it's…it's a testament to the love we have for each other. I can't imagine not loving you." She admits, mostly to herself.

She swallows thick and leans back against the chair again, startled by a knock on the door a few moments later. "Come in," she says, though her breathing is erratic now from the nerves she's worked up over talking to the baby and by the random knock on her door.

It could be anyone.

But when it opens, she sees Henry, and she smiles. All feels right for one moment because he's here, she's here, and this little piece of them is here. "Hey," she coos.

"Just wanted to check in," he says, and her heart soars.

"We're okay," she answers softly, her hands still resting on her abdomen.

He looks down over the desk and smiles, then looks at her, "Good," he murmurs, "Need anything?"

She shakes her head, then stops, "Actually," she says, "There's PopTarts in the vending machine down the hall," she prompts.