A/N: Kicking things off with a little heat. If you'd rather skip the scenic route, just hop past the divider. No harm, no foul :)
In the Softness of What's to Be, We Stay
"Teresa…"
Her name falls from his lips like an oath, like a claim, like something that has always been his.
"I know."
A breath, a murmur, holding everything he means.
It's moments like these that the weight of the world lifts, and everything feels lighter. Simpler. Sweeter. A life that feels real, one that feels like theirs.
And in these moments, the universe belongs to them alone. The wind rustling through the trees, the rhythmic hush of the lake beneath a sky riddled with stars… Every force of nature seems to converge for this. For the way he fills her, for the way her body responds to his, drawing him closer, deeper, as if trying to make up for lost time.
The ache of missing him still lingers, even now, threading through her, refusing to fade. It's settled deep in her bones, something she's carried since the moment she watched him walk away. And now, it feels like she's crossed an ocean of time just to have him like this again— a tangled mess of breathless moans, messy hair, and gasping, unrestrained need.
And still, the rush of it all,of him, ribbons through her lungs like a whisper of fire, stealing more than just air.
From an SFPD detective to an FBI special agent, she's seen it all. Done it all. She'd led major cases, walked headfirst into dangers that made lesser men run, lived on the pulse of high-risk missions. Been either a threat or a temptation to very powerful men.
Yet nothing, nothing in the world, compares to this.
Because here, no title, no badge, no victory has ever made her feel more powerful than this.
Here,she's not an agent, not a soldier. She'shislover, the force that levels him, breaking him open. And she never has, and never will, hold as much power as she does now: straddling him, watching him dismantle under her touch, piece by piece. Giving in. Giving everything. Surrendering so completely.
And she knows he feels it too.
Torturous waves. Each rock of her hips coaxing out another ragged breath, another broken moan.
"You feel so—ah—so good… like this…"
He really does. Thick, deep, utterly hers. The sheer intensity nearly brings tears to her eyes.
The delicious toe-curling stretch of him inside her sends a decadent surge of pleasure up her spine, making her shudder. Enticing her to press down a little harder just to take more, just to feel more. Every slow, deliberate motion of her body is measured, inescapable, designed to drive him delirious. And it is.
"Baby…"His voice is raspy and urgent.
His pupils are blown wide with need, stomach tensing, arms flexing as he fights the impulse to take control. To flip her over, pin her down, thrust into her the way she knows he burns to. But he won't.
Because he loves this.
Loves seeing her like this: taking, claiming. Loves the way she rides him, the way she comes undone on top of him.
"I feel you everywhere," the quiet confession is barely audible, unsteady and unfiltered, yet it hits him like a physical force.
He reads every layer of its meaning, and it sinks deep; molten, unbearably sweet, flooding his veins. It's in his flesh, in his breath, seeping into the marrow of his fucking bones.
And he needs to see her.Really see her.Needs her closer,now.
His hand slides up, fingers diving into the loose strands at the nape of her neck, gathering a fistful of silky hair and tugging, just enough to make her lips part, a shaky gasp slipping free. Their noses brush, her breath warm between them as she hovers above him, eyes locked with his, dark with need.
"Say it again." It's not entirely a demand, more of a plea— soft, but insistent, like something he needs to hold inside, where nothing can shake it loose.
And she does. Breathlessly.
"I feel you. Everywhere."
A rough inhale catches between his teeth, his grip on her hair flexing. Because he feels her everywhere too. Under his skin, in his thoughts, in the space between heartbeats, where she's lived far longer than he's ever dared admit.
His head lifts, only a fraction, enough to close the distance and meet her lips. His tongue delves into her mouth with slow, indulgent strokes, capturing, devouring. She moans into him, and he drinks it down, the sound vibrating between them, tangled in the wet slide of their mouths; open-eyed kisses that threaten to consume her, to unravel her at the seams.
Everything about this,about him,fills her senses. Drowns out the world.
And still, she wants more.
Needing to see him,really see him,she straightens, peeling away from his mouth, his chest.
She tilts her hips, taunting, feeling the delicious friction spark through her nerves. Then, in an instant, she circles down, grinding slowly, and his entire body tenses beneath her. His grip on control torn, stretching impossibly thin.
His hand, still cradling the back of her neck, slides lower, fire trailing in its wake as he maps her every curve, every shiver. His other hand finds her, both palms meeting feverish skin, gripping tighter on instinct. And then, without warning, he pulls her down in one searing motion, burying himself so completely inside her it tears a choked breath from her throat.
A quiet curse grinds from his lips, wrecked and hoarse, as her head snaps back instantly— his dropping just as fast, slamming against the mattress.
A cry wrenches free before she can stop it, raw and unfettered, her nails sinking into the sun-kissed skin of his shoulders.
"God…"she swallows hard, dizzy from the sensation. "That was—"
"Sorry, I—" his breath breaks in uneven bursts, chest hitching in faltering heaves.
"No, don't be," she utters softly, her voice sounding clearly affected, pulse still thrumming. And somehow, after taking a breath, and then another, she manages a small smile. "I just… wasn't ready for that."
He lets out a breathless laugh. "Neither was I."
But as his eyes slip shut, something flickers behind them: a dull ache blooming behind his temples. Not sharp, not unbearable. Just there. Hovering.
Teresa notices the subtle crease between his brows, the way his breath hitches for half a second longer than it should.
"What?" She asks quietly, questioning, fingertips grazing the side of his face.
"Nothing," he mutters, blinking up at her, though his fingers give a slight twitch at her waist. "Just… my head. Still throbs a little. From the explosion."
Her expression shifts instantly, concern threading through the soft lull between them. Her fingers brush over his temple, barely a whisper of a touch.
"Patrick, maybe we should—"
"No, no. Absolutely not." His hold on her flesh deepens, firm, unshaken. "I can't stop. We won't. Not when this… when you… feel like this." His voice is rough, certainty charged with something wild, at odds with the flicker of exhaustion in his eyes.
She hesitates, just for a second. Then she leans in, pressing her lips to his glistening chest, tasting the heat of him. A slow, worshipful kiss, then another, trailing up his damp throat, pausing just below his ear, nibbling lightly. His breath stumbles, a soft sound following.
And then she feels it.
The faint tilt of his hips, the tacit insistence pulling her back into motion.
So she moves.
She adjusts around him a little more, then finds her flow again— slow, undulating waves pulling him deeper. Each fluid movement layers upon the last, the pressure mounting until she can't hold back anymore.
A warmth rises between them, thickening, swelling, hurtling toward something inevitable.
His eyes fly open. Searching, seizing her, tracking the shift in rhythm. Watching as she picks up the pace, as pleasure tightens around them like a wire about to snap. And then his gaze drops lower. Fixed. Mesmerized.
His breath stirs, lips parting, something primal flashing behind his eyes as he watches it happen. Watches himself vanish inside her, again and again, slick and unrelenting, lost in the ravenous grasp of her.
The tension between her thighs builds, cresting higher, pulsing, sharpening into something undeniable, unstoppable. Her bottom lip wedges helplessly between her teeth, caught in the weight of his gaze. Becausefuck,the way he's looking at them, at her… the stark hunger in his eyes, the way he stares, transfixed, utterly wrecked… it's just so hot, so fucking erotic.He is.
Her name rips from his throat, strained and frayed. A stifled sound so desperate, so steeped in need, it tugs at something deep inside her; a slow burn spilling through her core, tightening low in her stomach.
She hears it. Feels it. And so she gives him more. Lets him have her, all of her.
Shifting just enough, tilting just right, she yields to him, opening up a little more, letting him chase her, letting him pull her deeper into the steady, mounting pace between them. And he does.
His thighs flex beneath her, the sheet twisting under him, clinging to sweat-slicked skin. His feet brace against the mattress, every inch of him strung tight, tension rippling through his frame as he fights a losing battle for control. Holding on— trying, failing.
Because restraint is a lost cause and she feels too divine, too maddening to resist.
A sharp breath hisses through his teeth as his hold clamps around her thighs. His body snaps up to meet hers, driven now, holding her steady as he moves; seeking, testing, driving into her until he finds it.
That spot.That devastating, ruinous spot.
The helpless sound she makes unmoors him. Shakes him to his foundation. Tells him everything.
His muscles go taut. And just like that, he takes.
The rhythm gives way, no longer controlled, no longer held back.
Each thrust, each slick, frenzied grind propelling her closer, guiding her to the verge. She grips at him, back bowing, seeking the friction, the drag, the fevered pace. Heat licks up her spine, a force she can't outrun, overtaking her, pulling her under until she collapses against him, her body winding fierce with anticipation.
His left arm bands around her, locking her against his chest, holding her there as he surges up into her. The change in angle, the staggering reach, makes her whimper— high, breathless.
"Don't close your eyes," he rasps, his voice gravelly, roughened by emotion. "Let me see them."
This man.
She blinks, forcing them open at his command, her lashes wavering, resisting the pleasure dragging at her. She wouldn't dare close them this time. Notwhen she knows how much this gets to him, how he craves it— the utter intimacy of holding her gaze right at the brink, of watching the exact moment she shatters for him.
And suddenly, his hand is there.
Fingers slipping between them, finding the throbbing peak between her thighs. Circling, coaxing; pulling every ounce of ecstasy from her. Luring her deeper into the fire with slow, torturous circles. A perfect, wicked contrast to the deep-thrusting of his hips.
"Patrick…" She sobs, a wordless plea lying on her tongue. But for what? Mercy? More? She doesn't even know.
But he knows.
He always knows.
She pants into his mouth, their noses brushing, foreheads pressing together. His eyes locked onto hers, lazed with love and longing, frantic, pleading. Like he can see straight through her, right to the core of her, to the place where she's breaking.
And he keeps going, chasing it, sending her spiraling, making her his. Because he feels it. The way she clenches around him, quivering. The way her breath fractures, splintering into sharp little cries. The way her entire body starts to give in.
"You're right there, baby… so close…" his lips brush along her jaw, his chest rising in uneven breaths. "Tell me you feel it."
"I—I…yes…" the affirmation comes out weak, strangled, as if she's barely holding on, becauseshe is. And she tries. She tries to fight it, to make it last. But it's too much, too absolute. "Please—" the word trembles from her lips before she even knows what she's begging for.
Again,he knows.
His grip shifts, his arm around her back sliding lower, handspreading wide over the base of her spine. His bicep flexes, securing her firmly against him as he grinds up into her, intentional, insatiable.
The movement forces her higher, forces her to take, to feel every inch of him, his body pulling her into surrender.
The way he's making her moan for him is soul-wrecking, unchecked. And if she were thinking clearly, she might feel a flicker of embarrassment at how completely undone she is for him. But not now. Not when he's undoing her in the most exquisite way.
Every touch, every thrust, every precise flick of his fingers is pure, sweet agony.
It's too much and not enough all at once, a hunger that can't be sated, a want that only he can fill.
And then…God.
It takes over. The breaking point creeping up her spine, knotting at the base of her skull, pooling low in her belly. Sparks catching, crackling, spreading, until she's burning from the inside out.
His hand never falters. His demanding fingers press harder now, stroking her faster, working her in intoxicating, knowing circles. The way he knows her, so instinctive, so beautifully profound, it feels like he's rewriting her very being. Branding himself deep, leaving the imprint of him etched into every breath, every rise and fall, every fevered shift of her body yearning for more.
His hips stay steady, never relenting, intent woven into every movement, molding to her like he wants to etch himself into her bones. And when he moves just right, when his rhythm aligns, hips driving deep as his fingers flex in perfect sync — skilled, lethal — when his thrusts roll deeper, hitting that devastating spot again and again, the fire surges, consuming, until she's unraveling, lost in the inferno of him.
Her body locks, her breath snags.
Then… nothing.
No air. No sound. Just the raw, obliterating force of pleasure ripping through her. She tries to cry out, but nothing comes. Her lungs are empty, a scream forming in her throat, then trapped, suspended on the brink of release.
His grip tightens as her back arches. Her chin tilts upward, mouth falling open, soundless.
Her eyes search blindly for something she can't name, something only she can see.
Stars. Supernovas. Galaxies collapsing behind closed lids.
And just like that, it crashes into her. All at once.
A stuttering, gasping inhale forces its way back into her lungs. Shaky, brittle. And then, finally, sound. A tattered, broken whimper rips free from her lips before she can catch it, before she can even think.
Her thighs tremble, knees pressing inward, desperate to close as if to trap the sensation, to hold onto the feeling just a little longer. Her breath shuddering in shallow bursts as the final waves surge through her, relentless, unyielding.
She's still lost in it, still drowning in it.
He holds through the aftershocks of her release, his hands clutching her, bracing himself as she still pulses around him; every quiver, every lingering tremor, every last wave of it. And then, as her body grips him, coaxing, he follows — helpless, undone — leaving no part of him unclaimed, no part of him his own.
A deep, guttural groan tears from his lungs. His body jerks, shudders, falls apart beneath her— until the tremors subside, leaving only the ragged sound of their breathing, tangled in the hush of the night, ricocheting off the aluminum walls.
He holds still, panting, body caught in the remnants of it, while she remains slack against him, breathless, boneless, letting the last electric tingles linger beneath her skin.
Only afterward does he move. Slowly, gently, he pushes himself up, arms winding around her as he sits, holding her in the afterglow. She blinks, still floating between worlds, adrift but rooted only by his enduring heat.
She doesn't let him go. Doesn't let him pull out, either.
"Not yet," she murmurs, not ready to lose the solidity of him, the fullness, the quiet certainty of being his. She still craves his warmth, the connection, the way their bodies fit so perfectly together.
And so they exist, skin to skin, breath to breath, heartbeat to heartbeat. His fingers move with aching tenderness, brushing a few strands of hair from her face, sweeping them back over her shoulders, baring the curve of her neck, like she's something luminous and infinite, like she were sculpted from moonlight and air, meant to be cherished.
And it's in that moment, in the quiet, in the stillness, in the way he looks at her, that she feels it.
The shift. The weight of everything crashing back in.
He sees it. Of course he does. His gaze, once hazed with want, now softens, intent, tracing every flicker of emotion on her face, in her verdant eyes. He doesn't push her, doesn't ask. Just waits. Lets the silence settle. Lets her breathe.
And after a moment, he draws her in. One arm around her lower back, the other draping over her shoulder, his palm settling at the crown of her head as her forehead tucks into the hollow of his neck. A shelter. A steady presence in the storm.
"I love you so much…" he whispers against her temple, lips lingering there, soft, reverent. His kisses, so heartbreakingly sweet, make her chest ache, her heart race and slow all at once. "…so much."
She holds him tighter, so tight it should hurt, and at some point, she must remind herself not to break him, because she knows she could. Right now, though, all she wants is to keep him close, to keep him right here in her arms, where he's safest, where nothing and no one can take him from her.
Where he belongs.
—
Everything feels quiet now.
Wrapped in a cocoon of comforting stillness, an almost unnatural serenity, hard to reconcile with the chaos of the past few days.
Even he seems caught in it: still, quiet, as if sleep has truly taken him. He lies on his stomach, covers pooling low at his waist, one arm tucked under the pillow, the other stretched across the bed, reaching for the space she left behind.
From a distance, Teresa watches him, her gaze unfocused, lost somewhere between reality and thought. The silence of the night settles over her, pressing in, wrapping around her like a second skin. And she lets it.
But peace is only surface-deep.
On the couch behind the driver's seat, she sits quietly, taking slow sips of water, as if each one could drown out the storm still stirring inside her.
After making love, they'd showered together.
At the time, the heat against her skin, the press of his body, the soft, murmured touches had filled the space, had draped over her. But now… now, the quiet stretches wide, uncontained— so unlike the closeness of the Airstream's tiny, almost claustrophobic bathroom, a space so small it might as well be a cubicle, where warm water had chased away the last remnants of exhaustion, of sweat, of everything that had come before.
For the record, she isn't particularly fond of that cubicle of a bathroom.
Even with her petite frame, her knees kept knocking against the fixtures, her elbows scraping the walls. Not to mention the damn window. That stubborn, projecting thing that so often got stuck, refusing to close without force and just the right touch. And when it wouldn't cooperate? It let in unwelcome drafts, chilling damp skin in the most uncomfortable way.
He'd already pinpointed the issue: wear on the hinges and a misalignment of the pressure lever. Nothing complicated. Nothing that couldn't be repaired. Yet, somehow, it had never quite made it to the top of his to-do list. The task kept getting postponed, gradually shifting from a priority to something less urgent. Then to an afterthought. Then to the back burner…
She couldn't shake the feeling that, in some strange way, he actually preferred the window as it was: flawed, yet still functional. Perhaps, deep down, he'd grown attached to its quirks, its imperfections.
Once, as he stood overherbathroom sink, razor in hand, he'd paused just long enough to meet her gaze in the mirror and casually remark,"I think it's quite charming. It's got character."She'd rolled her eyes. Naturally. And he'd chuckled, dragging the blade along his jaw, amused by her impatience."Alright, alright,"he'd nodded, conceding with a lazy half-smile, eyes flicking to hers in the reflection."I'll get around to it. Eventually. Maybe."
And to this day… the window remains untouched. Still waiting.
The funny part? When they shower together, the size of the cramped space never seems to bother her. Not even the drafts.
She'd never stepped into a shower with another man before — not for lack of their attempts — nor had she ever let one pull her into a bathtub, always brushing off the idea as a frivolous whim. Something unnecessary. Something she didn't need.
With Patrick, however, it was different.
But then again… what wasn't different with him? What about him didn't make her question everything she thought she knew about herself?
Secretly, she even preferred his shower stall to her own. But only when he was in it with her. There was something about it. The way the tight walls seemed to shrink around them, pulling them closer. The heat of their skin, the thick steam, the way the lines between them blurred, until there was no space left. Until they felt like one.
For two people who had spent years guarding their personal space like a fortress, never particularly prone to touch — not in any meaningful way — this kind of intimacy had taken them by surprise. Neither of them had ever been the type for casual affection, for easy closeness. And yet, somehow, it had become something of a ritual.
She adored the way he lathered shampoo through her hair, fingers massaging gently at her scalp, as if there was nothing else in the world he'd rather be doing. The way he traced the sponge over her skin… unrushed, mindful, never missing a single inch. As if taking care of her meant just as much to him as it did to her.
The truth was, they'd both come to savor this closeness, to cherish it more than they'd ever expected. To need it. This constant exchange of breath, of presence, something that went beyond the physical, that was emotional, too. Because it wasn't just about skin. It never had beenjustabout skin.
She'd woken a few minutes ago, about two hours after they'd drifted into sleep. Waves of heat and night sweats had pulled her from rest, her skin damp, clinging with a feverish sheen. And the fact that he'd been wrapped around her so tightly, instinctively keeping her close in his sleep, had only intensified her discomfort.
She'd carefully slipped free from his hold, stepping into the bathroom to splash cool water on her face and running damp fingers over the back of her neck. Then, she'd stopped at the kitchen sink for a glass of water.
Patrick would never admit it aloud. He'd likely brush it off as a fevered, half-remembered dream if pressed, but reality didn't lie. He was a cuddler now. A habit he hadn't consciously developed, just something that had crept in unnoticed, threading itself through his nights, through the way he reached for her, even in sleep.
He always started off on his side of the bed, flat on his back, body perfectly straight, hands resting lightly over his stomach— a posture that spoke of a man who had spent years keeping himself in check. But at some point in the night, when the conscious world faded and instinct took over, his body always found hers. Teresa often woke to an arm draped around her waist, a leg tangled with hers, or the gentle weight of his head resting on her chest, messy curls tickling her skin, the warmth of his breath settling over her collarbone. And on some nights, all of it at once.
The thought draws an unbidden smile to her lips, brief, fleeting. It vanishes as quickly as it appears.
Her expression hardens.
Her heart, once warmed by the memory, sinks.
Because she remembers.
She remembers how close she'd been to losing everything.
She can still smell it, the acrid smoke. Feel the heat of the flames licking at the air. See the hellish glow of that burning house.
She'd almost lost him.
It's strange, she thinks, how in times of despair, and in the fragile stillness that follows, even the most mundane things take on unbearable weight. How suddenly, simple gestures, spontaneous moments, effortless little things become sacred. Become small miracles.
And if she'd lost him…
There would be no more of those miracles.
No more quiet cuddles in the dead of night.
No more whispered laughter against her skin.
No more cramped showers in that cubicle with a stubborn window, half-open to the cold.
No more him.
Her eyelashes flutter briefly as she closes her eyes with a slow exhale, shaking her head as if she could cast these thoughts away, send them drifting into the vastness of space.
He's right here. Right in front of her. Perfectly safe. Perfectly alive.
And she doesn't want to disturb the quiet comfort of simply looking at him.
She lets her gaze travel over him, tracing the body that she now knows by heart.
Her eyes roam over his legs. Strong and lean, peeking out from beneath the covers.
His ass. Firm, irresistible. The one she wants to grab and squeeze at all times, even when wildly inappropriate.
His back. Relaxed now, but never when she digs her nails in, when she carves pleasure down his spine, pulling ragged sounds from his throat.
The breadth of his shoulders, extending into long, strong arms. Every line of them shaped by purpose, by a strength that knows exactly how to support her, how to hold her.
His hair. That blond mess she could spend hours playing with, twirling soft curls around her fingers, feeling the way he melts. His body yielding, surrendering to sleep under her touch.
His face. Sculpted, striking. So devastatingly handsome it sparks through her, makes her want to clench it, kiss it, bite it.
His eyes. Oceanic blue, deep as tides that pull her under, that strip her bare. They tell heralmosteverything, even when his words won't. When he's tired. When he's restless. When his mind won't quiet.When he needs her.
And his mouth. Clever, reckless, utterly maddening. The one without a filter, the one that teases her in ways even she can't explain. The one that pushes her buttons and has gotten her into trouble more times than she can count.
That mouth is the same one that tells her he loves her. The one that whispers sweet nothings in her ear, that makes her knees weak with just a crooked smile. The one that knows every curve of her body, every hidden place, every guarded secret. The one that has known her in ways no one else ever did.
Her heart swells, expands, aches.
He's so beautiful.
And suddenly, longing washes over her like a riptide.
How is that even possible? To have him right there, within reach, and still long for him as if he's already slipping away?
Could he take up more space inside her than she does herself?
The answer is yes. It will always be yes.
She considers kissing him awake, telling him how much she needs him.Again.Pulling him in, letting him hold her through the night— spooning her, sheltering her in the warmth of his arms.
But ultimately… she doesn't.
He's exhausted. And so is she. Her body pleads for rest, aches for it, but her mind refuses. It lingers in the spaces between exhaustion and unrest, stirred by ghosts of heartbreaks that never came and worries yet to arrive.
A slow breath escapes her, and as she lifts a hand to her face, her fingers brush against damp skin. Wet. She blinks, frowning. Silent tears gather in her lashes before slipping down her cheeks.
Here we go again.
It's been like this for days. Emotions rising out of nowhere, uncontrollable, like some invisible switch flicking on and off inside her, just out of reach. She can't predict it. Can't stop it. She's cried more in the last week than in all the years of her life combined.
And she hates it. Because it's not her.
She's always kept a lid on her emotions, locked them down tight, tucked them away where no one could get to them. And she doesn't quite know how to exist like this— this exposed, this vulnerable.
And yet… here she is.
The air inside the Airstream feels suffocating, and she needs to breathe. Needs to pull herself together before sliding back into bed like nothing happened. Because somehow, he would notice. She knows him— knows how attuned he is to her, how easily he sees right through her. And she doesn't want that. Not when she has no explanation to give him.
Or does she?
She doesn't bother with a coat. Doesn't even think about it.
Carefully, she opens the door, the springs letting out a familiar creak. She pauses. Waits. Listens for any shift in his breathing, any sign that he might stir.
Nothing.
So she slips into the night.
The breeze greets her, cool against her overheated skin and she inhales, deep and slow. The night smells of the lake— fresh, earthy, carried by the night air, mingling with the stillness around her.
Her hands lift before she can stop them, pressing against her lower belly, drawn by something unseen. She tilts her chin toward the moon, willing the tears back. But the awareness wraps around her like a shiver… sudden, unexpected, overwhelming.
Motherhood.
Teresa had never truly contemplated it. Not in a way that felt real. Of course, the thought had crossed her mind before. How could it not? The question had always lingered somewhere on the periphery, unspoken yet present. But she'd never let it take root. Never allowed herself to entertain it beyond fleeting moments of curiosity.
She'd been too focused. Too driven. Devoted to her work, to the only thing she was sure she was good at. And she used to wonder,would there ever be space for anything else? A husband. A child.
And even if there was… could she ever truly be enough for that?
The right time to find those answers never seemed to come.
Whenever she let herself step into something new, into a new relationship, a fissure would appear— sometimes small, sometimes irreparable. Sometimes even of her own making. And inevitably, it would end. And when it did, she'd tuck those same questions away, back into the locked drawer. Out of sight. Out of mind. Because if she didn't ask, she didn't have to answer.
Maybe it wasn't her path, she used to tell herself. Maybe she wasn't meant to build a family. Maybe she just wasn't the kind of woman who did. And she'd refused to feel guilty for that. She'd convinced herself it was legitimate, valid. That it didn't make her any less.
Her life had never been empty. Not really. She'd built something, brick by brick, sacrifice by sacrifice. Each case, each arrest, each long, exhausting day reinforcing the foundation she'd created for herself.
And at the time, she was sure it was enough. It had to be.
Because she'd made choices. Because she'd control. Because she'd built a life that was hers.
And it made her feel… what?
Satisfied? Fulfilled? Happy enough?
When Marcus asked her to marry him, she tried to picture it. Tried to envision a future with him, because it was only logical that she would. And like a persistent echo, the idea of family resurfaced, lurking in the deepest recesses of her mind, something lost yet always found.
The problem was… no matter how hard she'd tried, she couldn't see it. No home. No Christmas mornings around a tree piled with presents. No school plays. No shared calendars marked with birthdays and anniversaries. Just an indistinct void. A screen awash in white noise.
And in the meantime… Jane happened.
No, he didn't just happen. He shifted everything. Not all at once, but slowly, inevitably, like the tide pulling back before the wave crashes.
And he bared his heart to her, utterly and completely.
And she was already so irrevocably in love with him.
And a new relationship began.
And… in the meantime… things happened.
Six days ago, the day before she learned he was in Arizona, she found out she was pregnant. Or at least, that's what the test said.
She'd carried the nagging doubt for days, her body manifesting small shifts that didn't match her usual rhythms. She ignored them. Avoided them. Rationalized them. But doubt is insidious— it lingers, festers, claws at the edges of certainty. And eventually, she had to face what had already begun to unfold inside her.
She still remembers it. The sudden, overwhelming wave that froze her, hunched over the sink. Hands trembling, eyes wide. Her gaze flicking back and forth between the stick and the instructions, as if the words might change, as if looking long enough could make it make sense.
Two pink lines. Faint, but there.
Her breath hitched, shallow and uneven. A strange weight settled in her chest— not suffocating, not crushing, just… there. Heavy in a way that made her aware of every inhale, every exhale. The ground beneath her felt suddenly unsteady, like that brief, weightless jolt of an elevator just as it drops before your body catches up.
Slowly, she leaned back against the wall, her pulse climbed, not in panic but in something quieter, deeper, something she didn't have a name for yet. Her fingers curled around the cross of her necklace on pure instinct, clutching it like a lifeline, the closest thing to a prayer she could manage.
Was it even real? Could she truly be carrying the child of the man she loved?
The love of her life.
The love of her life who had vanished, without saying when, or if, he'd return. And for all she knew at the time, he no longer wanted her.
She can still see herself there: motionless, mind blank. And yet, she hadn't been able to tear her eyes away from the test, as if looking away might somehow undo it, erase one of the lines.
Only later did she understand the irrationality of that fear. That, deep down, she'd wanted nothing more than for it to be positive.
She'd thought about buying another test. Or several. Just to be sure. But what if it only made things more real? Or if her body was playing tricks on her? What if taking another one didn't bring clarity— just more questions she couldn't silence?
Her mind is still racing, a ceaseless tide of thoughts.
She doesn't hear him approach. She rarely does. But then, a shift in the quiet, so subtle, so effortless, like a breath of wind slipping through the trees. And before she can process it, warmth. Strong arms slide around her, pulling her in, steadying her against a firm chest. A heartbeat, calm and certain, against her back. A presence so undeniably his, she wonders how she didn't sense it sooner.
Patrick is a light sleeper. No matter how exhausted, months of sharing a bed with her had made it instinctive: whenever she stirred, something in him always caught it.
He'd felt it the moment she'd slipped out from under his arm. Even through his drowsiness, awareness flickered at the edge of his mind. At first, he barely opened his eyes, shifting slightly, assuming she was just making a quick trip to the bathroom. Then came the soft rush of water; the sink running, the faint trickle filling a glass. And he waited, expecting her to return. But then, the Airstream door creaked open, and something in his chest constricted.
She wasn't just restless. Something was keeping her up.
"Where have you been?" His voice is quiet when he finally speaks, as if not wanting to disturb the stillness of the night. His arms pull her closer, and she knows he's not just asking where she's been physically, but where her mind has wandered.
She swallows, blinking away the wetness in her eyes before he can notice.
"A bit far," she murmurs, her voice light, distant. "But I'm back now."
He hums, a quiet sound, thoughtful. Not pressing, but not entirely convinced either.
His chin settles atop her head. For a few minutes, they just stay like that, both gazing in the same direction: the liquid mirror of the lake stretching out before them; the shack, now just a fuzzy shadow on the other shore, lost in the darkness.
She hasn't told him. Hasn't mentioned the positive pregnancy test tucked away in her bathroom cabinet. His most recent escape and the whirlwind of days that followed had weighed on her decision,her choice,to keep it to herself. To wait.
Not because she doesn't want to tell him. But because she needs time. Because every time she tries, she can't get it out.
The words have been on the tip of her tongue since the moment she watched him step off that elevator, fresh from Arizona. She'd wanted to say it, had opened her mouth more than once. But no sound came. No courage. No strength.
After all…
What if he stays only because he feels he has to?
What if he's not ready for this?
For years, she'd circled the same questions, searching for justifications, rationalizing it away. And maybe, in doing so, she'd been avoiding something else entirely.
Because the problem had never been an inability to imagine herself building a family. Never about not wanting it.
The truth was simpler. Yet somehow, more overwhelming.
She'd just never wanted it with any man from her past.
That was it. That was the answer.
And now, with Patrick, it felt like the most natural thing in the world. As if it had always been there, waiting. Waiting to be acknowledged. Waiting forhim.
And when she allowed herself to close her eyes and dream of it, the images rushed forward, vivid and seamless, like scenes from a home movie of a life that didn't exist yet, but that she could almost touch.
First moments. A tiny fist closing around her finger. A little pink mouth opening in a sleepy yawn. A little body nestling against her chest, warm, fragile, a weight so light and yet so immense. And Patrick, completely spellbound, his eyes filling with something unfathomable, tracing a single finger over a soft, chubby cheek, as if he were learning every inch of that softness by heart, committing every detail to memory.
Morning routines. Tiny feet shuffling across the floor, sleepy murmurs melting into soft giggles. The two of them fumbling with tea and coffee, half-awake. Movements slow, instinctive, the kind that only came with time, with familiarity. A quick hug here, a sleepy nuzzle there, fleeting touches exchanged in passing before they finally stirred to life.
Soccer games. Her voice carrying over the field, cutting through the noise, cheering louder than anyone; because of course she was. The fire in her eyes, the sharp edge in her tone, her competitive streak flaring unapologetically. And him, right beside her, entirely unserious, his hand cupped around his mouth, chanting something ridiculous. Half in support, half just to get a rise out of her— and the other parents. Because, naturally, he couldn't help himself.
PTA meetings. Patrick spinning some sharp-witted excuse for their kid's latest act of defiance, words laced with effortless charm. She sitting beside him, legs crossed, head slightly tilted, pretending to be unimpressed. But inside? Inside, she was biting back a smirk. He was glancing at her between sentences— quick, subtle, waiting for her to cut in, like she always did whenever he talked too much. But this time, she didn't. She let him do his thing. And maybe, just maybe, she loved him a little more for it.
Road trips. The old Airstream rumbling down the highway, backpacks tossed on the floor. Toys and stuffed animals scattered across the seats. Their child's laughter echoing through the small space, wild and unrestrained; bursts of joy spilling into every corner, making the walls feel wider, the air feel lighter. Little legs darting up and down the narrow aisle, tiny hands and nose pressing against the window. Small gasps at every passing landscape; little fingers pointing wildly at horses, rivers, mountains; at every piece of the world rushing past. Patrick, one hand on the wheel, the other reaching back blindly, instinctively, to squeeze hers.
It had felt so real.
So effortless. So certain.
And yet—
She'd seen it. Before she even considered the possibility of being pregnant.
And because it was with him, everything felt so right.
But because it was with him, everything wasn't so simple.
She wasn't afraid of his reaction. Not really. She already knew. Of all the reasons in the world that could ever make him run, this wouldn't be one of them. That, she was sure of. That, she knew in her heart.
But still…
If there was even the slightest possibility he was still keeping something from her, something that could make him leave again, the last thing she wanted was for a baby to be the reason he stayed.
Before anything else, she needed certainty. Something undeniable. Something spoken aloud, shaped into existence. Even though, deep down, her instincts already whispered the truth, she couldn't rely on instinct alone. Not even on the faint pink lines staring back at her from that test, so fragile, so finite.
She needed more.
A confirmation etched in sound, in fact, in reality. A diagnosis spoken aloud, solidified in something beyond plastic and ink.
Tomorrow, she would take the first step toward it. An appointment was already set for the morning, and once she'd the results — whatever they might be — then she would tell him everything.
"You were so quiet tonight." His voice reaches her again, soft as a lullaby, drawing her back from the depths of her thoughts. "Is something bothering you?"
She rests lightly against his chest, his warmth settling around her. But there's still tension in her body. He feels it in the way she doesn't fully lean into him, in the subtle stiffness beneath his hands.
"The last few days have taken a lot out of me, I think." A moment's hush. A breath. "Especially today."
He makes a low sound in his throat, a hum of recognition. Felt more than spoken.
"Everything's fine now," he assures her.
And she just breathes a vague, distant, "yeah."
His hands find her shoulders, gentle but firm, guiding her to turn until they're face to face. The darkness swallows the finer details of her features, but he doesn't need to see them. He can feel it. She's somewhere else, her mind racing a thousand miles ahead of them.
"Do you want to talk?" His hands glide up and down her arms, slow and firm, trying to bring heat back into her skin.
And he sees it— the hesitation. The way her gaze darts, how she wets her lips before answering. She's searching for something to say. Or maybe for a way to avoid saying anything at all.
They'd never been good at this. At breaking down feelings. Especially the difficult ones. They both knew it. There was a gap between them, a hushed space where some words were left unspoken. But if they wanted to keep moving forward… they would have to learn how to bridge it.
Her eyes flick back to him, to the pajama shirt he'd thrown on before coming outside. Her fingers fidget with the top button, twisting it once, then again, a small, unconscious movement as she mulls over his question.
Finally, she lets out an almost imperceptible sigh. "Okay."
He breathes.
"Okay," he echoes, pressing a kiss to the soft space between her brows. A warm, lingering one, meant to stay. "It's chilly here. Let's go back inside."
His hand finds the small of her back, guiding her toward the Airstream. Inside, instead of going back to bed, he settles on the couch where she'd been sitting just moments ago, watching him sleep. Gently, effortlessly, he pulls her into his lap. And she settles against him. No hesitation, no walls.
His fingers thread into her hair, brushing away a stray strand that falls across her face. Then one arm wraps firmly around her back, holding her close. The other hand rests on her knee, his thumb tracing slow, lazy circles. A silent invitation. A gesture that asks everything without a word.
"I lost my temper today." Her voice is low, a frown tugging at her features.
"You did?"
She nods slowly, her gaze dropping to her lap. Not in shame. Not in regret. But in a subdued anger and fear that refuses to fade.
"I swear, if that pervert hadn't penned me a list of names," she mumbles under her breath. "I would've jumped across the table and knocked his goddamn teeth out."
He doesn't miss the way her body tenses. Lowering his eyes, he sees her fingers curl into fists. As if she's still there. Still in that room. Still caught in what lingers.
Anyone who knew Teresa Lisbon — the disciplined, steel-spined law enforcer — would say she was the most rational, the most composed person in any room. Conflict was hers to resolve, not escalate. Emotions stayed in check. Logic ruled over impulse. Fear never dictated her choices.
But when it came to Patrick Jane… there was no logic. No calculated restraint. No distance.
Especially now.
Now that she'd reason to believe she might be pregnant, she would never,never,let anyone take away Patrick's right to be a father again.
Not through his death.
Not after everything he'd already lost.
Fate couldn't be that cruel.
It would be too vile, too merciless, too unforgiving.
And how could she ever bear the thought of her child carrying an emptiness like that— the ache of never having known their father?
No.
No.
Come hell or high water, she would do whatever it took, no matter the cost, to make sure that never happened.
So when she stepped into that interrogation room, she still had control. Barely. Anger, desperation already throbbed inside her, but she held it back,at first.She asked. She demanded. She reasoned. But every second wasted felt like a noose tightening around her chest. And then, something snapped.
She hadn't cared about the rules, about right or wrong, about the limits she was crossing. She wasn't afraid to get her hands dirty, to break everything in her path if it meant finding him.
And it worked. A threat did it.
Her career, her principles, everything she'd built her life upon, became a distant reflection, blurred in the heat of that moment.
Because none of it mattered.
Not when the alternative was never seeing him alive again.
She lets her very few words settle, making no effort to continue. Instead, she buries her face in his neck, clinging to him with desperate strength, as if holding onto him might steady the ground beneath her. Her body quivers against his, her breath catching on a silent sob, a failed attempt to hold back the tears. And that's when she finally lets him see it: the unshielded fragility she's been trying to conceal all day.
It's not like her. Not like his strong, self-possessed Teresa.
But as she'd told him, the last few days have taken a lot out of her. And he understands. He understands that her instincts so overburdened, so threadbare, are struggling to push past the barriers that have kept them restrained.
And when she finally finds the breath to speak again, it's like watching a floodgate burst after being held back too long. The words spill out unchecked, flooding everything around them.
Patrick listens. Silently. Attuned to every syllable. As she relives a time they'd barely touched upon. As she shares, through broken words and tears, the torment of those endless days he was gone, unreachable in every way. The nights when uncertainty stole her sleep. The little voice in her head that urged her to brace for the worst.
His arms tighten around her, his breath hitching. And now, regret creeps in— slow and relentless, digging deep. Regret for the way he'd handled it. For how he'd unknowingly pushed her into this storm. For being so consumed by his own darkness that he never even considered the silent anguish she'd carried when he'd walked away.
His lips graze her temple, lingering there. His hand finds hers, fingers threading between her own, solid and warm.
"Sweetheart…"
It slips from his lips softly, barely a murmur, his breath stirring through her hair.
And just like that, her heart tips over itself. His voice wraps around her like the softest silken sheets. A rush of warmth, tenderness, longing. She hadn't realized, not fully, how much she'd missed this.
The way he called her baby.Sweetheart.
A habit he'd cultivated slowly, unassuming, until it became second nature. She hadn't heard it in nearly two weeks and only now does she feel the weight of its absence. How it had settled unnoticed in her chest.
Teresa used to hate pet names. With exes, the very sound had made her cringe inwardly, the words always feeling foreign, like something she didn't quite know how to hold. So she never imagined, never, that one day she'd come to savor them.
Especially from him.
Especially when he drew out the words, savoring each syllable like something precious. Coming from him, it didn't feel forced. Didn't feel cheap. It felt like a touch without hands, sinking deep, weaving itself into her in ways she never expected.
And before she knew it, it had embedded itself into her.
Now? She craves it.
Slowly, with infinite tenderness, he lets go of her hand and lifts her chin, guiding her gaze back to his. His fingertips trace along her cheeks, brushing away any lingering sorrow.
"I'm sorry," he whispers against her skin. "I'm so, so sorry."
He exhales, slow and deep, as if hoping to let go of something lodged inside him.
"I'd been wanting to leave for some time, Teresa. You know that," he says. "And after Vega's…" His words splinter, like driftwood caught in the tide. "You wouldn't quit this job, and… it became too much for me to stay."
"You talk like you were the only one struggling with it. But you weren't." Her voice is low but steady. "I was scared too, you know."
He doesn't react right away. For a moment, he's only aware of his own breathing.
"You're stronger than me. You always were."
Teresa shakes her head, meeting his gaze. "That's not true."
But he huffs out a quiet, humorless laugh.
"It is." His hand moves along her thigh. Soothing strokes, light but certain. "You don't see it, but I do."
She gently lifts his hand from her thigh, settling it in her lap, between hers.
"That didn't mean I didn't need you."
His gaze drops, and after a beat, a slow, heavy nod follows.
"I know it was selfish of me. And I'm truly sorry I wasn't here for you, giving you the support you deserved. But—"
Patrick exhales, each breath measured, like he's picking apart something tangled, something that never quite left him alone. When he finally speaks again, the words don't feel new. They feel worn, shaped by too much time left unspoken.
"I just couldn't wake up every day not knowing if you'd make it back home. If something happened to you while we were together… I don't know what that would do to me."
She frowns. "What do you mean? Wouldn't it hurt you just the same, whether we were together or not?"
Beneath her, he shifts on the couch, as if the impact of her words physically unsettles him. His head sways, a subtle, uncertain motion— neither agreement nor denial.
"Yes, and… no," he says, his gaze drifting past her shoulder before snapping back. "If we were together and I lost you… that would be on me."
She straightens her back, eyes narrowing slightly. "How so?"
His throat works around the words before he finally breathes them out. "Because I'd be right there, letting it happen. Knowing I should have done more to protect you. And I didn't."
"Jane—"
"I know, I know." He cuts in gently, his fingers flexing against hers. "You don't need saving. You don't need protecting. I get that. But that didn't stop me from wanting to… from trying. If you—" He swallows hard, unable to voice the possibility. "I'd never stop feeling like, somehow, it was my fault."
She exhales, shaking her head. "Jane, that's not how it works."
A quiet moment passes. Then, he leans in, pressing a soft, drawn-out kiss to her upper arm, just below her shoulder. He lingers, just for a breath, before pulling back, resting his forehead in the place where his lips have been.
"Maybe not for you," he murmurs. "But for me? After everything?" His eyes slip shut. "That's exactly how it works."
For Patrick, the guilt over his family's death still weighed on him, a burden etched into his very being, one he'd carry until his last breath, until the light went out of his eyes. But he had learned to live with it, to shoulder its hold without letting it crush him. That was why losing anyone else felt unthinkable.
No, not just anyone.Her.
It was never about doubting his love for her. Never about commitment. It was about shielding himself from another loss before it even happened.
As if walking away could soften the blow. As if distance could make it hurt any less.
And now, she sees it.
He couldn't stand the thought of being a helpless spectator to tragedy— watching it unfold, knowing that maybe, if he had tried to persuade her, he could have convinced her to walk away. But she also knew— he never would have. He would never have forced her into a choice. He would never have asked her to give up her career for him. But he also couldn't stay and watch, knowing how it could end. If it had, if the worst had happened to her right in front of him, it would have hollowed him out completely. And Teresa can't say for certain that he would survive it.
But by the way he's talking about it now, she's almost sure he knows— he wouldn't. Not again.
She watches the blonde waves on the top of his head for a long moment, feeling the weight of his forehead still resting against her. Then, softly:
"You know I'm still not leaving my job. You know something might still happen. And yet…" She pauses. Then, even softer: "Here we are. You're building us a home. What changed?"
Patrick's lips curve faintly.
Lucky number three.
It kept showing up. Coincidence? He never believed in coincidences, just as he never believed in fate, never put any weight in cosmic alignments.
But then, there was Teresa…undeniable.
And maybe, for once, he could entertain the thought. Just a tiny little bit.
He pulls his head back just enough to meet her eyes.
"Let's just say… I followed the signs. Or maybe they followed me." He shrugs. "I'm not really sure how that goes."
She studies his face, eyeing him with suspicion, searching for any trace of mockery.Was he serious?But there's none. Her hands come up, cupping his face, drawing him closer until their noses nearly brush.
"You know…" she murmurs, her thumbs brushing over his cheekbones, "me loving you is a pretty big sign."
The corner of his mouth lifts as he mirrors her small smile. "It's huge."
Her smile widens, so much so, it can be heard in her voice. "Yeah?"
He nods, love brimming in the curve of his lips, knowing that the signs had only ever mattered because they'd led him to her. To a life with her.
And then, his voice drops to a hoarse whisper. "Come here."
His hand slides to the nape of her neck, fingers gliding through the base of her hair, guiding her down into a kiss.
What was meant to be fleeting… doesn't stay that way. Her fingers ghost along the lines of his jaw, her nose burying against his cheek, breathing him in, drawn by something deeper than instinct. And when he sinks further into her, coaxing her open with slow, unhurried strokes, tasting her, drinking in her warmth,she melts.
When the kiss softens into something slower, lazier, they exchange smiling pecks, playful echoes of the spark that still lingers.
She nestles into him again, her heart settling, her breath finding its natural rhythm.
For so long, fear — that goddamn fear — had held him back, locking a question inside his chest. Fear of what he couldn't control, of everything that could be taken from him. Butthis, the way she gave in to his touch, the quiet rhythm of her breath against his skin, the way she stayed,thiswas stronger than any fear.
And for the first time, it felt like enough. Enough to make him believe in something more.
Proposing to her.
Right here. Right now.
He liked grand gestures, loved going above and beyond to dazzle her, to sweep her off her feet. But Teresa… Teresa was the purest embodiment of simplicity. And really, what could be more natural, more right, than asking her to be his wife in a moment as simple as this? With her, feeling so heavenly in his arms.
The thought of a lifetime together, of growing old by her side, it was ingrained in him so completely, it felt less like a choice and more like an inevitability.
But then, as his gaze drifts downward…
His wedding ring is still there, still circling his finger.
She'd already confronted him about it. And he knew,he knew,he couldn't propose without first making her understand what that ring truly meant.
More than a trace of the life he once had, it was the thread that wove their lives together before they even knew it.
Not a chain, but a bridge. A silent witness to the heartbreak that had shattered him beyond repair, and to the one person who had pieced him back together.
A part of the man he once was. But more than that, a reflection of the man she'd helped him become. The man she'd seen,truly seen,long before he could see himself. And the man he wanted to be— at her side. As her husband.
His ring wasn't just his anymore. It was theirs.
And he'd tell her that. Not yet. Not tonight. But very soon.
So he swallows the question, keeping it safe in his chest just a little longer. Not out of fear. Not anymore. But with intention, with purpose. Before giving her the forever that's already hers.
"How are we feeling?" he asks softly, after a few minutes. His fingers skim languidly along the curve of her body, her muscles gradually surrendering to his warmth.
She hums, shifting just enough to burrow deeper into him.
"Sleepy," she murmurs, sweet and muffled against the crook of his neck.
A lovesick smile curls at his lips, one that she doesn't see but that lingers just the same.
"Let's get you into bed, shall we?"
A lazy, drowsy grumble escapes her. She's too comfortable, and staying right here, snug in his arms, feels perfect. Why would she move?
A hushed laugh rumbles through his chest, his hand smoothing over her back, lulling her with gentle words until she stirs, until, with his help, she finally rises.
"Spoon me?" she asks, her voice thick with sleep as she drags her feet toward the bed. He follows, his footsteps a soft echo behind her.
"Again?" His head falls back dramatically, like she's just suggested something deeply unfair. "Do Ieverget to be the little spoon?"
Teresa freezes, then turns. A slow blink. Then, her brows knit together, like she's replaying his words just to make sure she heard them right.
"What do you mean 'ever'?" she demands, a mix of mock offense and genuine surprise. "I spoon you all the time."
He chuckles, clearly enjoying himself.
With a teasing smirk, he drawls: "Uh-huh… okay…"
But they both know it's true— she spoons him. All the time. And he loves every single second of it.
She switches off the light above the bed, then slides over to her side by the window, tucking herself under the covers before lifting them for him.
"Shut up and bring that cute butt over here."
Patrick mumbles a languid"Bossy."But as he eases in beside her, his grin turns crooked, entirely unrepentant and utterly pleased with himself. "Idohave a cute butt."
She's already waiting, shifting just enough to settle into position to be spooned, a soft hum vibrating in her throat as his chest molds against her back, his leg slipping between hers with effortless familiarity. Like coming home, every single time.
"Am I doing it right?" he purrs, low and velvety, near her ear.
Her lips are already easing into a smile. "Perfectly," she whispers, utterly content.
In one fluid motion, she glides her fingers along his arm, guiding his hand to her lower abdomen, covering it with her own.
For just a moment, she indulges in the impossible thought that maybe, just maybe, he might feel something there.
"I can't wait for the day we'll be sleeping in our house," she murmurs dreamily, the thought wrapping around her like a warm haze, catching him off guard. Pleasantly so.
His body reacts before his mind can catch up. He pulls her tighter — if that's even possible — his chest pressing against her back, curving himself around her. His heart swells, stretching toward hers.
"Me too," he breathes. Then, as if the thought had just dropped into his mind, he adds: "We could think about getting a dog."
She frowns, turning her head slightly to peer at him over her shoulder.
"A dog?"
"Yes, a dog." Saying it aloud makes the idea feel more tangible, more real. "We have twenty-four acres of space to make use of."
He can already see it— a furry little thing rolling in the grass, chasing the ducks around the lake, wagging its tail on the porch at dusk.
The more he thinks about it, the more he likes the idea.
"We could call him Max… or Cooper… or Buddy. Or Daisy, for a girl…"
She chuckles softly, listening to him prattle on like he's already convincing himself.
"Patrick…"
"Hmm?"
"You're just listing the most overused dog names ever," she teases, amusement lacing her voice. "Those have been picked to death."
He smiles, caught up in her laughter.
"Yeah, but I like them." He pauses, before adding, his voice brushed with softness: "They sound… homey. Normal."
And normal is something he wants. Something he needs.
The hand resting on her stomach shifts, his fingers twitching slightly beneath hers, just enough for her to notice. Gently, she parts them with her own, weaving them together in a slow, deliberate motion.
"I think it would be nice to have a dog."
She hums, the sound low and distant, her thumb grazing absently over his knuckles. Not absentmindedly, but as if tethering herself to the now. As if her mind is elsewhere, yet right here at the same time.
A moment stretches, and that's when she notices it— the shift in his breathing, the steady rise and fall of his chest against her back.
Her gaze softens toward the window, where the world exists only in blurred slivers of moonlight. Somewhere between wakefulness and dreams, her mind drifts. And then, holding his hand there, just a little closer against her stomach, soft as a sigh, words breathe into the night—
"I hope there's more than just a dog."
Even if he were awake, her words might have gone unheard. But the universe? The universe, she hoped, had been listening.
What Teresa couldn't have imagined was that on his last birthday, when she'd urged him to make a wish, Patrick hadn't just made one.
He had also held onto a hope.
With his eyes closed against the candlelight, breath whispering over the flame, he had dared to ask for a second chance—
A future where he could have a family again.
A new beginning.