I can’t move.

Can’t breathe.

Holy shit.

Blythe’s fingers dig into my wrist. “That’s—” Her voice catches, her free hand covering her mouth.

Simone smiles, warmth in her expression. “That’s your baby.”

The room disappears. The noise fades. Everything narrows down to this—to her, to the screen, to the tiny life moving inside her.

I don’t realize I’m shaking until Blythe squeezes my hand tighter. I look at her. At the screen. At her again.

She’s crying.

Not breaking down. Not sobbing. But silent tears streak her cheeks, her expression filled with something so raw it makes my chest ache.

And me? I feel like someone just reached inside me and rewired my entire fucking existence.

I lean down, pressing my forehead to hers, needing to ground myself in her. Her breath shakes against my lips. My hand trembles where it grips hers.

“You okay?” I ask, voice rough.

She nods quickly, sniffling. “I just . . . look at that little person—our little person.”

Our.

The word sinks into me, buries itself somewhere deep. I close my eyes for half a second, press my lips to the top of her head, but I don’t say anything. Because if I do, my voice might fucking break.

Simone clears her throat, clicking a few buttons on the machine. “Do you want to know the gender?”

Blythe pulls back slightly, blinking up at me. I see the hesitation in her eyes. The fear.

Like this moment is already too much. Like if we name it, it’ll become something even bigger, something neither of us can take back.

I cup her cheek, brushing my thumb over her damp skin. “You want to?”

She swallows hard, then nods.

Simone turns back to the screen, adjusting the angle again. The room is silent except for the hum of the machine, the quiet tension stretching between each breath.

Then Simone smiles. “This is so exciting. You’re having a little girl.”

Blythe gasps softly. Her grip on my hand tightens.

A daughter.

I don’t know if I’m breathing. I don’t know if I’m even functioning.

All I know is that I’m here, holding onto Blythe, watching our daughter shift on the screen, and realizing there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for them.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Henrietta (Blythe)

Simone leaves right after congratulating us, and so does everyone else since they’re helping her with the machine. The apartment falls silent. I sink into the couch. The ultrasound picture clutched between my fingers. The edges are smudged, where I press too tightly, but I can’t seem to loosen my grip.

A girl.

My daughter.

She’s no longer some distant reality I can push aside while I fight to survive. She’s here—already changing everything. Already mine. Mine and . . .

I swallow hard. Winston’s.