Total pages in book: 53
Estimated words: 52357 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 209(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52357 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 209(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
And it’s not over yet. But today is a win.
The treatment ends fast. They unhook him. Pull the needle. Bandage the skin. Then the nurse gestures to the gold bell on the wall.
“The floor’s yours, Mr. Miller.”
Toon stands. Walks up to the bell.
I hold my breath.
And when he rings it—three loud, clear chimes—I nearly cry.
He turns, eyes locking with mine.
There’s a half-smile on his face, the kind that says I made it, but I’m still not sure how.
I stand with Benjamin and kiss him hard in front of the entire damn waiting room.
They all clap.
But I don’t hear them.
All I hear is the sound of hope cracking open inside me.
We settle in at home. Toon’s passed out on the couch, one arm over his face, the other cradling a bottle of Gatorade. Benjamin’s in his bassinet in the nursery, breathing deep and steady.
I’m sitting on the edge of our bed, hands clasped, heart racing.
I should feel safe.
But I don’t.
I feel terrified.
Because for the first time since Benji died, since Toon got sick, since my body split open to bring our baby into the world... I have everything I ever wanted.
And some part of me doesn’t believe I’m allowed to keep it.
I curl my arms around my stomach—empty now, but still stretched and soft from the life it carried just a couple of months ago.
I hear the floor creak.
Toon steps into our room, rubbing his neck. He gives me a crooked smile. “Sorry I passed out.”
I try to smile back.
He notices. Of course he does.
“What’s wrong?”
I shake my head. “Nothing.”
He sits beside me on the bed, close but not pushing.
“Dia.”
I look at him. Really look at him. He’s still thinner than he was, but his color is back. His strength. His humor. The man I fell for is still there—but tempered now. Stronger in quieter ways.
“I’m scared,” I whisper.
“Of what?”
“This,” I say, waving a hand toward the house, the nursery, the ring he doesn’t wear yet because I asked him to wait. “Everything. I feel like… like this is too good. Like the universe is going to take it away.”
He nods slowly, eyes soft. “I know that feeling.”
I curl into him, my head on his chest.
“Every time you got sick,” I say, “I’d lie to Benjamin in my belly and tell him Daddy was just tired. And I’d pray I wouldn’t have to explain why you weren’t coming back. I wondered how I could tell my son he lost two dads. I don’t want to lose you, not just for me, but for our son.”
He wraps both arms around me. “You never will.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I don’t,” he admits. “But I know I’m not quitting.”
I breathe him in.
His warmth. His steady heartbeat.
Then I whisper, “Make love to me.”
He pulls back just enough to look at me. “You sure? It’s only been nine weeks. There’s no pressure, darlin’. No rush to bounce back to anything.”
He’s right. It’s been nine weeks since I gave birth. Nine weeks of healing. Nine weeks of adjusting. Nine weeks of holding my body together while it mended and figuring out how to be a mother. I’m not the same me I was before baby and for this moment, I need to feel like Dia Crews. I need to feel like myself.
I don’t have it all figured out yet, but I know this.
I want this man. I want every bit of him for the rest of our days. It’s not just the way he touches me. It’s the way he sees me. The way he’s always seen me. The way he still finds me beautiful and strong even if I needed help putting on disposable underwear and icepacks for my pads. He makes me feel like I’m his.
“I need to feel it. All of it. You. This. That it’s real.”
I climb onto him, knees folding beside his hips. He watches my every movement like I’m his entire universe. He kisses me gently.
“You sure?” His voice is rough.
“I know you’re tired from treatment. I’ll do the work. But Justin I miss you. I want to feel close to you.”
He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for days. He reaches up, fingers brushing my cheek, then sliding into my hair as he pulls me down gently. His lips meet mine in a kiss that is slow and filled with so much love my chest physically aches.
He undresses me like it’s the first time.
No rush. No urgency.
His hands slide over my waist, my hips, the soft places my body never had before the baby. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. Just kisses every stretch mark like it’s holy.
“You made our son in this body,” he says. “I don’t think you’ll ever understand how beautiful that is.”
His hands glide down my back, careful. He is gentle like he’s learning me all over again. Maybe because he is. I’m different. I’ve changed. This body carried life, bore pain, and survived both the beautiful and terrifying.