Just Maybe

Just Maybe
The rest of the morning, I existed in a hazy kind of purgatory—an emotional suspension where nothing felt solid, yet everything hurt.

Kairn’s incident, however brief, had cracked something inside me that I’d been holding together with sheer will. That tiny flicker of hope, that moment where I thought he might be waking, had made the crash back into reality so much more brutal.

Because the truth was unavoidable: both of my husbands were still trapped in a purgatory of their own, unreachable, unmoving, suspended somewhere between life and loss. And I was suspended with them, unable to pull them back, unable to follow.

The weaker parts of me—the ones I’d buried under duty and necessity—wanted to claw their way out. They wanted to scream until my throat tore, to cry until I collapsed, to rip at my hair and demand the universe give them back to me. But none of that was an option.

I had to be strong. For our pack. For our pup. For the future I refused to let slip away, even if it felt like sand pouring through my fingers.

The walk back to the house took longer than usual. My legs felt heavy, as if grief itself had wrapped around my ankles. The day had barely begun, and already exhaustion pressed down on me like a physical weight.

I missed being able to fall into my husbands’ arms, to feel their warmth and strength anchoring me. I missed the certainty that no matter what happened, we would face it together. Now I faced everything alone, and the silence where their voices should have been was deafening.

Cinder was awake when I arrived, dusting the picture frames with frantic, repetitive motions. The frames weren’t even dirty. It was obvious she just needed something—anything—to keep her hands busy, to keep her mind from wandering into the same dark places mine kept slipping into.

“Cin? Can you make me breakfast?” I asked gently, lingering in the doorway as if stepping fully into the house might shatter the fragile calm she’d created for herself.

“Of course, Luna. What would you like?” She folded the dusting rag with careful precision and set it on the coffee table, looking at me with a mixture of concern and readiness.

“Something healthy,” I replied. “An omelet with meat and lots of veggies.” I didn’t have the slightest appetite, but Damaris had warned me—again—that I needed to take better care of myself. The pup needed me to eat, even if I felt hollow.

“Absolutely,” she said with a soft smile. “You go up and shower, and I’ll have breakfast ready in fifteen minutes or so.”

I nodded and headed upstairs. For the first time in weeks, I forced myself to slow down in the shower. At first, I simply stood under the spray, letting the hot water cascade over my skin, trying to wash away the ache lodged deep in my chest. The steam blurred the edges of the room, and for a moment, I let myself imagine it was blurring the edges of my pain too. But the ache in my chest remained, stubborn and sharp.

When Cinder finally knocked on the door to tell me breakfast was ready, I shut off the water and wrapped myself in a robe. I hesitated before opening the door, feeling strangely vulnerable, as if the shower had stripped away the armor I’d been wearing.

“Will you stay and eat with me?” I asked when I reached the bedroom. The words slipped out before I could second-guess them.

Cinder froze in the doorway, eyebrows lifting in surprise. “I’ll go fetch my plate,” she said quickly, offering me the briefest of smiles.

It was rare for her to eat with us—rare for her to eat with me. She always seemed afraid of intruding, or of saying the wrong thing, especially lately. But today, her quiet presence felt like a lifeline. She sat at the foot of my bed, eating in silence, her posture careful, her eyes flicking toward me every so often as if checking to make sure I was still holding myself together. I appreciated the company, even in silence, more than I could say.

When we finished, she took the plates away, leaving me alone again. The room felt too quiet without her.

I turned to the mirror and stared at my reflection. I barely recognized the woman looking back at me. My cheekbones were sharper than they should’ve been, my collarbones too pronounced. The loss of appetite had resulted in me losing more weight than I’d realized. The dark circles beneath my eyes looked like bruises, darker the last time I’d looked at myself so clearly.

I looked haunted. I looked like someone who had been holding her breath for far too long, waiting for a loss that hadn’t come.

Instead of throwing on the first clothes I saw as I usually did, I forced myself to take my time. I dressed carefully, choosing something that made me feel grounded and comfortable. I blow-dried my hair, watching the strands fall into place. I applied makeup slowly, methodically, as if painting on a version of myself I hoped to feel like again someday.

When I finished, I stood back and studied the result. For the first time in a long while, I almost resembled my normal self. Not fully—there was still a shadow in my eyes, a tightness around my mouth—but it was something.

I smiled at my reflection. The expression felt foreign at first, stiff and unnatural. I practiced it, forcing the corners of my mouth up until the motion looked real, even if it didn’t feel real yet.

Because that was what today demanded: the illusion of strength, the illusion of hope, the illusion that I wasn’t breaking apart inside.

And maybe—just maybe—if I practiced long enough, the illusion would become truth. For me, for the twins, for the life growing inside me.

“Alright, my loves,” I whispered under my breath, focusing on the bond until I could hear their heartbeats in my ears. “Let’s get some work done.”