Chapter 169: The ache that refused to depart
By mid-morning, the ache had settled itself beneath my ribs like a presence that had always been there—permanent but muted, as though it was holding its breath until I noticed it. I didn't. I made tea instead, swathed myself in my plushest robe, and glided through the house as though I was standing still.
Caspian was looking at me. He was trying not to make it obvious, but I could feel it in the way the air was altered when I drew near him. His eyes followed my hands, my position, the space between each breathe that I took.
"I'm okay," I had said when he asked me, too relaxed. "Probably something I ate."
But even I wasn't certain.
The nausea had started two days ago—subtle, annoying. I’d blamed the new vitamin brand. The headaches crept in last night, and I’d brushed them off as tension. But this morning, my whole body had felt like it was at war with itself. Heavy. Sluggish. And strangely foreign.
Caspian did not battle, at least not initially. But I could see it on his face—clenched jaw, fists tensing and unclenching in his palms, the way he kept looking at the clock as if he was timing my pain. Like he had a timer on my injury.
He did not hover. Caspian never hovered. But his weight felt heavier than usual, heavy with concern. When I leaned back against the counter, fingers sprawled, he stood there before I'd even said his name.
"You all right?" he asked, low and threaded with suppressed panic.
I nodded. "Just tired."
"Tired like 'you didn't sleep at all' tired," he said slowly, "or tired like 'something is wrong' tired?"
I was able to laugh softly. "You sound like a doctor."
"I'm sounding like a man who loves you and sees you wince every time you move too quickly."
That shut me up.
I looked up at him, and the intensity in his gaze made my heart stumble. He was leaning towards me now, forearms resting on the counter on either side of me. I could smell him—amber, spice, home. But today, even home couldn't mask the creeping cold in my own skin.
"I need to rest," I whispered.
He didn't argue. Just leaned in and swept a lock of hair behind my ear, his fingers following the line of my cheekbone as if he were memorizing the shape of my face. I leaned into his touch, of course. There wasn't space for fronts when he looked at me that way—like he could see through all my promises, straight to the hurt I was trying not to experience.
"Then rest," he told me. "I'll take care of the rest."
So I did. I curled up on the couch with a blanket and a book that I didn't actually read. He fed me soup. I took two bites. He didn't prod. Just sat down next to me, his hand on my ankle, anchoring me.
By late afternoon, I'd given up with the act. The nausea was worse. My head felt sandy. And the tiredness wasn't exhaustion—it was a pull tugging me inward, down beneath the surface of myself.
I huddled deeper under the blanket, one hand bracing against my stomach as if I was trying to contain something.
Caspian came in from the study and stopped in the doorway when he saw me.
That was when he finally ceased waiting.
"Lily," he said, dropping to his knees next to me.
"Enough. We're going to the hospital."
"I don't want to—"
"I do," he said, gently but firmly. "I need to know what this is. I can't sit and watch you die like this."
I gazed at him. Blinked at him, actually. His grayer-than-usual eyes were more stormy, clamped down hard on fear he was trying not to let out. His hands trembled ever so slightly as he enclosed mine.
He was afraid.
And suddenly, I wasn't so sure I was okay anymore.
I nodded.
He breathed out, as though he'd been holding it since morning. He tore around—grabbed at my shoes, his keys, a coat. He stood me up like I was dainty. I wasn't, but the care with which he moved me left me more open than I'd let myself be since morning.
The ride was quiet. Rain poured across the windshield in thin rivulets, and the city flashed by in a haze of grey and headlights. Caspian held my hand in his the whole way, his thumb tracing slow circles in my palm as though he were claiming some private vow there.
They rushed to do everything at the hospital once they saw my symptoms. Blood pressure. Vitals. Labs. A nurse with soft hands and soft eyes. Caspian stuck with me the whole time. Never paced, never chatted. He sat in the bedside chair with a silence that was almost frightening—like every muscle in his body was tensed up waiting for bad news.
They drew blood. Asked questions. Ran tests.
And we waited.
I slept for a minute or two, the fluorescent lights seeping into the insides of my eyelids pale white. When I opened my eyes once more, Caspian still gazed at me.
"I hate this," he breathed, his knotted fingers wrapped with mine. "Not knowing."
"I know," I breathed. "Me too."
A doctor finally appeared, clipboard in hand, face impassive.
Caspian stood up. I gripped his hand tighter.
The doctor smiled. "Ms. Rossi… you're pregnant."
Silence.
For an instant, I thought I'd misunderstood.
Caspian's eyes closed. "I'm sorry, what?"
"You're pregnant," the doctor told him again, gently. "The exhaustion, the nausea—it all hangs together. Congratulations."
Something within me came to a halt. And then radiated outward.
Pregnant.
I caught a glimpse of Caspian over my shoulder. He sat staring at the doctor as though the word hadn't registered. And then he swiveled toward me.
And I saw it hit him.
Wonder. Fear. Joy.
He swallowed. "You're… we're…?"
"I guess we are," I breathed, already tears streaming down my face.
And then he was kissing me. Not frantic. Not rushed. Just. overwhelmed. His hands cradling my face, his mouth dancing across mine like a promise.
"You're going to be a mother," he breathed against my lips, voice rough.
"And you're going to be a father," I breathed in reply.
He pulled back, just far enough to look at me. His eyes were wet, but he didn’t look away. “You scared the hell out of me,” he said. “But this… this is the best surprise I’ve ever had.”
I let out a shaky laugh, pressing my forehead to his. “Me too.”
And similarly, the pain that had accompanied me throughout the day dissolved into something else—something warmer. Not gone. But transformed.
Not a warning.
A beginning.