Chapter 59: Chapter Sixty

The house in the Heights was everything they had envisioned on the cold nights in O’Neil Street. Perched high on the bluff, its floor-to-ceiling glass walls looked out over the wide, winding river that sliced through the Capital. It was filled with natural light, modern oak, and the clean scent of fresh plaster and rain. It was a home built for a future, far removed from limestone altars and dusty valley roads.

Four months had passed since their journey back to the village. Hunter was now six months along. His belly was a heavy, unmistakable mound that no longer lent itself to clever tailoring. To keep his peace at the design college, Hunter had retired the fitted shirts and mesh tops of his earlier months, opting instead for oversized knit sweaters, heavy linen overshirts, and dark coats that softened his silhouette. The pregnancy remained their private truth, shared only with their doctors and their families. To his peers, Hunter was simply the brilliant second-year student who had a preference for comfortable streetwear and a habit of leaving campus precisely when his shift was done.

"You're hiding under those blankets again," Saint remarked as they walked down the wide steps of the design studio.

Saint was one of the few classmates Hunter actually casually talked to. He was a charismatic, silver-tongued architecture student with an eye for industrial steel and an endless supply of social energy.

"It's practical," Hunter said, adjusting the strap of his leather portfolio over his shoulder. He pulled the thick wool cardigan closer around his midsection. "The draft in the studio is brutal."

"Right, right," Saint chuckled, slanting a look at him. "Look, a bunch of us are going to a mixer tonight at a lounge in the East District. Nothing crazy,just some good music, expensive drinks, and people who aren't talking about structural load capacities for five minutes. You should come. You've been living like a hermit lately."

Hunter hesitated, his fingers instinctively brushing the curve beneath his sweater. "I don't know, Saint. Nikhil's on a heavy rotation tonight, but I usually just prefer to stay in."

"Just show your face," Saint nudged him playfully. "An hour. Have a sparkling water, let people know you're still alive, and you can slip back to your fortress on the hill."

Hunter smiled softly. The quiet in the penthouse could be heavy when Nikhil wasn't there, and the baby had been calm all week, resting low and steady. "An hour," Hunter agreed. "Let me call Nikhil first."

The ER at St. Jude’s was in a state of controlled madness.

Nikhil stood by the trauma bay basin, scrubbing his forearms with stiff, orange-tinted soap. A botched armored car robbery in the South District had flooded the emergency department with six gunshot victims in less than twenty minutes. The air smelled of metallic blood, ozone, and the sharp bite of disinfectant.

His phone buzzed on the counter where his nurse had set it. Seeing Hunter’s name on the screen, Nikhil pulled off his latex gloves with a quick snap and answered, holding the phone against his shoulder.

"Hunter? Is everything okay?" Nikhil asked, his voice instantly dropping its stern, chief-of-surgery tone to become soft and focused.

"Everything’s fine, Nik." Hunter’s voice came through the receiver, a warm counterweight to the frantic noise of the ER behind Nikhil. "I was just calling to let you know I’m going to a small mixer with Saint. Just for an hour to show my face, and then I’m heading home."

Nikhil glanced over his shoulder at the trauma bay doors, where two more gurneys were being wheeled in, surrounded by harried paramedics and shouting residents.

"Good," Nikhil said, exhaling a tired breath. "Go enjoy yourself, my love. I’m drowning in trauma cases tonight,some gang altercation or robbery gone wrong. I won't be home until way after midnight. Don't wait up for me, okay?"

"Don't push yourself too hard, Doctor," Hunter said softly. "I love you."

"I love you more, Hunter. So much more. Drive carefully."

Nikhil hung up, tossed the phone back onto the tray, snapped on a fresh pair of surgical gloves, and stepped back into the storm of the trauma bay.

The lounge in the East District was dimly lit, bathed in deep crimson and amber light, with soft jazz echoing off the exposed brick walls. It was an upscale, quiet spot,far removed from the thrumming bass of clubs like The Onyx.

"Everyone, this is Hunter,the legend who actually gets A’s in structural theory," Saint announced, pulling Hunter toward a plush velvet booth near the back.

A striking woman with sharp eyeliner and dark hair smiled up from the lounge seat. "Ignore him, Hunter. I’m Laira. Laira Hades," she introduced herself, extending a hand adorned with silver rings. "And these two troublemakers are Jim and Tim."

The twin brothers sitting beside her looked nearly identical,broad-shouldered, with sharp jawlines and matching leather jackets. They waved casually, offering Hunter a drink.

"Just water for me, thanks," Hunter smiled, sliding into the edge of the booth.

The party was pleasant. For an hour, Hunter genuinely enjoyed himself. They talked about architecture, laughed at Saint's terrible impressions of their head professor, and debated the merits of concrete versus timber frame designs. Laira was sharp and witty, and the twins had a dry, absurd sense of humor that kept the booth laughing. For sixty minutes, Hunter wasn't the man carrying a secret baby or the husband worrying about the shadows of his past. He was just a young man among friends, feeling the quiet warmth of a normal evening.

As the clock ticked toward 9:30 PM, Hunter felt a familiar, dull ache in his lower back,a gentle reminder from his body that it was time to rest.

"Alright, guys," Hunter said, standing up and pulling his heavy coat around himself, carefully buttoning the top toggle to keep his sweater draped loosely. "I promised my husband I'd be early. It was great meeting all of you."

"Aww, leaving so soon?" Laira asked, tilting her head. "Drive safe, Hunter."

"Get home safe, man," Saint waved, already hailing the waiter for another round.

Hunter walked out of the warm, amber atmosphere of the lounge and into the crisp, cool air of the alley where his car was parked. The street was quiet, illuminated by the orange glow of a single sodium streetlight. The night air felt good against his skin, clearing the lingering scent of lounge perfume and cocktail bitters.

He reached his SUV, pulling his keys from his pocket. He clicked the fob, and the lights flashed twice.

He pulled the heavy driver-side door open. He was just about to slide inside, his foot resting on the running board, when a sound shattered the quiet night.

POP. POP-POP-POP.

It wasn't a firework. Hunter had lived through O’Neil Street, he knew the flat, terrifying crack of gunfire.

The noise erupted from inside the lounge he had just left,sharp, rapid, and followed instantly by the muffled, horrific sound of screaming and shattering glass. The heavy oak doors of the lounge burst open, and several people scrambled into the street, shouting in terror.

Hunter froze. Every protective instinct he possessed screamed at him to run back inside,to check on Saint, on Laira, on the twins. He took a half-step toward the alleyway.

Then, his hand dropped to his stomach.

Underneath his thick wool coat, he felt a sudden, sharp flutter,a violent kick from the child inside him. It was as if the life within his womb was slamming the brakes on his heroism.

Protect the child. The words didn't come as a voice, they came as a primal, instinctual command that flooded his bloodstream with ice-cold adrenaline. The warrior who had stopped punches in dark alleys was gone, in his place was a father whose only duty was survival.

Hunter didn't think. He didn't look back at the screaming crowds or the flashing muzzle light through the frosted windows. He threw himself into the driver’s seat, slammed the door shut, and locked it. His hands were shaking so violently he dropped the keys twice before jamming them into the ignition.

The engine roared to life.

Hunter slammed the car into reverse, tires screeching against the wet asphalt, spun the wheel, and launched the SUV onto the main avenue, leaving the chaos of the East District behind in a blur of red taillights.

He didn't remember the drive home.

He didn't remember crossing the bridge or navigating the winding roads up to the Heights. His mind was an absolute blank, a white-noise roar of terror and adrenaline. All he knew was the feeling of his own hyperventilating lungs and the cold sweat sticking his shirt to his back.

When he pulled into the long driveway of the penthouse, he saw the headlights of another car pulling in right behind him.

It was Nikhil. The emergency at the hospital had cleared earlier than expected, or perhaps Nikhil had simply felt the sudden, violent spike in the invisible thread that bound them together.

Nikhil barely had his car in park before he threw his door open, stepping out into the cool night air. "Hunter?"

Hunter practically tumbled out of his SUV.

His legs refused to hold his weight, his knees buckling the moment his boots touched the gravel. He didn't say a word. He couldn't. His chest was heaving in short, jagged gasps, his vision blurred with unshed tears of pure, unadulterated shock.

"Hunter!" Nikhil sprinted across the driveway, catching Hunter before he hit the ground.

Nikhil pulled him up, wrapping his broad arms around Hunter’s shaking frame. He felt the violent, uncontrollable tremors racking Hunter’s body,a deep, full-body shiver that felt like a shockwave.

"Hunter, what happened? Look at me! Are you hurt? Is it the baby?" Nikhil frantically cupped Hunter's face, his doctor’s eyes scanning Hunter’s pale skin, his hands quickly dropping to feel Hunter’s stomach. The baby was alive, its pulse rapid but steady under Nikhil’s palm.

Hunter couldn't form the words. He couldn't tell him about the lounge, about Saint, about the sudden pop-pop-pop that had shattered the quiet night, or the terrifying realization that he had fled while his friends were inside.

He just buried his face into the crook of Nikhil’s neck, his fingers clutching the fabric of Nikhil’s coat so hard his knuckles turned white. He was shivering violently, his teeth chattering against Nikhil’s skin, sobbing silently into the dark.

Nikhil didn't press him. Seeing the raw, primitive terror in his husband's eyes, he simply lifted Hunter into his arms, pulling him close against his chest. He held him firmly, standing beneath the cold stars of the Capital, shielding his husband and their unborn child with his own body as Hunter continued to tremble uncontrollably in the quiet of the night.