Mira jolted awake, heart hammering, breath uneven. Pregnant. The word struck her like a fist, reverberating through her chest, making it hard to think, hard to breathe. Her hand flew to her stomach, searching, trembling, expecting—wanting—to feel something. Anything. But there was only warmth. Only fear. Only the sharp awareness that her body was no longer hers alone. Morning light crept through the hospital blinds, pale and unforgiving. Alder was still there, sitting in the same chair, shoulders squared, eyes open, a tension in his jaw that mirrored her own. “You stayed,” she whispered. “I told you I would.” Her throat tightened. “You didn’t have to.” “I wanted to.” Silence settled between them. Not awkward. Just heavy. The door opened, and a nurse stepped in to check her vitals. Mira answered questions automatically. Yes, she felt better. No, she had not vomited again. Yes, she understood the instructions. When the nurse left, Mira exhaled slowly. “They’re going to disch
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