Weston’s POV
The north fence doesn't need checking.
I know this. Theron knows this. Hell, even the horses probably know this. But I couldn't stay in that house another minute. Couldn't look at Raven's face, couldn't see the hope and fear warring in her eyes, couldn't sit in that room where the doctor's words still echoed.
Pregnant. She's pregnant. And it might be mine.
I ride for hours. No destination, no purpose, just movement. The horse beneath me is steady and sure, and I let muscle memory take over while my mind spirals into darkness.
Raven. That's all I can think about.
Raven, laughing at something Theron said, her whole face lighting up in a way that makes my chest ache. Raven, holding Elena's guitar like it might save her life. Raven, looking at me with those moss-green eyes that see straight through every wall I've built.
Raven, pregnant. Possibly with my child.
And that's when the fear sinks its teeth in.
Because I've been here before. Elena, round with our son, glowing with happiness. Elena, painting the nursery yellow because she didn't want to know the gender. Elena, screaming in a hospital bed while I was stuck in traffic forty miles away.
I'd held Thomas for six hours. Watched his tiny chest rise and fall. Memorized every finger, every eyelash.
And then the breathing stopped.
I can't let that memory touch Raven. Can't let the ghost of what happened contaminate what I feel for her—something new, something different, something terrifyingly real. She's not a replacement. She's not Elena resurrected. She's Raven, and I'm falling for her in ways I didn't know I was still capable of.
That's what makes this so unbearable. Losing Elena destroyed me. Losing Raven might be worse—because this time, I'd know exactly what I was losing. And I'd have no one to blame but myself.
I can't do this again. Can't let myself hope. Can't let myself love. Can't stand at another bedside waiting for another heartbeat to stop.
Raven deserves better. She deserves someone whole, someone who can give her joy without the shadow of grief hanging over everything. She deserves Theron—golden, unbroken Theron, who loves with his whole heart instead of the shattered pieces I have left.
The hospital parking lot is nearly empty when I finally make myself go. I sit in my truck for twenty minutes, hands gripping the steering wheel, trying to find the courage to walk inside.
What will I even say? Sorry I ran? Sorry I'm a coward? Sorry I can't be the man you need?
A knock on my window makes me jump.
Theron stands outside, expression unreadable. I roll down the window.
"How is she?"
"Scared. Exhausted. Asking about you." His voice is carefully neutral. "The ultrasound showed twins."
Twins.
The word hits me like a physical blow. Two babies. Two lives depending on me—or not me, maybe, but possibly me. The uncertainty is almost worse than certainty would be.
"I can't—"
"I know." Theron cuts me off. "You can't do this, you're not ready, you'll only hurt her. I've heard the speech, West. Hell, I've watched you give it to yourself for four years."
He leans against my truck, arms crossed.
"But here's the thing. She's in there right now, carrying two babies that might be yours, and she's terrified. Not of the pregnancy. Of losing you."
"She'd be better off—"
"Don't." His voice sharpens. "Don't you dare finish that sentence. You don't get to decide what's better for her. That's her choice. All you get to decide is whether you're brave enough to let her make it."
We stare at each other. Brothers who've spent their whole lives orbiting the same spaces. And now, maybe, the same woman.
"I'm not fighting you for her," Theron says quietly. "That's not what this is. But I'm not going to let you self-destruct either. You did that once. I watched you disappear into a bottle for six months. I'm not doing it again."
"I'm not—"
"You are. You're just doing it sober this time." He pushes off the truck. "Room 114. She's alone."
He walks away without looking back.
I find the room. Stand in the doorway.
Raven is lying in the hospital bed, a monitor beside her showing two steady heartbeats. Her eyes are closed, but she's not sleeping—I can tell by the tension in her shoulders, the way her hand rests protectively over her stomach.
"I know you're there," she says without opening her eyes. "I can feel you brooding from across the room."
I step inside. Close the door.
"I'm sorry I left."
"I know." She opens her eyes. Red-rimmed, exhausted, but still beautiful. "Are you here because you want to be, or because Theron guilted you into it?"
"Both." The honesty surprises me. "I want to be here. I just don't know if I should be."
She pats the bed beside her. An invitation. A challenge.
I cross the room and sit. This close, I can see the faint tracks of dried tears on her cheeks. Can smell the hospital soap and beneath it, something that's just her.
"There's something I didn't tell you before," I say. The words come out rough. "About the day Elena died."
She waits. Doesn't push.
"She called me. Three times." My voice cracks. "And I sent it to voicemail because I was in a meeting. A goddamn meeting, Raven. While she was dying, I was talking about profit margins."
The tears come. I can't stop them. Haven't cried since the funeral, since I locked everything away and threw out the key. But her hand in mine is unlocking doors I thought I'd sealed forever.
She shifts closer. Wraps her arms around me. Holds me while I break.
"It wasn't your fault," she whispers against my hair. "You didn't know. You couldn't have known."
"I should have been there."
"Stop." She pulls back, cups my face in her hands, forces me to meet her eyes. "Elena wouldn't want this. She wouldn't want you spending the rest of your life punishing yourself for something you couldn't control."
"How do you know what she'd want? You never met her."
"Because anyone who loved you would want you to live. To love again. To be happy." She wipes my tears with her thumbs. "I want that for you."
The words settle into me. Not fixing anything—nothing can fix what's broken inside me—but shifting something. Making space.
"I can't promise I won't screw this up," I say finally. "I can't promise I won't panic, or run, or build walls so high you can't climb them."
"I'm not asking for promises."
"Then what are you asking for?"
She smiles. Sad. Beautiful.
"I'm asking you to try. To show up, even when it's hard. To let me in, even when it hurts." She presses her forehead to mine. "I'm asking you to choose us. Even if you're terrified."
"I am terrified."
"So am I. But I'd rather be terrified with you than safe with anyone else."
I kiss her. Soft. Tentative. A question more than a statement.
She answers by pulling me closer, threading her fingers through my hair, kissing me back with a desperation that matches my own.
When we finally break apart, she rests her hand on her stomach.
"Two heartbeats," she says.
"I heard," I cover her hand with mine. Feel the impossible reality of it—two lives, growing inside her. Two chances at something I thought I'd lost forever.
"I'm not ready," I admit. "I'm broken and scared and I don't know how to do this."
"Neither do I."
"But I want to try." I meet her eyes. "If you'll let me. I want to try."
She kisses me again. Softer this time. A promise instead of a question.
"That's all I'm asking," she whispers. "That's all I've ever asked."
We stay like that for a long time. Her hand on her stomach. Mine covering hers. Two heartbeats on the monitor, steady and strong.
I'm still terrified. Still broken. Still carrying four years of grief like a stone around my neck.
But for the first time since Elena died, I think maybe—just maybe—I might learn how to set it down.