Jake’s POV
I wake to the brush of lips against my jaw—soft, insistent, pulling me from sleep I didn't realize I'd found.
The guest bedroom feels wrong. Foreign. I'd expected her beside me last night, but she'd asked for space and I'd honored it even though every instinct screamed to follow her, to fix what I'd broken with my fear disguised as protection.
"Jake." Her voice carries something light. Almost teasing. "Wake up."
I blink against morning light streaming through unfamiliar windows, and Adison's face comes into focus above me. She's smiling—genuine, without the guardedness that had sharpened between us over dinner.
"What are you—" I start, but she cuts me off with another kiss. This one lands on my mouth, and my body responds before my brain catches up.
"Hormones." She pulls back just enough to speak, her hand resting against my chest. "Last night was hormones. I'm sorry."
The apology catches me off-guard. I prop myself up on one elbow, studying her face for signs of performance or lingering anger.
"You don't need to apologize." My voice comes out rougher than I intended. "I was an ass. Said things I didn't mean the way they sounded."
"We were both scared." Her fingers trace patterns against my collarbone through the thin fabric of my t-shirt. "Of different things, maybe. But we were scared, that’s all."
I reach for her, pulling her down against me until there's no space between us. She fits against my body like she was designed for exactly this position, and the rightness of it dissolves whatever tension survived the night.
"I'm not doubting us." I say it directly into her hair, breathing in the scent that's become synonymous with home. "I'm doubting them. Manhattan. The world that's going to judge you for choosing me."
"Let them judge." She tilts her head back to meet my eyes. "I chose you. That's the only part that matters."
The conviction in her voice steadies something fractured in my chest. I kiss her properly this time—deep, claiming, apologizing without words for every doubt I let surface yesterday.
When we break apart, we're both breathing hard. Her hand slides down my chest, lower, and desire builds in the space between intention and action.
"We should—" I start, already knowing where this is heading.
"We definitely should." Her smile turns wicked. "But we'll be late for the ultrasound if we do."
Reality crashes back. The appointment. Our baby. The reason any of this matters beyond our temporary fears.
"Right." I force myself to release her, watching her stand with regret pooling heavy in my gut. "Tonight then."
"Tonight." She leans down for one more kiss—promise wrapped in heat. "Definitely tonight."
* * *
Dr. Ortega's office carries that particular sterile hush that all medical spaces seem designed around. Clean lines, muted colors, the kind of environment that makes you hyper-aware of your own heartbeat.
Adison's hand finds mine in the waiting room, and I squeeze back harder than I probably should. Nerves coil through my chest—irrational, unstoppable, rooted in the reality that in a few minutes I'll hear our baby's heartbeat for the first time.
"Ms. Ward?" A nurse appears in the doorway, clipboard in hand.
We follow her down a corridor that smells like antiseptic and possibility. The exam room is small, dominated by equipment I don't recognize and a padded table that Adison settles onto with practiced ease.
Dr. Ortega enters moments later—middle-aged, competent-looking, carrying the kind of confidence that comes from years of managing exactly these situations.
"Adison." She greets her patient with genuine warmth before her gaze shifts to me. "And you must be...?"
"Jake Sullivan." I extend my hand, trying not to feel like an imposter in this polished medical space. "The baby's father."
Something shifts in the doctor's expression. Relief, maybe. Or reassessment.
"I'm glad you're here." She settles onto her stool, pulling up Adison's chart on the computer. "I've been worried since I heard about the riding accident. The fall. The risks you took while I specifically told you to avoid strenuous activity."
The words land like an accusation I deserve to carry. My chest tightens with guilt that's been building since I first learned about the pregnancy—every moment I wasn't there, every danger I couldn't prevent, every choice she made alone because I was a thousand miles away.
"I'm sorry." The apology spills out before I can contain it. "For not being present. For not protecting her when she needed it. For every moment I should have been here and wasn't."
Dr. Ortega's expression softens. "You're here now. That's what matters."
She moves toward Adison, preparing the ultrasound equipment with efficient movements. "Let's see how this little one is doing, shall we?"
The gel spreads across Adison's barely-there belly, and then the wand presses against her skin. Static fills the room—white noise searching for something specific.
Then I hear it.
The heartbeat.
Fast. Strong. Steady. The sound fills the small exam room until it's the only thing that exists—this tiny life we created, announcing itself with certainty that makes my vision blur.
"There we go." Dr. Ortega's voice carries satisfaction. "Strong heartbeat. Everything looks exactly as it should."
I'm crying. Actually crying. Tears track down my face, and I don't bother wiping them away because Adison's crying too, her hand gripping mine with desperate strength.
I lean down and kiss her. Salt mingles between us—her tears, mine, all of it mixing into something that tastes like joy and relief and absolute terror.
"That's our baby." She whispers it against my mouth. "Jake, that's our baby."
"I know." My voice cracks on the words. "I know."
Dr. Ortega gives us a moment, her smile gentle as she cleans the gel from Adison's stomach. "Everything is progressing beautifully. I want to see you again in four weeks, and Adison—" She fixes her with a pointed look. "No more ranch heroics. Understood?"
"Understood." Adison's response comes automatically, but I catch the slight smile tugging at her mouth.
We walk to the car in silence. The morning sun blazes against Manhattan pavement, and reality settles back around us—the world beyond that exam room, the life we have to navigate together.
I stop her before she can reach for the car door. My hands find her waist, and I pull her close enough to see the gold flecks in her eyes.
"You are everything." The words leave my mouth steady and certain. "Everything that matters. And I'm ready to face whatever comes. Public scrutiny. Judgment. All of it."
The fear I carried yesterday—the worry about being painted as the gold digger, the ranch hand who trapped the heiress—it's still there. Still real. But standing here with the echo of our baby's heartbeat still ringing through my chest, I understand something fundamental.
I don't care what they think. I only care what she thinks. What we build together.
"I love you." I say it like a vow. Like protection.
She kisses me right there on Manhattan street, and when she pulls back her smile carries determination I recognize from the ranch.
"Then let's go to the office." Her voice sharpens with purpose. "We have a press release to plan."
I open the car door for her, and as we drive toward Ward Enterprises—toward the battle we're choosing to fight on our terms—I feel something solid settle into place.
We're doing this. Together. Whatever comes next, we face it as a unit.
The rest of Manhattan can think whatever the hell they want.