Daphne’s POV
The thirty-three-week appointment brings something I haven't dared feel in months: cautious optimism.
The doctors review Hope's scans with expressions that aren't quite smiles but aren't grief either.
Dr. Reeves points to measurements on the screen, traces lines with his finger while explaining in careful terms that her growth has stabilized.
Not improved—he's very clear about that. But stabilized.
"The heart abnormalities remain," he says, meeting my eyes directly. "We're not out of the woods. But they haven't worsened. The defects are exactly where they were at thirty weeks."
"What does that mean?" Xander's hand tightens on mine.
"It means we might make it to thirty-six weeks." Dr. Reeves sets down his stylus.
"That's the threshold where survival odds improve dramatically. Every week at this point matters, but thirty-six is where we start breathing easier."
Might. The word carries so much weight, but it's better than the certainty of loss that's been shadowing every appointment for months.
On the drive home, I allow myself to breathe slightly easier. Allow myself to imagine outcomes that don't end in tiny caskets and memorial services and explaining to the twins why their sister never came home.
Xander is quiet beside me, his hand rests on my thigh, thumb tracing absent patterns.
When I glance over, his face is carefully neutral. Composed. The expression he wears when he's holding something back.
At home, I tell him I need to lie down. My back aches from sitting through the appointment.
He helps me upstairs, settles me on the bed with pillows arranged just right, then disappears.
I rest for maybe thirty minutes before restlessness drives me up again. The house is quiet—the twins at their activity with Mom, staff completing evening tasks.
I wander the hallway, drawn toward the nursery by instinct I can't name.
The door is open, light spills into the hallway.
Xander stands with his back to me. He doesn't hear my approach. His hand rests on the empty crib we assembled together weeks ago—the one we painted pale yellow, the one that waits for a daughter who might never sleep in it.
His shoulders are tight, rigid. His other hand presses against his mouth like he's holding something back.
Sound maybe, or grief, or the weight of months spent being strong while everything inside him breaks.
I watch him for several seconds. See him in a moment he thinks is private. See the cracks in the armor he's maintained so carefully since that first ultrasound when our world tilted sideways.
The realization hits with crushing clarity: I've been so consumed by my own fear that I forgot this is his child too.
His potential loss, his nightmare. He's been my rock while breaking silently, carrying his own terror without space to acknowledge it because I've needed him to be steady.
"Xander." His name comes out soft.
He turns quickly, wipes his face in a gesture too fast to be anything but hiding tears. "Hey. I thought you were resting."
"I was." I move into the room, take his hand and feel the tension radiating through his entire body. "I'm sorry."
Xander looks surprised. "For what?"
"For being so scared I forgot you're scared too."
His face does something complicated. He tries to tell me it's okay, that being strong for me is what he wants, that he's fine.
But I see the exhaustion. See the cracks he's been papering over with forced optimism and steady hands and the constant reassurance that we'll get through this together.
"You don't have to be fine." I step closer. Press my palm against his chest where his heart pounds too fast. "Not all the time. Not with me."
"If I'm not fine, who holds you up?" His voice breaks slightly on the last word.
"We hold each other up." I rise on my toes despite the belly between us. Kiss him softly. "We’re in this together. Sorry for forgetting that."
I take his hand, lead him from the nursery with its empty crib and its waiting mobile and its pale yellow walls. Lead him to our bedroom where I close the door and lock it with deliberate finality.
“Let me show you how exactly sorry I am…”
"Daphne—" Xander starts to protest, but I kiss him quiet. I pour into it everything I can't adequately express—gratitude and love and the desperate need to give him something back. To show him he doesn't have to carry this alone.
My hands find his belt. He catches them gently. "You don't have to—"
"I know." I look up at him. "But I want to. Let me do this. Let me take care of you for once."
Something in his face shifts—surrender mixed with need he's been suppressing for months. He releases my hands.
I work his belt open slowly, my fingers find his zipper, ease it down. His breathing changes—faster, shallower, anticipation replacing the grief that was consuming him moments ago.
I sink to my knees carefully, using his thigh for balance. At thirty-three weeks pregnant, graceful movement is impossible but I manage, settle on the carpet in front of him.
His hands come to my face, frame it gently. "Are you sure?"
Instead of answering, I pull his pants down. His boxer briefs follow. He's already hard, already wanting despite exhaustion and fear and everything else weighing on him.
I wrap my hand around him, feel him twitch at the contact. His breath catches.
Then I take him into my mouth. The sound he makes is broken, raw. His hands fly to my hair—not controlling, just holding on like I'm the only solid thing in a tilting world.
I start slow, take him deeper gradually, working him with my mouth and my hand in rhythm. His hips flex involuntarily, he murmurs my name like a prayer.
I look up at him. Meet his eyes. And the intimacy of it—being on my knees before him, vulnerable and powerful simultaneously, giving him this release—nearly undoes us both.
His thumb brushes my cheek. "God, Daphne. You're…"
I take him deeper until he hits the back of my throat. Until he gasps and his fingers tighten in my hair. Until control starts slipping from his carefully maintained grip.
"I'm close." The warning comes out strained. "Daphne, I'm—"
I don't pull away, Instead, I increase my pace. Hollow my cheeks, use my hand to work what my mouth can't reach, give him permission to let go.
When he comes, it's with whispers of my name and his hands shaking in my hair and his whole body going rigid with release that's clearly been building for weeks.
I take everything he gives, swallow, keep going until he's trembling and oversensitive and pulling back gently.
"Come here." His voice is wrecked.
He helps me stand, pulls me against his chest despite the belly between us. His heart pounds against my ear. His breathing gradually slows.
"Thank you." The words come out rough, emotional.
"You don't have to thank me."
"I do." He pulls back enough to look at me. "I didn't realize how much I needed you, needed to not be the strong one for five minutes."
I reach up, brush away tears he didn't realize were falling. "We’re in this together. Remember?"
He nods, kisses me slowly, thoroughly. Tasting himself on my lips and not caring.
That night, we lie tangled together in bed. Both finally allowing ourselves to believe we might survive this. That thirty-six weeks is reachable. That Hope might actually come home.
His hand rests on my belly where she moves sluggishly. "We're going to make it," he whispers. "All of us."
I want to believe him. For the first time in months, I actually do.
"Yeah." I press my hand over his. "We are."
We fall asleep like that: connected, hopeful, both carrying fear but sharing the weight instead of bearing it alone.