Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Angel
The call comes in while I’m at the garage.
Wrench is mid-sentence about a timing issue on a custom build, gesturing with a wrench as if it personally offended him, when my phone lights up with Stevie’s name.
My stomach drops before I even answer. I step away automatically, already halfway toward the open bay doors.
“Angel,” she says, breathless with an edge to her voice. That scares me more than screaming ever could.
“I’m here,” I say immediately. My voice is steady. It has to be. “What’s wrong?”
“There’s… there’s blood.” The world narrows.
“How much?” I ask.
Calm.
Measured.
Every word deliberate.
“Not a lot,” she says quickly. “Just when I wiped. But it…” Her voice wobbles. “It wasn’t there before.”
I close my eyes for half a second. “Are you cramping?” I ask.
“No.”
“Dizzy?”
“No.”
“Pain?”
“Just scared.”
“Okay,” I say. “That’s okay.”
My hand tightens around the phone.
“I’m comin’,” I tell her. “Sit down. Don’t drive.”
“I’m already at home.”
“Good. Stay there.”
“I don’t want to panic.”
“You’re not,” I say firmly. “You called me. That’s smart.”
There’s a pause. “I’m breathing,” she whispers.
“Keep doing that,” I say. “I’m on my way.”
I hang up and don’t bother explaining. Wrench reads my face in one glance. He’s known me too long.
“Go,” he says simply.
I’m on my bike in seconds, engine roaring beneath me. But I don’t ride recklessly. The old me would’ve torn the road apart, twisted the throttle until the world blurred just to feel like I was doing something.
Now…I ride clean, in full control. Every shift smooth, turns precise. This ain’t about fury. It’s about getting home. The wind cuts sharply against my face.
My mind tries to spiral.
What if this is it?
What if this is the same story all over again?
What if I watched her hope grow just to watch it bleed out again?
I shut it down. Not by ignoring it. By staying in the present. She’s not cramping, not in pain. The doctor said small bleeds can happen.
By the time I pull into the driveway, I’m steady.
I’m through the door before the engine even cools.
She’s on the couch. Knees drawn up. Hands clenched together like prayer.
Her face is pale but composed. Eyes locked on mine like I’m the only fixed point in a moving world.
I kneel in front of her immediately. Take her hands. Cold.
“I’m here,” I say again. “Talk to me.”
“It stopped,” she whispers. “There’s nothing now. I checked twice. I’m not cramping. I don’t feel dizzy. I just...” She swallows hard. “I got scared.”
“Me too,” I admit.
Her eyes search mine. “You did?”
“Yeah,” I say. “But we’re doin’ this the right way.”
She nods, breathing shallow. “We should go in.”
“Already called,” I say. “They’re expectin’ us.”
Her shoulders drop a fraction. “You did?”
“Yeah.” I brush my thumb over her knuckles. “You don’t have to carry this alone anymore. Remember?”
A small, shaky smile breaks through. “Yeah.”
The clinic feels colder than last time. Brighter, like a very fluorescent light hums too loud, the shuffle of paper scrapes across my nerves.
Stevie’s fingers are ice in mine as we sit in the waiting room.
I sit there and let her lean into me like that’s my only job, because it is.
Her knee trembles once. I squeeze her hand.
“Still breathing?” I murmur.
“Yeah.”
“Good.”
The nurse calls her name. The walk down the hall feels longer than it should. Like the building itself is stretching time. The doctor comes in quickly.
“What happened?” she asks gently.
Stevie explains.
Clear.
Measured.
No spiraling.
I watch her speak and feel something fierce and protective bloom in my chest. This woman is strong. The doctor nods.
“Bleeding in early pregnancy can happen for a few reasons,” she says. “Sometimes it’s nothing. Sometimes it’s something we need to monitor. Let’s take a look.”
The lights dim. The machine hums to life. Stevie’s breath catches as the wand presses against her belly. I keep my eyes on her face at first. The machine clicks softly. The doctor moves slowly. Seconds stretch. The silence gets heavy. I feel it creeping up my spine. And then….
“There,” the doctor says, voice calm. “I see it.”
Stevie gasps. I finally look at the screen. At first, its shapes and shadows I don’t understand. Grainy. Unclear. Then…movement. And a sound fills the room. A heartbeat. My knees go weak.
“That,” the doctor says gently, “is a heartbeat. Strong. And consistent.”
Stevie sobs. Not quiet tears. A sound ripped straight from her chest. I lean over her immediately, forehead pressed to hers, our hands tangled together on her stomach.
“Hey,” I whisper. “Hey. You hear that?”
She nods against me, crying harder.
“How far?” she manages.
The doctor checks the measurements.
“You’re still measuring ahead,” she says. “And the bleed looks small, likely implantation-related. Scary, but not uncommon.”
Word spreads faster than I’d like. I didn’t call anyone. But someone saw us at the clinic. Or maybe it was the way I rode back through town. Either way, by the time we pull into the driveway, bikes are lining the street like a damn honor guard.
Joker’s there. Tank. Wire with Calamity at this side. Carrie with Polly on her hip. Wolf leaning against his bike, eyes soft with something close to reverence. Stevie freezes halfway up the steps.
“Oh God,” she whispers. “I didn’t want…”
“They didn’t come to celebrate,” I say quietly. “They came to stand.”
Carrie’s the first up the porch. She doesn’t hug Stevie right away. Just takes her hands. Searches her face.
“You, okay?” she asks.
Stevie nods, tears spilling again.
“Heartbeat,” she says softly.
Carrie presses her lips together, eyes shining.
“Good,” she whispers. “That’s real good.”
Joker steps up and claps my shoulder. No words. Tank nods once. A look that says he understands exactly what that sound meant. No one asks how far. No mention of baby showers. They just… stay.
Someone fires up the grill, and someone else brings food inside.
Laughter drifts through the yard, low and familiar.
Stevie sits between Carrie and me on the couch.
Polly asleep against her shoulder like she belongs there.
And watching my wife laugh, soft, careful, real, something settles in my chest.
This is the joy.
Not fireworks.
Not announcements.
This. Family showing up not to demand happiness, but to hold space for it.
Later, when the bikes roll out one by one and the house quiets, Stevie and I sit on the porch wrapped in a blanket. Night air cools against our skin. Crickets chirping. The world is ordinary again.
“I didn’t spiral,” she says softly. “I was scared… but I didn’t disappear.”
I kiss her temple.
“You did good.”
“So did you,” she says, looking at me. “You didn’t shut down. You didn’t try to control it.”
I think about the old version of myself. The one who would’ve barked orders, who would’ve tried to outrun fear instead of sitting in it.
“I stayed,” I say quietly. “That’s the job.”
She rests her head on my shoulder.
“I don’t know what tomorrow brings.”
“Me neither.”
“But today?” she asks.
I slide my hand over hers, resting warm and steady over her stomach.
“Today we heard a heartbeat,” I say. “And we didn’t lose ourselves to the fear.”
She smiles through tears.
“That feels like a miracle all on its own.”
I pull her closer. Whatever comes next, appointments, scares, unknowns, we’ve already proven something bigger.
We don’t disappear anymore.
We don’t tear each other apart trying to outrun pain.
We stand.
Together.
And this time….
We’re ready.