30. Mallory
Mallory
The hospital room was quiet in that strange way only hospitals could manage—where the silence wasn’t really silence, but a low hum of machines, distant beeping, and the occasional voice drifting from the hallway like a ghost. Going through the ER and talking to the doctor had been a blur.
I didn’t remember falling asleep, but I must have, because when I opened my eyes again, the overhead lights had dimmed and the IV drip beside me was half-empty.
And Jaymie was still there.
He hadn’t moved.
He was slumped in the chair beside my bed, too tall for it, arms folded over his chest, chin tucked low. My hand was in his. His thumb was resting against the inside of my wrist, the soft pad of it brushing lightly against my skin like he hadn’t realized he was still touching me.
I watched him for a long moment. In sleep, his face was softer. The tension he usually carried in his jaw was gone. His brows, always arched like he was halfway to teasing someone, were smoothed. He looked… calm. Gentle, even.
And he’d stayed.
He could’ve left hours ago. Could’ve gone home once I was stable. Could’ve handed things off to Eliza or one of the nurses.
But he hadn’t.
And I didn’t know what to do with that. My throat ached. Not from the IV or the nausea or whatever the hell had short-circuited in my body earlier—but from the weight of that kind of kindness. That kind of presence.
I shifted a little in bed, enough to stir him. His eyes blinked open slowly, groggy but alert the second he realized I was awake.
“Hey,” he said softly, voice rough from sleep. “You okay?”
I nodded. “Yeah. Just thirsty.”
He stood immediately, grabbed the pitcher, poured a cup, and brought the straw to my lips like it was nothing. Like this was just what he did.
I t ook a few small sips, then leaned back into the pillows.
My body still felt heavy, but less alarming now.
The baby had been hooked up to monitors the entire time—strong heartbeat, no signs of early labor.
Just dehydration. Just exhaustion. Just the consequence of pretending I was fine when I wasn’t.
Jaymie settled back into the chair, but this time he didn’t let go of my hand.
“You stayed,” I said, quieter than I meant.
“Of course I did.”
“You didn’t have to.”
He didn’t smile, not this time. His eyes met mine and held. “I know. I wanted to.”
I couldn’t look at him. I stared at our hands instead. His was big, warm, calloused. Mine looked small and pale against it.
“You scared me tonight,” he said. No teasing in his voice. No buffer.
“I scared myself.”
There was a pause. Not tense, just full. Like he was deciding how honest he wanted to be.
“I didn’t know what to do,” he admitted. “When you started to go down like that… my brain just emptied out. I was trying not to freak you out, but I was losing it.”
My chest tightened.
“You didn’t show it.”
“Doesn’t mean I wasn’t.”
We were quiet for another stretch. He rubbed the back of my hand with his thumb, absently. I could feel the nerves under my skin start to fire again. Awake. Alert. Aware. He pushed his glasses up his nose, waiting for me to continue.
“You’re allowed to be scared,” I said eventually.
“So are you.”
I didn’t say anything to that.
Then, softly, he added, “Can I ask you something?”
I nodded.
“Would you let me help you?”
The words landed heavy—not because they were dramatic, but because they were real . Plainspoken. Earnest. There was no edge in his voice. No guilt. Just the raw hope of someone offering without expecting anything in return.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I said, even though I did.
Jaymie leaned forward, elbows on his knees. He didn’t let go of my hand.
“I mean… you don’t have to do all of this alone. I know you’re used to carrying everything. I know that’s how you survive. But maybe it doesn’t have to be like that anymore. Not if you don’t want it to be.”
My eyes stung.
“Jaymie—”
“I’m not asking for anything in return,” he said quickly. “I’m not trying to fix everything or make some big declar ation. I just… I like you. A lot. And I care about you. I’ve been thinking about you—every damn day. And I keep thinking if I don’t say something now, I’ll never forgive myself.”
My heart was thudding so loud it echoed in my ears.
He drew a breath. “I don’t care who the baby’s father is. I don't care that it's not mine. I don't care if you decide to tell the baby once they are old enough or not. I’m not here for the drama. I’m here for you. Because you matter. Because I want to be part of your life. However you’ll let me.”
Tears slid hot and silent down my cheeks.
I hated crying in front of people. Hated what it said, I never wanted to come off as weak or vulnurable, because of what it opened up. But right now, I couldn’t stop.
“Jaymie,” I whispered, voice cracking. “You don’t understand. I don’t know how to let people do that. I’ve spent my whole life being the one who holds it together.”
“I know,” he said, squeezing my hand gently. “But maybe you don’t have to anymore.”
I turned my face toward him. His eyes were so steady, so there. No pity. No pressure. Just this quiet strength that felt like a hand on my back when I didn’t know I needed one.
“I’m scared,” I admitted.
“I am too.”
We sat like that for a long time, the monitor beeping steadily beside us. The world outside the hospital faded into the background. It was just us in that room. No pressure. No pretending.
Just a girl who was finally too tired to hold it all in, and a boy who refused to let her go through it alone.