Chapter Thirty-Two Sunny
The sound of waves used to calm me.
But right now all I hear is the rush of my own heartbeat.
I sit on the edge of the villa bathroom tub, knees pulled to my chest, forehead pressed against a towel I don’t remember grabbing. The tile is warm beneath my bare feet. My stomach is twisted—not like nausea, but like a string tied too tight inside me.
The test sits on the counter.
Two lines.
Two bright pink lines that don’t care who I used to be, what I feared, or how hard I fought to survive.
I’m pregnant.
My breath shudders out.
Part of me is terrified. The little girl I used to be trembles—too small, too voiceless, trapped in rooms she was scared to leave.
But the woman I’m becoming lifts her chin.
I’m not alone.
I stand. Hands shaking. Heart racing.
And I open the door.
Dylan is on the balcony, shirtless, ocean wind in his hair—looking like a future I never believed I’d get.
“Dylan?” My voice cracks.
He turns instantly—concern flashing through him so fast it stings.
He steps toward me slowly, like approaching something sacred.
“What happened? Are you hurt? Tell me.”
I shake my head.
“No. I’m… I’m okay. I’m just—” Words get tangled. I force them free.
“I’m pregnant.”
Silence.
Then—he stops breathing.
Not scared. Not angry.
Just… stunned.
His hand reaches, stops mid-air—like he’s afraid touching me will make the moment disappear.
“You’re sure?”
I nod.
Tears gather, but they aren’t fear. They’re awe.
And then—
Dylan laughs.
A raw, shocked, almost broken sound—like joy got trapped behind ten years of armor and just burst through.
He pulls me into him—arms around my waist, forehead against mine.
“You’re having my baby,” he whispers, voice thick. Like he’s memorizing every syllable.
“We’re having a baby,” I correct—hands on his cheeks. “Not you alone. Not me alone. We. Together.”
That word—we—is what finally undoes him.
He sinks to his knees, hands on my hips, head resting against my stomach like he’s praying.
I run my fingers through his hair.
And for the first time in my entire life—I do not feel like something has been taken from me.
I feel like something has been given.
We end up lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, hands intertwined over my stomach.
“Are you scared?” I whisper.
“Yes,” he answers without shame. "Because everything I ever loved was taken from me. And now I have everything I never thought I’d deserve.”
I swallow.
“That means you’re human. It doesn’t mean we’ll lose.”
His eyes soften.
“You’re stronger than I ever realized.”
“No,” I whisper. “I just finally stopped fighting myself.”
He kisses me—gentle, reverent—like he’s touching the future with his lips.
Clothes fall again. Breath mingles. The ocean keeps time with our bodies, slow and certain.
His composure fractured in an instant. I felt the shudder run through him before I saw it.
Slowly, as though gravity had decided to claim him, Dylan sank to his knees.
His long fingers found my hips with aching reverence, thumbs brushing the hollow where bone curved beneath skin, and he bowed forward until his forehead rested against my abdomen.
A tremor quivered through his shoulders, transferring itself into me until I felt less like a body and more like an altar.
The island was utterly quiet—no distant gull, no rustle of palm frond—only the mingled whisper of our breathing.
I slid my fingers into his dark hair, the strands thick and silken against my skin, and cradled this proud, tormented man who had knelt not in command but in surrender.
Minutes drifted past like that, the measured swell of ocean beyond the veranda measuring his inhales.
Finally, he lifted his face, eyes glassy, but he did not rise—just pressed a kiss, feather-light, to the fabric covering my navel, as though sealing an oath before witnesses only we could name.
His shoulders rose and fell in one long, steadying breath, and then he stood, scooping me into his arms with an abrupt, fierce tenderness that made me gasp.
He carried me down the softly lit corridor, past paintings of long-departed sailors, to the bedroom where white curtains billowed like sails.
The sheets smelled of sunshine and salt from the morning’s laundering, and he laid me down as if afraid I might fracture. Barely a word passed between us while we slipped beneath the cool top sheet, and on that vast mattress we found our truest island.
After, he traces a slow path up my arm with his fingertips.
“What does your dream look like now?” he asks.
I smile—small and stunned.
“A nursery… maybe paint on the floor because I’m terrible at staying in the lines. Pancakes on a Saturday. And you… trying not to panic when tiny hands grab your expensive suits.”
He huffs a laugh, kissing my shoulder.
“My dream,” he says quietly, “is that our child never doubts that they are loved.”
I kiss his jaw.
“They won’t. Not with you.”
Dylan rolls off the bed, rummages in a drawer.
Comes back holding…
Tiny baby shoes.
Soft. White. Ridiculously adorable.
He lifts them, dangling them between two fingers—eyes gleaming.
“I bought these the same week I bought your ring,” he admits. “I didn’t know when. Or how. Or if I’d ever be allowed. I just knew—someday.”
Emotion hits me like light.
He places the shoes on my stomach.
“Someday,” he murmurs, “starts now.”