Chapter 43 – Ben
Chapter
Forty-Three
BEN
I’d never been nervous in a doctor’s office before.
Not even the day they finally pulled the breathing tube after the coma, when the room was full of surgeons and Henry stood guard like a sentinel, ready to throw hands if anyone so much as looked at me wrong.
Back then I’d been too foggy, too raw, to feel anything sharper than dull relief.
But sitting in this waiting room in Fairhope, Chrissy’s hand tucked tight in mine, I felt like my skin didn’t fit right.
The place smelled like antiseptic and fake lavender, the kind of scent designed to calm people that only ever made me want to punch something.
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. A fish tank gurgled in the corner.
Some generic love song played low — Valentine’s Day bullshit piped in to make the pregnant women smile and the partners feel romantic.
It wasn’t working on me.
Eight weeks pregnant. First ultrasound. First time we’d hear a heartbeat. First time we’d see proof that the life we’d made was real.
Chrissy squeezed my fingers.
“You’re shaking.”
“Am not.”
“You are.”
I brought our joined hands to my mouth and kissed her knuckles, lingering over the wedding band that still felt like a miracle on her finger.
“Just don’t want anything to be wrong.”
“Nothing’s wrong,” she said softly, the same fierce certainty in her voice that had carried her through every mediation, every hospice bill, every nightmare Vivian threw at us. “I feel good. Tired, queasy, boobs hurt like hell, but good.”
She was glowing, even under the shitty lighting.
Her dark hair was pulled back in a messy braid, curls escaping around her face.
She wore one of my old hoodies — black, oversized, sleeves pushed up — and leggings that hugged the subtle new curve of her lower belly.
She looked like mine. She was mine. And inside her, something of ours was growing.
The nurse called her name, Mrs. Stonewood, and the title still hit me in the sternum every damn time. I stood up so fast I nearly knocked the plastic chair over. Chrissy laughed under her breath and tugged me back down to earth with a gentle pull on my hand.
We followed the nurse down a hallway lined with framed photos of chubby newborns and pastel ultrasound prints. My pulse thudded in my ears louder than my boots on the tile. Chrissy kept stealing glances at me, amused and fond, like she could see every frantic thought racing behind my eyes.
The exam room was dim, curtains drawn, screen glowing soft blue. The tech — a kind-faced woman in her forties with a ponytail and a name tag that read MARIA — smiled at us both.
“First ultrasound?”
“First everything,” Chrissy said, hopping up onto the table with that fearless grace that still undid me.
Maria chuckled.
“Dad, you can sit right there.”
She nodded at the chair pulled close to Chrissy’s head. I sat, but only because collapsing felt like a bad look.
Chrissy lifted her hoodie just enough to expose the gentle swell of her stomach. My mouth went dry. I’d kissed that skin a hundred times in the last few weeks — slow, reverent, possessive — but seeing it here, under clinical light, made it all terrifyingly real.
The gel was cold; Chrissy hissed and laughed at the same time. I gripped her hand harder. Maria pressed the wand gently against her skin, sliding it in small circles. The screen flickered with static, then gray shapes, then—
There.
A tiny bean-shaped blur. A fluttering speck that seemed no bigger than a lentil.
And then the sound.
Thump-thump-thump-thump.
So fast it sounded like hummingbird wings.
Chrissy’s breath hitched. My own caught in my throat and stayed there.
Maria smiled wide.
“Strong heartbeat. Measuring right on track for eight weeks.”
I stared at the screen, unable to blink. That sound — that rapid, defiant little drum — was ours. Half me, half her. Proof that something good could come out of everything broken in my life.
Chrissy turned her head toward me, eyes shining.
“Hear that?” she whispered.
“Yeah,” I managed, voice rough. “I hear it.”
Maria moved the wand a little, adjusting the angle, capturing measurements.
“Let me just get a better view of the sac…”
She paused.
My blood turned to ice.
“What is it?” I demanded, leaning forward so fast the chair creaked.
Maria’s smile didn’t falter; if anything, it widened.
“Hold on… let me just…”
She tilted the wand again, pressing gently to the side.
The screen shifted.
And there, next to the first tiny bean, was another.
Two sacs. Two flickering heartbeats.
Two.
“Congratulations,” Maria said gently, like she knew the words might knock us over. “You’re having twins.”
The world tilted sideways.
Chrissy made a soft, stunned sound — half laugh, half gasp.
I couldn’t breathe.
Twins.
Two babies.
Two heartbeats racing like they were already competing for who could make my chest crack open first.
I leaned over Chrissy, forehead pressed to hers, hands trembling as they framed her face. My scars brushed her soft skin, but she didn’t flinch — she never did.
“Twins,” I whispered, voice cracking wide open. “You’re giving me two.”
She laughed then, the sound disbelieving and joyful all at once. Tears slipped down her temples into her hair.
“Guess you’re really efficient, Mr. Stonewood.”
I kissed her, hard and grateful and utterly fucking wrecked. I tasted salt from her tears, felt her fingers tangle in my hair, anchoring me. When I pulled back, her brown eyes were bright, cheeks flushed, lips swollen.
Maria cleared her throat softly, but she was smiling.
“I’ll print plenty of pictures. Fraternal twins, from the looks of it… two separate sacs. Everything looks perfect so far.”
Perfect.
I sat back, dazed, while Maria finished measurements and wiped the gel from Chrissy’s stomach. Chrissy kept her hand in mine the whole time, like she knew I might float away if she let go.
Twins.
Two cribs. Two car seats. Two college funds. Two tiny humans who would never know a world where their mother had to fight alone for anything.
I was going to build them the safest nursery known to man. Bulletproof glass. Biometric locks. Henry on permanent rotation.
Chrissy squeezed my hand, reading my mind like always. “Easy, caveman. We’ve got time.”
“Not enough,” I muttered.
Maria handed us a strip of ultrasound photos, four grainy black-and-white images featuring two tiny beans labeled A and B. I stared at them like they were the most valuable thing I’d ever touched.
We walked out in a haze. The waiting room felt too bright now, the love song too cheerful. I kept one arm locked around Chrissy’s waist, the ultrasound strip clutched in my free hand like contraband.
Outside, the February air was crisp, the sky a hard, perfect blue. Fairhope’s downtown bustled with red hearts in shop windows and couples carrying roses. Valentine’s Day. I’d forgotten entirely.
Chrissy stopped on the sidewalk, tilting her face up to mine.
“Hey.” I looked down at her.
“Two babies,” she said, wonder in her voice. “We made two.”
“Yeah.” My throat worked. “You did.”
She rolled her eyes, but they were glassy again.
“We did.”
I cupped her face, thumbs brushing her cheeks.
“You’re okay with this? Two at once? It’s… a lot.”
She laughed softly.
“I’m terrified. And thrilled. And already exhausted thinking about it. But yeah, Ben. I’m okay with it. More than okay.”
I kissed her again, slower this time, right there on the sidewalk like we were the only two people in the world. A guy in a courier uniform whistled as he passed. I didn’t care.
When we broke apart, she grinned.
“You know Henry’s going to lose his mind.”
“Henry’s going to demand hazard pay.”
“And Lucia’s going to start knitting two of everything.”
I exhaled, the reality settling deeper.
“We’ll need a bigger car.”
Chrissy snorted.
“You’re not trading the Camaro.”
“Never the Camaro. But maybe something with four doors and a five-star crash rating.”
She looped her arms around my neck.
“We’ll figure it out. Together.”
Together.
The word still felt like grace I hadn’t earned.
We drove home with the ultrasound photos propped on the dash like a trophy. I kept one hand on the wheel and the other on her thigh, needing the contact. She hummed along to whatever was on the radio, foot tapping, occasionally glancing over at me with that soft, secret smile that was mine alone.
Ashgrove House welcomed us with warm light spilling from the windows. Henry’s truck was in the drive; Lucia’s little Fiat beside it. They’d insisted on dinner tonight. Lucia had declared that we needed a Valentine’s tradition, apparently, now that the house wasn’t a haunted mausoleum anymore.
We walked in to the smell of Lucia’s lasagna and garlic bread. Henry met us in the foyer, eyebrow raised at the dazed looks on our faces.
“Well?” he demanded.
Chrissy pulled the ultrasound strip from my grip and handed it over without a word.
Henry studied it for half a second before his eyes widened.
“Two?”
“Two,” I confirmed.
He let out a low whistle, then — shockingly — pulled me into a quick, fierce hug.
“Congratulations, son.”
The word son hit harder than the twins news. I hugged him back, throat tight.
Lucia appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, apron on, wooden spoon in hand.
“What’s all the—” She caught sight of the photos in Henry’s hand and shrieked, dropping the spoon with a clatter. “Dio mio! Due bambini!”
She launched herself at Chrissy, then at me, kissing both our cheeks, tears already flowing. “We need more yarn! And a bigger table! And—”
Dinner was chaos in the best way. Lucia toasted with sparkling cider for Chrissy and whiskey for the rest of us. Henry kept staring at the ultrasound like he couldn’t believe it. Chrissy glowed, laughing at Lucia’s rapid-fire plans for the nursery.
I sat back and watched them — my family, loud and alive and real — and felt something settle deep in my chest.
Later, after the dishes were done and Henry and Lucia had gone home with promises to return tomorrow with paint swatches, I carried Chrissy upstairs. She protested half-heartedly that she could walk, but her arms stayed looped around my neck.
In our bedroom — the master suite that used to feel too big and too empty — I laid her gently on the bed and knelt between her legs, pushing her hoodie up to expose her stomach.
Two babies.
I pressed my lips to her skin, right over where they were growing.
“Hey in there,” I murmured, voice rough. “It’s your dad. You’ve got the best mom in the world, you know that?”
Chrissy’s fingers threaded through my hair.
“They can’t hear you yet, caveman.”
“Don’t care.”
I kissed her belly again, then again, moving slowly upward until I reached her mouth. The kiss started soft, grateful, but turned hungry fast. Eight weeks pregnant meant we’d been careful lately, but the doctor had cleared gentle intimacy, and I’d been dying for her.
She arched into me, tugging at my shirt.
“Ben…”
“I know.”
I stripped us both slow, reverent, mapping every new curve of her body with my hands and mouth.
When I slid inside her, we both groaned.
I kept my weight on my forearms, moving careful and deep, watching her face for any discomfort.
There was none… only pleasure, her nails digging into my shoulders, breath hitching with every thrust.
“I love you,” I whispered against her neck, pace steady, relentless. “Love you so fucking much.”
She came with my name on her lips, clenching around me, and I followed seconds later, burying my face in her hair, spilling inside her with a broken sound.
After, I pulled her close, her back to my chest, hand splayed protectively over her stomach.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, Mrs. Stonewood,” I murmured into her hair.
She laced her fingers with mine.
“Best one ever, Mr. Stonewood.”
Outside, the February night pressed cold against the windows, but inside, everything was warm.
Two heartbeats.
Two futures.
And the woman carrying them both curled safe in my arms.
I was never going to let her out of my sight again.