7. Flynn
FLYNN
A Month Later
The morning air cuts like a blade, sharp enough to steal the breath from my lungs. Frost clings to the vines, glinting under the weak sunlight, and the scent of damp earth rises with every step.
Faye's out here before dawn again, her black hair pulled into a messy knot, tendrils sticking to the sweat on her neck.
She moves like someone half-asleep, her fingers fumbling with the shears as she ties off another vine.
The usual snap in her wrists is gone, replaced by something sluggish, hesitant.
I lean against the barn doorframe, arms crossed, watching the way her shoulders hunch forward like she's carrying the weight of the entire harvest on her back.
A smudge of dirt streaks across her forehead where she swiped at it with the back of her hand, and her breath comes in shallow, uneven pulls.
The morning sun should warm her skin, but it only makes her look paler, like the light's passing right through her.
"Faye."
She doesn't turn. Just keeps working, her movements mechanical, like she's running on autopilot. "Yeah?"
"Put the shears down."
That gets her to pause. Her head lifts, cerulean eyes flicking toward me, but there's no fight in them. Just a dull, heavy exhaustion. "Flynn, I've got?—"
"Now."
Her fingers tighten around the shears for a second before she sets them down on the workbench with a sharp clink. The sound echoes, too loud in the quiet morning. She flexes her hands at her sides, like she's resisting the urge to grab them again, to lose herself in the rhythm of the work.
I step closer, gravel crunching under my boots. The cold air bites at my skin, but I barely feel it. All I can focus on is the way her breath hitches when I stop in front of her, the way her pulse flutters in her throat like a trapped bird. "We're going to the doctor."
Her head snaps up, eyes widening. "What? No, I'm fine. It's just?—"
"You're not fine." My voice comes out low, rough. No room for argument, no room for anything but the truth. "You're pale. You're tired. You're pushing yourself too hard."
She crosses her arms, her jaw setting in that stubborn line I know all too well. "I'm still eating. I'm taking breaks. I've got work to do. The harvest?—"
"Can wait." I close the distance between us, my hands gripping her shoulders.
She's too thin under my fingers, her bones too sharp, like she's wasting away right in front of me.
"You think I don't notice? You've been dragging yourself around for weeks.
Sluggish. Distant. Like you're not even here half the time. "
Her breath hitches, her throat working like she's swallowing down words she doesn't want to say. She looks away, her gaze fixed on the vines, but I don't miss the way her fingers dig into her own arms. "It's nothing. Just tired."
"Bullshit." My thumb brushes her cheek, rough and calloused against her soft skin. She flinches, just slightly, but doesn't pull away. "You're going to the doctor. Today."
She swallows hard, her eyes flicking back to mine. There's a challenge there, but it's weak, like she's too tired to put up a real fight. "And if I say no?"
I lean in, my lips brushing the shell of her ear. Her scent fills my lungs, and I have to fight the urge to pull her closer. "Then I'll carry you to the car myself."
A shiver runs through her, her body trembling under my hands. She exhales, her shoulders slumping like she's finally giving in.
"Fine."
The clinic smells like antiseptic and old coffee. Faye's fingers dig into the edge of the plastic chair, her knuckles white. She hasn't said a word since we walked in, just stares at the floor like it's the most fascinating thing she's ever seen.
I don't blame her.
The nurse calls her name, and Faye flinches. I stand, my hand finding the small of her back, guiding her forward. She leans into me just a little, her breath warm through my shirt.
The exam room is too bright, the paper on the table crinkling as Faye sits. She won't look at me. Won't look at the doctor. Just picks at the hem of her shirt, her nails biting into the fabric.
The doctor is thorough. Too thorough. She asks questions Faye answers in monosyllables, her voice tight. When the doctor presses the cold stethoscope to Faye's chest, I see the way her shoulders tense, the way her breath catches.
"Any nausea?" she asks, scribbling notes.
Faye nods. "Some. Mostly in the mornings."
"Fatigue?"
Another nod.
The doctor's pen pauses. "When was your last period?"
Faye's fingers still. Her throat works. "I… don't remember."
Silence.
She sets the chart down. "We'll run a test."
Faye doesn't move. Doesn't breathe. Just sits there, frozen, as the doctor hands her a cup and points to the bathroom.
I don't follow. Don't push. Just wait, my hands clenched into fists at my sides.
The minutes drag. The hum of the fluorescent lights grates against my nerves. When the door finally opens, Faye steps out, her face pale, her eyes wide.
The doctor is already holding the results.
"Positive," she says.
The word hangs in the air between us.
Faye's knees buckle.
I catch her before she hits the floor, my arms wrapping around her, pulling her against my chest. She's shaking, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
"Breathe, Faye," I murmur, my lips pressed to her temple. "Just breathe."
She doesn't. Not really. Just clings to me, her fingers twisting in my shirt, her body trembling like a leaf in the wind.
Dr. Reyes clears her throat. "We'll need to confirm with an ultrasound, but the test is pretty clear."
I nod, my jaw tight. "When?"
"Now, if you'd like."
Faye doesn't protest. Doesn't speak. Just lets me guide her to the next room, her hand cold in mine.
The ultrasound tech is gentle, her voice soft as she spreads the gel over Faye's stomach. The screen flickers to life, grainy and gray.
And then…
A heartbeat.
Fast. Strong.
Faye's breath hitches. Her fingers tighten around mine, her nails digging into my skin.
I don't look at the screen.
Just watch Faye's face.
Her eyes are wide, her lips parted, her chest rising and falling too fast. She looks… stunned. Terrified. Like she's just been handed the world and doesn't know what to do with it.
The tech prints the images, hands them to Faye. She takes them like they're made of glass, her fingers trembling.
The paper crinkles under Faye's fingers as she clutches the ultrasound photo. Her breath is still too fast, too shallow, like she's drowning in the weight of it. I press my palm to the small of her back, grounding her.
The doctor smiles. "Congratulations. Everything looks healthy."
Healthy.
The word settles in my chest like a stone. I exhale, slow and controlled, but my pulse hammers against my ribs. Faye's not just tired. She's carrying something fragile inside her—something we made.
Her eyes flick to mine, wide and searching. She doesn't say it, but I hear it anyway: What do we do now?
I don't answer.
Instead, I take the photo from her trembling hands, my thumb brushing over the tiny blip of life on the page. My throat tightens.
"How long has it been?" My voice is rough, even to my own ears.
She nods. "From the size, I'd say you're about four weeks along."
Four weeks.
Faye's lips part, but no sound comes out. She looks small in the too-bright room, her skin too pale, her fingers twisting in the hem of her shirt.
I curl my hand around hers, squeezing.
She looks worried.
But she shouldn't be.
Because we'll figure it out… together.
The leather couch creaks as I shift, pulling Faye against my side. She fits there, like she was made to. Her fingers trace idle patterns on my thigh, her breath warm through my shirt. The pregnancy book lies open on her lap, the pages glowing under the lamplight.
"You're going to have to slow down," I say, my voice low. Not a request.
Faye exhales, sharp. "I know."
But she doesn't. Not really. She's still thinking like the girl who runs herself ragged before she'll ask for help. I can see it in the way her shoulders tense, the way her jaw sets.
I close the book, my thumb marking the page. "From now on, you're done when I say so. No exceptions."
Her head snaps up. "Flynn?—"
"No." My hand slides to the back of her neck, my fingers pressing into the soft skin there. "You're carrying my child. That means you eat when I tell you to. You rest when I tell you to. And you don't argue."
Her pulse jumps under my touch. She swallows, her throat working. "And what about the vineyard?"
"What about it?"
"Someone has to?—"
"I'll handle it." My thumb brushes the sensitive spot behind her ear, and she shivers. "You'll supervise. From a chair. With your feet up."
Her lips part, but no sound comes out. Just a soft huff of breath, warm against my skin. She's thinking. Always thinking. Trying to find the loophole, the way to keep going like nothing's changed.
But everything's changed.
I flip the book back open, my fingers brushing the glossy pages. "You're going to need more iron. And folate. And…" I pause, my eyes catching on a paragraph. "You're going to crave things."
Faye blinks. "Crave?"
"Food. Maybe even a combination that don't make sense." I glance at her, my lips twitching. "Maybe you'll wake me up at three in the morning demanding peanut butter and anchovies."
She makes a face. "That's disgusting."
"You won't care." I tap the page. "Your body will want what it wants."
Her cheeks flush, just a hint of pink. She shifts, her thigh pressing against mine. "And what about… other things?"
I raise an eyebrow. "Other things?"
She swallows. "You know. Sex."
The word hangs between us, heavy and thick. My cock stirs, just like that. Just from the way she says it… hesitant, curious, a little breathless.
I close the book again, my hand sliding to her hip. "What about it?"
Faye's fingers twist in the fabric of my shirt. "Is it… safe?"
"Yes." My voice is rough. "As long as you're comfortable."
She bites her lip, her eyes flicking to mine. "And if I'm not?"
I lean in, my lips brushing the shell of her ear. "Then I'll find other ways to make you feel good."
Her breath hitches. Her body melts against mine, just a little. Just enough.
I pull back, just far enough to see her face. Her pupils are wide, her lips parted.
My hand slides to her stomach, my palm pressing against the soft curve. "You're growing a life in here, Faye. That means I take care of you. In every way. And that's why…" I stand, pulling her up with me. "It's bedtime."
She blinks. "But?—"
"No buts." I scoop her up, my arms wrapping around her thighs. She squeaks, her hands flying to my shoulders. "You need rest."
She huffs, but she doesn't fight me. Just wraps her arms around my neck, her breath warm against my skin.
I carry her up the stairs, my steps sure and steady. The house is quiet, the only sound the creak of the floorboards under my feet.
When we reach her room, I set her down, my hands lingering on her hips. "Pajamas."
She raises an eyebrow. "You're dressing me now?"
I smirk. "I always do. Every night."
She rolls her eyes, but she doesn't argue. Just turns, her fingers going to the hem of her shirt. I watch as she pulls it over her head, her skin glowing in the soft light. Her tits are fuller now, her nipples dark and tight. My cock throbs, but I ignore it.
She steps out of her jeans, her hips swaying. My hands itch to touch her, to pull her against me, to feel her skin against mine.
But not tonight.
Tonight, she needs rest.
I pull the covers back, my eyes on her. "In."
She climbs in, her body sinking into the mattress. I pull the covers up, tucking her in. She looks small in the big bed, her hair spread out on the pillow.
I lean down, my lips brushing her forehead. "Sleep."
She sighs, her eyes fluttering closed. "You're not staying?"
I hesitate. Then, "Not tonight."
Her eyes open, just a crack. "Why not?"
I brush a strand of hair from her face. "Because you need rest. And I need to… control myself."
Her lips twitch. "Control?"
I smirk. "You have no idea what you do to me, Faye."
She bites her lip, her eyes dark. "Maybe I do."
I groan, my hand sliding to the back of her neck. "You're killing me."
She smiles, slow and sweet. "Good."
I lean in, my lips brushing hers. "Sleep."
She sighs, her eyes fluttering closed. "Fine."
I pull back, my hand lingering on her cheek. She looks peaceful, her breath slow and steady.
I turn off the light, my steps quiet as I leave the room.
But I don't go far.
Just to the hallway, where I lean against the wall, my eyes on her door.
Waiting.
Watching.
Protecting.