Chapter 5 Savannah
Chapter five
Savannah
By noon, I’ve successfully avoided Oliver for six whole hours, which feels like a personal record.
I spent the morning hiding in the sunroom with a stack of Mrs. Adams’s old romance novels, pretending to read while staring at the same page for forty-five minutes. My stomach has finally settled thanks to the ginger tea and toast. Progress.
Ellie finds me there, cheeks pink from the cold, carrying two mugs of hot chocolate piled so high with whipped cream it’s practically a crime.
“Peace offering,” she announces, handing one over.
I eye her warily. “I’m fine.”
“You keep saying that. It keeps being a lie.” She drops onto the window seat beside me, tucking her legs under her. “So. My brother. You. Sex. Details.”
Heat floods my face. “Ellie.”
“Come on. I’ve been waiting for this since we were fifteen and you cried because he had a girlfriend at Dartmouth.”
“I never cried.”
She raises one perfect eyebrow and stares me down.
I groan and pull a pillow over my head.
Ellie tugs it away. “Look, I’m not mad. I’m ecstatic. He’s been a miserable bastard since Halloween, and you look like you’re one deep breath away from a nervous breakdown. Talk to me.”
I stare into the whipped cream mountain. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Liar.” She softens. “He’s crazy about you, you know. Like, can’t-function, pacing-the-porch-at-dawn, growling-at-everyone crazy. I’ve never seen him like this.”
My heart does a stupid, painful flip. “He left, El. The morning after. No note. Just a text that said sorry and disappeared for ten weeks.”
She winces. “He’s an idiot, an emotionally constipated idiot. But he’s here now, and he’s trying. Give him a chance.”
I shake my head. “It’s not that simple.”
There’s a tiny human who makes everything complicated.
Ellie studies me for a long second, then shrugs like she’s letting it go for now. “Fine. Be mysterious. But you’re not spending the rest of the day hiding in here like a Victorian heroine with consumption. Pond’s frozen solid. We’re skating.”
My whole body lights up before my brain can object. Ice-skating on the Adams pond has been my favorite thing since we were kids. There are string lights in the trees, a bonfire crackling, and Ellie’s dad playing oldies on a portable speaker. It feels normal. Safe.
I’m lacing up my skates on the bench by the back door ten minutes later, cheeks already stinging from the cold, Ellie chattering about how she’s going to do a triple axel and definitely not fall on her ass this year.
The pond sparkles under the afternoon sun, smooth as glass. A dozen cousins and family friends are already out there, weaving figure-eights and shouting insults at each other. Someone’s set up a Bluetooth speaker blasting Christmas music, and the air smells like pine and chimney smoke.
I push off, and the world falls away.
For the first time in weeks, I’m not thinking about nausea or secrets or the way Oliver looked at me this morning like he wanted to devour me and save me at the same time. There’s just the scrape of blades, the wind in my hair, the burn in my thighs as I pick up speed.
Ellie whoops past me, arms windmilling. “Eat my ice dust, Banks!”
I laugh and chase her.
We race the entire length of the pond, collapsing against each other at the far end, breathless and giggling like we’re twelve again. She loops an arm around my shoulders and squeezes.
“See? Better than brooding.”
I open my mouth to agree, and that’s when I see him.
Oliver stands at the edge of the pond, hands in the pockets of a black parka, watching me like the rest of the world just ceased to exist.
My stomach flips, and it's not because of morning sickness. He’s shaved since this morning, the sharp line of his jaw making my knees weak even from fifty yards away. He hasn’t put skates on yet, but the way he’s staring says he’s debating crossing the ice in his boots to get to me faster.
Ellie follows my gaze and smirks. “I’ll leave you two lovebirds to it.”
“Ellie—”
Too late. She’s already gliding away, shouting for someone to time her spin.
I’m alone in the middle of the pond, heart hammering, and Oliver is walking toward the ice like a man on a mission.
I panic.
I push off hard, aiming for the cluster of cousins near the bonfire, but the sudden motion throws my balance. My ankle wobbles. The world tilts.
I go down hard.
The ice slams into my hip, my shoulder, my breath whooshing out in one brutal gasp. Instinct takes over, and both hands fly to my stomach, curling protectively over the tiny life I’ve been guarding for ten weeks.
I don’t even realize I’m crying until strong arms haul me upright.
“Savannah. Jesus. Are you hurt?” Oliver’s voice is raw. His hands are everywhere: my arms, my back, my face, and then one palm slides lower, settling over both of mine on my stomach.
He freezes.
I feel the exact second he registers it: the subtle, firm curve that wasn’t there in October. His hand spans almost my entire lower abdomen, fingers splayed wide, and there’s no hiding it now, not from this close, not when he’s touching me like he’s trying to memorize the shape of the truth.
His eyes snap to mine, wide and stunned.
“Savannah,” he breathes. It’s barely a sound.
I try to pull away, but he doesn’t let go. His grip shifts, gentle but immovable, and he’s steering me toward the boathouse before I can protest, one arm locked around my waist like he’s afraid I’ll vanish.
The door bangs shut behind us, cutting off the laughter and music to a dull, distant hum. The only light comes through the cracked window and the thin gaps between cedar planks: pale winter sun striping the floor in gold and shadow.
Oliver doesn’t speak at first. He stares at me. His hand is still on my stomach, palm spread wide, fingers trembling against the soft knit of my sweater. I watch his face cycle through emotions so fast. First shock, then fear, wonder, and something fierce and territorial that steals my breath.
“Halloween.”
I nod. My throat is raw from trying not to cry and the cold air.
He sinks all the way to his knees. Both hands slide to my hips now, then lower, cradling the tiny curve I’ve been hiding under every oversized sweater I own. His thumbs trace slow, reverent circles, like he’s mapping new geography.
“Say it,” he whispers.
“I’m pregnant,” I choke out. “I swear, Oliver. There’s been no one else. Not since—”
“Since me.” He finishes the sentence like he needs to taste the words. His forehead drops to my stomach, breath hot through the fabric. “Jesus, Savannah.”
I thread my fingers into his hair without thinking, needing something to anchor me. He shudders at the touch.
“I thought—” His voice cracks. “I thought you hated me. That you were shutting me out because I left. Because I was a coward.”
“I was scared,” I admit. The tears keep coming. I can’t stop them. “I woke up, and you were gone, and I thought… I thought that night only mattered to me.”
He makes a broken sound and pulls me down until we’re both kneeling, his arms locking around my waist like he’s terrified I’ll disappear. I end up straddling his thighs, hands braced on his shoulders, our faces inches apart.
“It mattered,” he says fiercely. “It’s all that’s mattered for ten fucking weeks. Every meeting, every city, every night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept seeing you in that red cape, hearing you say my name like I was the only thing you wanted. I thought I’d ruined everything.”
“You didn’t ruin anything,” I whisper. “You gave me something amazing.” I cover one of his hands with mine, pressing it harder against the swell. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I thought you’d feel trapped. Or worse, that you wouldn’t care.”
His eyes flash with something dangerous. “Not care?” He cups my face, thumbs wiping tears I didn’t realize were still falling. “Savannah, I’ve been half-alive since I walked out of that hotel room. I’m not walking away again. Not from you. Not from our baby.”
Our baby.
The words punch the air out of my lungs.
He keeps going, voice rough and urgent, like he’s afraid I’ll bolt if he pauses.
“I know I don’t deserve a second chance. I know I handled everything wrong. But I’m here now, and I’m begging you. Let me be whatever you need. Doctor’s appointments, midnight cravings, two a.m. panic attacks. I’m in this.”
I try to answer, but a sob catches in my throat instead.
He leans in until our foreheads touch. “I’m terrified,” he admits, so quietly I almost miss it. “I’ve never been so scared that I’m going to screw something up.”
I pull back just far enough to see his face. His eyes are red-rimmed, jaw clenched, every ounce of the controlled billionaire stripped away until there’s only the boy who used to carry me home through snowstorms when we were kids.
“I’m scared too,” I say. “I’ve been alone with this for ten weeks. I kept imagining telling you and watching you shut down, or offer money, or—”
“Never.” He cuts me off, fierce. “This is about you waking up alone that morning and me not being there to hold your hair when you were sick. This is about every day I missed hearing a heartbeat that’s half mine. I hate myself for that.”
He slides one hand to the back of my neck, the other still cradling my stomach like it’s made of glass.
“I love you,” he says, raw and simple. “I think I’ve loved you since we were teenagers. You were always sassy and stealing my hoodies. I was just too stupid to say it out loud.”
The words hit me like a tidal wave.
I fist my hands in his coat and kiss him. Pouring everything I feel into the kiss. He groans into my mouth, arms tightening until there’s no space left between us, until I can feel his heart hammering against mine.
When we break apart, we’re both shaking.