Chapter Sixteen #2
The doctor nods. “Yes, hormone replacement therapy. There will be daily injections, similar to insulin administration, though these will be hormone-based.”
“Injections,” I repeat faintly. “And the infertility?” I ask, forcing the question through the lump in my throat.
He exhales slowly. “We won’t know until you begin trying to conceive. Some women respond very well to treatment. Others may require additional intervention. It varies.”
I nod, blinking back the sting in my eyes.
“And you’ll need to discontinue oral contraceptives,” he adds. “If you’re capable of conceiving naturally, there’s a chance pregnancy could occur unexpectedly once hormones are regulated.”
The irony isn’t lost on me.
Infertility might be possible, but so might accidental pregnancy.
My head spins.
“The other symptoms?” Mercs asks quietly.
“With treatment, many will ease,” Dr. Wakefield explains. “But this is a lifelong condition. You’ll need to learn how your body responds. Some days your energy will be lower. You may experience flare-ups if levels fluctuate.”
My heart sinks further. “Will this affect performing?”
He studies me carefully. “Only you will know your limits. You may need to adjust, incorporate rest periods, and reduce high-impact choreography if fatigue sets in. I don’t see a reason you’d have to stop performing entirely. But you may need to listen to your body more closely.”
Tears spill before I can stop them. “I’m such an idiot,” I whisper. “I should’ve never taken that drink.”
Mercs’ grip on my hand turns fierce. “You are not an idiot,” he says firmly. “You don’t even remember that night. And I know you, if you took that drink, it was because you were trying to defuse a situation. This is not your fault.”
His certainty steadies something inside me.
I wipe at my cheeks. “When do we start treatment?”
The doctor opens a drawer, removes a small box and a syringe. The sight of the needle sends a shiver down my spine.
“We can begin immediately,” he says. “Either you administer the injections daily, or someone you trust can.”
My stomach flips.
Before I can speak, Mercs clears his throat. “Can you show me how to do it?”
I turn to him sharply. “Mercs…”
Dr. Wakefield looks between us. “If Effa is comfortable with that arrangement.”
“Are you sure?” I ask softly. “That’s a big responsibility.”
He gives me that half-smile that melts me every time. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.” His voice lowers. “And it’s basically playing doctor. I’ve always wanted to boss you around in a clinical setting.”
A reluctant laugh escapes me.
The doctor discreetly hides his smile as Mercs moves around the desk, attentive and focused, while the doctor explains dosage, injection sites, and technique.
I watch him absorb every detail like it’s sacred.
Like I’m sacred.
The weight in my chest shifts. It’s still there, still heavy with everything this means for my body, my career, my future, but it’s no longer crushing.
Because he’s here.
And apparently, he’s going to stab me with a needle every day.
I swallow.
This changes things.
Not just medically.
For us.
I’m not sure how yet.
But I know we’re about to find out.
***
Thankfully, the hotel is only a few streets from the clinic.
As soon as we slide into the car, Mercs takes my hand, not casually, not absentmindedly, he threads his fingers through mine like he’s anchoring me to something solid.
I stare out the window.
“So,” he says gently as we turn toward the hotel. “That was a lot to take in.”
A lot.
That feels like the understatement of the century.
I hum in response, because if I open my mouth properly, I’m not sure what will come out.
Hormone imbalance.
Lifelong condition.
Injections.
Infertility.
The word keeps echoing.
Infertility.
The car pulls into the valet area, and I unbuckle before it fully stops and step out, needing air, needing space. Mercs is right behind me, his hand reclaiming mine before I can drift too far ahead.
He doesn’t let go in the elevator.
The silence between us isn’t angry, it’s heavy and fragile.
When we reach the suite, I drop his hand to unlock the door and walk in first. The quiet of the room presses in on me immediately.
My chest tightens.
Too tight.
I start pacing before I can stop myself. Back and forth. The air suddenly feels too warm, too thin. A flush creeps up my neck, my skin prickling as panic nips at the edges of my breathing.
Mercs exhales slowly behind me and steps forward, catching my elbow. “Effa.”
The frown carved into his face makes everything inside me crack wider.
Marriage.
Babies.
Grandbabies.
I’d always pictured them so clearly. A future where music and family coexist. Now it feels like someone’s taken an eraser to the second half of that image. My bottom lip trembles despite my best effort to steady it.
“Look at me.” His voice is firmer now.
I shake my head and pull back, my heart racing. “Kaden… I—”
“Don’t,” he warns quietly. “Don’t start saying what I think you’re about to say.”
I spin back toward him, my emotion spilling over. “I might not be able to have children.” The words tumble out, sharp and desperate. “That’s not small, Kaden. That’s huge. You can’t stay with someone who can’t give you a family when family means everything to you.”
He closes the distance in two strides and grips my shoulders, forcing me to hold his gaze.
“Effa,” he says, each syllable deliberate. “You are my family.”
The intensity in his eyes steals the air from my lungs.
“He said there’s a chance,” he continues. “Not a certainty. And even if that chance doesn’t turn into reality, I don’t fucking care. There are other ways to build a life… adoption, surrogacy, hell… we’ll steal someone else’s kids if we have to.”
A watery laugh escapes me despite everything.
“You don’t get to decide I deserve better,” he adds, his voice dropping lower. “I deserve you. Exactly you. As you are. No conditions. No damn exceptions.”
The tears I’ve been holding back finally spill, and I move before I can think, wrapping my arms around him and pressing my face into his chest. He holds me tight, one hand sliding up and down my back in slow, steady strokes while his lips brush softly against my hair, my temple, my neck.
He feels safe.
Like home.
“I don’t want you to lose something because of me,” I whisper against him.
“I’m not losing anything,” he murmurs back. “I’m choosing you. Every single day.”
He leans back just enough to look at me, his thumb wiping a tear from my cheek. “We’re lucky to have each other,” he says quietly. “Remember that.”
My throat tightens again.
I rise onto my toes and kiss him, not desperate, not frantic, just needing. Wanting the reassurance of his mouth against mine, the steady warmth of his hands at my waist.
He deepens it slowly, grounding me instead of consuming me, reminding me that nothing about this has changed who we are.
When we finally part, I rest my forehead against his chest and breathe.
This isn’t the future I imagined.
But it’s still a future.
And as long as he’s standing here with me, refusing to let me run, refusing to let me shrink myself down into something smaller than I am…
We’ll find our way.
Together.