Chapter 7
Lucy
It's been a few days since that night in Caden’s room. Tonight, the need to be near him is sharp and sudden. I feel it in my chest before I hear a sound, a thread between us pulling tight. By the time I swing my legs out of bed, I already know: he's not okay.
For a moment, I sit on the edge of the bed, holding one of his old letters in my hand.
I read it to the baby earlier, my voice soft in the dark.
I told them all about their daddy, the way he used to laugh with his whole body, the way he drew our future in pencil and hope.
Then I whispered, "He still loves us. Even when it hurts too much to say. "
I press my hand to the curve of my stomach and listen. The house is still. But I know that kind of stillness now. The kind that hides pain.
Grabbing my sweatshirt, I slip out into the cold Georgia night and take the path leading next door to Oakside. Staying with my brother, who lives on the property, does have some advantages.
Before I even reach the end of the hallway, I hear it. A sharp, muffled cry. The thud of something hitting the wall. Then silence. That kind of silence that isn't calm but charged. Heavy.
I knock once and push the door open.
He's sitting upright in bed, chest heaving, shirt soaked through. The blanket is half on the floor. His eyes lock on mine, and I see it. The fear. The shame. The pain.
He doesn't speak.
Without asking permission, I walk in and sit on the edge of his bed. Close, but not touching.
"Another one?" I ask quietly.
He nods. "They're all the same. The blast, the heat, and then the screaming. My body won't stop reliving it."
I reach for his hand, he lets me take it. His fingers tremble in mine.
"Caden," I whisper, "you're safe now. You're here."
He closes his eyes, jaw clenching. "But I don't feel safe. Not in my body. Not in my mind. I feel like a bomb that's always ticking."
I hold his hand tight, not letting go.
"I don't know how to be the man you need," he says after a beat. "I don't know how to be a dad."
My breath catches.
He finally said it. Out loud. The fear I've seen living in his eyes since he came home.
"You don't have to know everything," I say, my voice soft but steady. "You just have to love us. That's all. Love us through the mess. Through the fear. That's what makes a father. That's what makes a man."
He looks at me like he wants to believe it, but doesn't know how.
"What scares you most?" I ask gently.
He swallows. "That I'll never be whole enough to love you the way you deserve. That I'll screw this kid up before they ever get the chance to know me. That the only version of me worth loving died over there."
"You're not the only one carrying those fears," I say. "But you're still here. Still trying. That matters."
He breathes through his nose. "What do you see when you dream?"
"Us. On that porch. You holding the baby. Me laughing because you're already talking about building them a treehouse before they can even sit up."
His eyes pinch shut as if the image hurts more than it helps.
"Sometimes," he says, voice tight, "I wish I hadn't come home."
I grip his hand tighter. "Don't say that."
"It's not about dying. It's about the weight. The guilt. It never stops. I lost brothers. I came back different, and I don't know how to carry all this."
"Then don't carry it alone. Let me hold some of it too. That's what love is. Not fixing each other. Just staying. Showing up."
I lean closer.
"You loved me enough to walk away. Now love me enough to stay."
His eyes drop to our joined hands. Then slowly, so slowly, he leans in. His forehead touches mine.
"I'm still scared."
"So am I."
We sit there like that for a long time, breathing together. Our pain is the same.
And then he kisses me.
It's not like the kisses we shared before he left. Not urgent. Not fiery. This one is slow. Tender. A little broken. A little healing. A promise wrapped in heartache.
His lips tremble against mine. His hand finds the back of my neck, his palm warm and rough. I trail my fingers along his jaw, feeling the stubble and the heat beneath his skin. He smells like sweat and antiseptic and a trace of the cedar soap he’s always used.
A memory flickers through me—the first time on the swing, only heavier. More real. Now we know what it means to lose things. And what it costs to choose them anyway.
My hand slips into his hair. And for a few moments, it's just us again. The war, the pain, the fear, all of it fades until the only thing left is the way we still fit.
He pulls back just enough to look at me.
"I still want the land," he says, voice rough. "And I still want you. Although I don't know how to make it work."
Reaching for his hand, I place it on my belly.
He startles.
The baby kicks.
His fingers twitch. Then still.
He stares at my bump like he's seeing it for the first time. His eyes shine, and I watch his throat work as he tries to swallow emotion thick in his chest.
As he spreads his fingers gently across the curve of my stomach, his hand trembles.
"That's ours?" he whispers, voice breaking.
"Yeah," I breathe.
He exhales a shaky breath, his thumb tracing my skin as if carving this moment into his memory.
"I didn't know I could still feel this much," he whispers, as though the truth might collapse in the air.
"You can," I whisper. "And you will. We'll figure it out together."
"Tell me everything I missed," he sighs.
So I do.
He shifts a little to make room, and I carefully climb into bed beside him. His hand stays protectively over my belly as I talk.
"The first kick was just a flutter. I wasn't even sure it was real until the second one."
He glances down at my belly, fascinated.
"Does the baby sleep when you talk to him or her?"
"Sometimes. I think the baby likes me talking about you."
His smile is faint but real.
I tell him about the late-night cravings. The pickles and peanut butter that made Grace gag. How Lexi cried when I showed her the first sonogram. The way the baby hiccups every night at ten.
And right on cue, there's a soft little tap against his hand.
He startles again. "Was that…"
"A hiccup," I say, smiling.
He shakes his head in wonder. "This is real."
"All of it."
I ramble about how Grace and Lexi keep trying to paint the nursery, even though we haven't picked a house yet. He listens, quiet and steady, while I describe how the baby seems to calm when I read them his letters.
I tell him everything.
And for the first time in what feels like forever, he listens.
Not as a soldier. Not as a man trying to hold it all together.
But as Caden.
The man who dreamed of a porch and muddy boots and babies giggling in the grass.
The man who's remembering how to hope again.
He doesn’t ask me to go, lets me stay.
That tiny truth repeats in my head over and over as I lie next to him. Even though he doesn't say much, he lets our fingers stay tangled, and his breathing evens out as the tension drains from his shoulders.
I don't sleep. Not really. I watch the rise and fall of his chest, memorizing the way his brow furrows even in rest, like he's fighting some invisible war behind his closed eyes. His hand is warm in mine. Still strong. Still him.
I'm afraid to move because if I shift, the moment will vanish. Like he'll wake up and realize he made a mistake letting me in again. So I stay still, and I pray. Not loudly or desperately. The quiet prayer you whisper with your whole heart.
In the morning, when the light softens the edges of the room, Caden stirs. He blinks slowly, then looks at me. There's no anger in his eyes. It’s something heavy and tired. Something broken that he's still holding together with grit and his bare hands.
"You stayed," he says, voice rough with sleep.
I nod, unsure if I can speak yet.
He doesn't let go of my hand.
Maybe we're not broken. Maybe we're just becoming something new.