𝑆𝑡𝑎𝑟-𝑐𝑟𝑜𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑑

Space

Rafe's POV

I stay in the room next to hers. It's small, cramped, and I feel as though I will vomit with every wave that hits the ship, but I have to be next to her. I won't stay in the same room as her because what she needs right now is space—space and time, but I have to be close enough to help her if anything goes wrong. If she needs anything—if she hurts herself again.

Abby and my child were saved by the grace of God, and I won't allow one or both of them to die because I wasn't close enough to hear or see if anything went wrong.

If my own heart staying broken is the price I have to pay for Abby and my child being alive and happy, then I'll pay it. I'll pay it a thousand times. My heart is hers to break. It always has been. And I'll let her break it a thousand times if it means she will be alive and happy with my child.

I can understand if she hates me and wants me gone. I'll go away if that is what will help heal the hole in her heart that I caused. My only wish is that she doesn't keep me from my child, but if she does, I'll understand why. I've put her through so much and I could understand if she didn't want me anywhere near the child she is carrying once she gives birth.

Moaning and gasping sounds draw my attention and break me out of my thoughts, and I quickly leap out of my 'bed' which is more like a crib for someone like me. I run into Abby's room and see her doubled over, her hand over her stomach.

Running over to her, I literally slide across the wood floor. She is doubled over in pain, her eyes shut so tight, I think they may fuse together. But when you get shot in the abdomen, that's to be expected. "It's the morphine. Will you let me put the needle back in?" I ask, and she nods her head profusely, in pain too bad for her to form words. She ripped the needle out yesterday, and neither of us put it back.

I stand up and grab the iv attached to a bag filled with morphine and gently grab her arm. I inject the needle into her, and she winces. She never did like needles even though she has 11 piercings and three tattoos. Running my thumb over the pierced flesh to try to soothe her, I whisper into her ear. "Fifteen minutes. That's all it will take for the morphine to take effect. You'll be fine. Shh." I climb into the bed taking a seat behind her and allow her to fall into my chest, the pain most likely too bad for her to care about me being so close. I hold her in my arms, stroking her cheek ever so lightly as we wait for the morphine to take effect.

Abby can handle pain. Hell, she likes pain in sex, but that pain comes from biting, scratching, rough fucking, or being cut with a blade—not being fucking shot. I can only imagine the pain she is feeling right now.

Once the morphine kicks in, she gets up and scoots away from me. I scoot up and to the right so I can give her space. I can't tell if she wants me to leave or stay so I just stare at her while she looks at her lap. I observe all of her features—every little detail. Her dark eyelashes. Her pale skin. Her black hair. Her button nose. Her perfect, soft lips. I stare at her as if it will be my last chance.

For all I know, it might be.

After about five minutes, she speaks. "Is there something you want to ask?"

I swallow at her question. Yes. There is. I want to ask thousands of things. Will you ever be able to forgive me? Is there anything I can do to make this better? Do you hate me? Do you think I'm a monster? All of the questions are on the tip of my tongue, but none of those questions leave my lips. A far more important question does. "Are you keeping the child?" I ask, knowing I don't want to know the answer to the other questions. I do want to know, but I know what the answer will be right now, only three days after I shot her. I want to wait until she has time to think.

She scoffs at my question. "You should know the answer to that." I let out a breath I didn't even know I was holding. I knew she would never have an abortion even if she had gotten pregnant from horrible circumstances, but I thought maybe she changed her mind considering all I put her through. Thankfully, she didn't. She put innocent human life over her feelings. My child will live. I'll get to see my baby born. I'm going to be a dad.

Holy fuck. I'm going to be a dad.

"Do you know the gender?" I ask, and she shakes her head. "I want it to be a surprise. I want to find out before I have my baby shower but not until I'm farther along." She shifts. "It doesn't matter anyway. I'll dress it in black, boy or girl." I laugh at that, and her head raises, her mouth slightly agape. She always loved black. Leave it to Absinthe Coleman to dress a newborn in black as if it were going to a funeral.

"What?" I ask when I notice her open mouth. She shrugs. "It's been a while since I heard your laugh," she answers, swallowing once she finishes speaking. I can see the pain quickly creeping back into her features and it makes my heart twist painfully. If I could take back the pain I caused this girl, I would. I would take everything away if I could, even if I died from the pain in the process.

She is absolutely everything and I know that I am completely and irrevocably in love with her.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" she asks, and I shake my head, realizing that I was staring at her. "Sorry," I mumble, and look away from her. "I just never get tired of seeing your face. I feel like it might be the last time I see it every time I look at you."

She goes still at my words, swallowing. She doesn't move and she doesn't speak. If she says that it won't be the last time, then that will give me hope. She knows that she can't do that until she is sure.

"I understand if you hate me don't want me anywhere near you," I start off, picking my cuticles. "But will you allow me to meet my child? Be in its life?" I ask, unable to meet her eyes. I'm terrified she will say no. I know what it is like to have a father that wasn't what he should have been, and it created the monster that I am today. Everything I did—everything I am was because of my desperate need to please my father. The last thing I want is for my child to grow up without a father at all.

She stays quiet for some time, thinking about the answer to my question. She knows what it is like to grow up without a father. Without a mother. That helps my case, but she also knows what I am like because I grew up with a shitty father. She knows that if I were to ever treat my child as my father did me, it would be more at risk of turning into someone like me—a drug addict—a sociopath—a murderer.

"I spent my teenage years without a father. It was horrible and I won't allow my child to go through that," she finally says. My head shoots up, my eyes finally meeting hers. "So, I can be in my child's life?"

She nods. "I don't know if I can ever forgive you or ever be with you again, but I won't keep you from your child."

My heart twists at her words in both a good and a bad way. Good because she will allow me to see my child and raise him or her. Bad because there's a possibility I won't be with Absinthe.

"Thank you," I tell her, and she just nods.

When the next few minutes are spent in silence, I decide that it is best to give her space. "I'll go."

I take one last look at her before I close the door behind me, leaving her room.

Space.

That's what she needs.