His name was Nathaniel

116

The mornings had become a quiet rhythm—Nathaniel rising before the sun, brewing tea for Adaliya, carefully placing her prenatal vitamins next to her breakfast, and lightly tapping on the bathroom door to check if she was still brushing her teeth or quietly suffering through nausea.

He never made a show of it, never hovered. But she noticed every little act of care, tucked into his presence like silk stitches in a hidden seam.

Today, however, the quiet had an edge.

It was time for another check-up, and while Nathaniel had pretended to be calm, she could see the way his fingers fidgeted on the steering wheel, the way he kept checking the GPS even though they both knew the route by heart.

"You're anxious," she murmured, resting her hand on his thigh.

"I just want everything to be fine," he replied, not looking away from the road.

She offered him a soft smile, even though her own nerves were beginning to flutter. "It's just a check-up. Routine."

Nathaniel didn't respond. His jaw was tight, eyes unreadable.

—

The clinic was familiar now—clean, warm-toned, quiet except for the soft hum of the hallway speakers. They greeted the receptionist, signed in, and were ushered into a private exam room within minutes.

Adaliya sat on the edge of the padded table, fingers entwined in her lap. Nathaniel stood close by, arms crossed, scanning the room as if something might leap out and threaten them.

Dr. Rivas entered with her usual friendly demeanor, clipboard in hand. She greeted them both and immediately launched into her list of routine checks—blood pressure, pulse, some questions about symptoms.

But when she glanced at the screen after reviewing a recent blood test, she paused.

"Hmm..."

Nathaniel straightened. "Is something wrong?"

Dr. Rivas smiled, but there was a carefulness behind it. "Not wrong. Just something I want to keep an eye on. Adaliya, your blood pressure is slightly elevated from last time, and your iron levels are a bit low. It's not dangerous, but it's something we'll want to monitor closely in the next few weeks."

Adaliya nodded, calm. "Okay. More rest?"

"More rest, yes. And possibly adjusting your supplements if needed. We'll do a few more tests to rule out early anemia. Nothing drastic for now, but definitely no overexertion." She turned to Nathaniel. "Stress levels should be kept low."

Nathaniel didn't answer. His jaw was clenched again, but this time, she could see something heavier behind his eyes—guilt.

—

The ride home was quiet. Nathaniel had barely said a word since they left the clinic.

Adaliya glanced at him sideways. "You're thinking too much."

He gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. "I should've made you rest more. I should've insisted on fewer hours at work. I—"

"Stop," she said gently. "You didn't do this."

He didn't respond.

—

That afternoon, Adaliya tried to lie down and rest like the doctor suggested, but the moment she stepped into the kitchen to warm herself a tea, Nathaniel appeared like a shadow.

"I'll do that," he said, taking the mug from her hand. "You're supposed to be resting."

"It's just hot water, Nate."

"Still."

She raised an eyebrow but let him take over.

Soon, she realized he had gone overboard—banning her from lifting anything heavier than a book, rushing to open doors before she reached them, even repositioning the couch pillows to support her back better before she could sit.

It would've been funny if it wasn't so obviously rooted in fear.

—

By early evening, she found him in the study, laptop open, head resting against the back of his chair.

She leaned against the doorframe. "You canceled your meeting with the Harrington board?"

"I rescheduled," he replied without opening his eyes. "I don't want to be away from you right now."

She softened. "Nathaniel..."

"I mean it." He opened his eyes and looked at her, the weight of the morning's news still etched into his features. "If anything happened to you, I—"

"It won't," she said firmly, walking to him. "And even if something did, you can't control every outcome by just staying close. You're not a shield. You're my partner."

He sat up slowly, letting her slide into his lap, her arms wrapping around his shoulders.

"I hate that I can't protect you," he murmured into her neck.

"You are," she whispered back. "You do—every day."

They sat in silence for a while, her cheek against his temple, his arms cradling her like something he feared might dissolve.

And though the storm inside him hadn't passed, it softened—because for the first time, he realized protection didn't always mean control. Sometimes, it meant holding on and not letting go.

Even when you were terrified.