Pleasing

<88

JENNIFERS POV

The room felt too bright. Too white. Too clean for something that hurt this much.

Clea's voice was still echoing in my head, even though she'd already stepped back to give me space. There is no heartbeat... I'm sorry.

I stared at the ceiling, blinking slowly, like maybe if I didn't move too fast, none of this would settle into place. My shirt was still bunched under my ribs, the gel half‑wiped from my stomach, cold air brushing over skin that suddenly felt foreign. Empty.

A breath left me, shaky and uneven. I didn't even know what emotion it belonged to. Relief? Guilt? Fear? All of them tangled together until I couldn't tell where one started and the other ended.

I pulled my shirt down with trembling hands.

Clea murmured something soft — something about giving us a moment — and slipped out of the room. The door clicked shut, and the silence that followed felt heavier than anything she'd said.

I sat up slowly, elbows on my knees, palms pressed to my face. My throat burned. My eyes stung. But the tears didn't fall the way I expected. They just... sat there. Waiting.

I didn't even hear the door open again. I only felt the shift in the air when Marcel stepped inside.

I didn't look at him. I couldn't. If I saw his face, I'd break.

His footsteps were quiet, careful, like he was approaching something fragile. Maybe he was. Maybe I was.

The chair beside the exam table creaked as he sat. A moment passed before his hand touched my back — warm, steady, grounding. I exhaled, a sound that wasn't quite a sob but wasn't anything strong either.

"Jennifer," he said softly.

Just my name. Nothing else. No questions. No panic. No anger.

That almost made me cry more.

I swallowed hard and finally lifted my head. His eyes met mine instantly, and the look on his face — God. It wasn't disappointment. It wasn't frustration. It was something deeper. Something that made my chest ache.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, even though I didn't know why I was apologizing or who I was apologizing to.

He shook his head once, slow and firm, and reached for my hand. His thumb brushed over my knuckles, gentle in a way that made my throat close.

"You don't apologize for this," he murmured.

My lip trembled. "I didn't know what was happening. I should've—"

"No." His voice was quiet but certain. "You don't blame yourself."

I looked down at our hands, his fingers wrapped around mine like he was afraid I'd slip away. Maybe I was afraid of that too.

A breath shuddered out of me. "I didn't even know if I wanted it," I admitted, voice cracking. "And now I don't know how to feel."

He didn't rush to answer. He didn't try to fix it. He just squeezed my hand, slow and steady, like he was telling me I didn't have to figure it out right now.

The silence between us wasn't heavy anymore. It was soft. Safe.

I leaned into him, resting my forehead against his shoulder. His arm came around me instantly, pulling me close, holding me like he'd been waiting for me to fall apart so he could catch me.

My eyes finally stung enough to spill over, quiet tears soaking into his shirt. He didn't say anything. He didn't need to. His hand moved up and down my back in slow, calming strokes, and for the first time since this morning, my breathing didn't feel like a battle.

After a while, I pulled back just enough to look at him. His thumb brushed a tear from my cheek, and I let out a small, broken laugh.

"I'm a mess," I whispered.

"You're allowed to be," he said.

I nodded, wiping my face with the back of my hand. The room felt different now — not less painful, but less lonely.

Clea knocked softly before opening the door again. "Take your time," she said gently. "I'll bring some information for you both. No rush."

She left us again, and I let out a slow breath.

Marcel stood and offered his hand. "Come on, baby. Let's go home."

Home.

The word hit me in a place I didn't expect. I slid my hand into his, letting him help me off the table. My legs felt unsteady, but his arm slipped around my waist before I could wobble.

We walked out together, the hallway quiet, the lights dimmer than before. Maybe it was just me. Maybe everything was dimmer now.

But as we stepped outside, the cold air hit my face, and something inside me loosened. Not healed. Not fixed. Just... loosened.

I looked down at my stomach once, a soft ache blooming in my chest. Then I looked up at Marcel, who was already watching me with that same steady, unshakeable expression.

I didn't know what came next. I didn't know how long this would hurt or how many emotions I'd have to untangle.

But as he opened the car door for me, his hand lingering at my back, one thing settled quietly inside me.

I wasn't facing any of it alone.

And for now... that was enough.