Page 109 of Dissonance

The whole point of being here is out there.

“You didn’t touch the floors,” I say, more to myself than to him, my foot lightly scuffing across the worn, uneven wood. Still rustic, still imperfect, still exactly right.

He’s leaning against the wall, and I can barely find the words for what this is—the overwhelming unexpectedness of it all stealing every coherent thought.

“You did all this?”

He nods, coming toward me and taking my hand again, leading me up the stairs. The door at the far end of the hallway creaks when he pushes it open, and I stop in the threshold.

It used to be a dim, dusty storage room for old boxes he didn’t know what to do with. Now, light filters through sheer curtains, a soft breeze making them rustle. A crib sits against the wall, dressed in soft pinks, a mobile turning slowly above it. I step closer, fingers brushing the rail, reaching inside for the small teddy bear tucked into the corner, green and blue tartan stitched into his little paws.

“Told you my mum would start sending things,” he says. I turn to look at him, the bear in my hands. “She can’t wait to meet you. Both of you.”

“I can’t wait, either.” I look down at the gift from his mother, my eyes filling. I blink fast, once, twice, holding it back. Not here, not yet. Everything I thought I knew about the last four days quietly rearranges itself, my chest aching in a way that has nothing to do with anger anymore.

“You’ve been doing all this,” I say again, voice quieter, trying to catch up.

He doesn’t move, just watches me take it all in.

“I don’t know where we’ll end up,” he says. “Your place, here, somewhere else. But I wanted us to have something.” He crosses to the dresser, his fingers moving over the surface, then turns, his gaze holding mine. “Somewhere that was ours.”

“It felt like you were pulling away from us—”

His brow pinches. “No. Not on purpose.”

“Then why—”

“I thought I was about to lose her.” He exhales, hand dragging over the back of his neck, eyes dropping briefly to the floor, then coming back to me. “I know logically it was common, and I know she’s fine. But logic doesn’t hold when you’ve already been there before.”

The hair on my arms rises. “Lockie.”

He shakes his head like he needs to get this out before he loses the nerve. “My brother, Calum. He enlisted the week he turned eighteen. Less than two years into his first deployment—” He stops, a muscle in his cheek flexing. “They couldn’t bring him home. Just an empty coffin and a flag and everyone telling us how we should grieve.”

I don’t blink, can’t move, can barely breathe. All this time, beneath every calm and controlled surface, he’s been grieving. And I never knew there was anyone to grieve.

“He was my kid brother,” he murmurs. “I was supposed to look after him. That was the deal.” His hands curl at his sides. “And I didn’t. Didn’t protect him. Didn’t bring him home. So, when that happened at the hospital, that was all I could think about. That I was about to lose someone else, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.” His gaze lowers to my stomach, then back up. “If I couldn’t protect him, what chance do I have of doing it for her?”

I only notice I’m crying when the warmth of tears tracks down my cheeks. Stepping into him, I bring my hands to his face, tilting it down until he has nowhere to look but at me.

“Hey,” I say, feeling his jaw tighten under my palms. “No. Don’t do that. None of it was your fault.”

His expression shifts, not quite rejecting my words, but not accepting them either.

“I wish you trusted me enough to let me in when this was happening, to speak to me about how you were feeling, to let me help you—”

“I know,” he says, voice hoarse. “My therapist and Dad said the same thing. But it doesn’t stop—”

“You’ve spent your entire life protecting everyone else. You’ve never had anyone do the same for you. That ends now.” My fingers dig in gently, needing him to hear this. “You’re not alone in this anymore. Not in any of it.”

His throat works on a rough swallow, his dark eyes holding mine.

“You didn’t fail him,” I say. “And you’re not going to fail her.”

I take his hand and press it flat against my bump. His thumb traces a slow circle the way it always does.

“You’re the strongest person I know. There’s no doubt in my mind that you’ll always be able to protect her.”

Slowly, he lowers to his knees, arms coming around my waist, forehead resting against my stomach. My hand finds his hair, fingers threading through gently, and we stay like that—in the middle of our daughter’s room, in the quiet—for a long time.