Page 109 of Red Flagged
“I suspected. Going into England last week,” I continued. “I just—I couldn’t handle knowing. Not when everything was already so fucked up. I couldn’t add something else on top of it all. I wasn’t ready.”
I wiped my face with the back of my hand, my voice trembling. “The longer I cramped without bleeding, the more I let myself believe it was just a period and a bad flare. But then I was packing up my flat, and I found a pregnancy test, so I took it. But I didn’t know, Callum. Not really. Not for sure. And I’m sorry.”
He kissed the back of my shoulder, arms still around me. “You don’t have to apologize for that.”
“But I should’ve told you sooner.”
“No,” he said firmly. “You don’t owe me anything. You don’t owe me an apology for something you couldn’t control. You were scared and hurting. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
I shook my head. “You don’t understand.”
“Then help me,” he said softly. “Help me understand.”
I turned and looked at him so he could see my sincerity for this next part. His hands settled on my hips. “I knew the signs because… because this wasn’t the first time.”
Silence. His eyes widened for just a breath, then softened, the muscle in his jaw ticking once. He didn’t move away. He just searched my face like he was memorizing it. His grip didn’t loosen, but his expression shifted from confusion to heartbreak.
I forced myself to keep going, swallowing down my nerves. “There were two others. Before.”
“Before?” His voice was quiet but steady, threaded with grief.
I tried to gauge his reaction, but he was guarded, unreadable in that way he always got when he was trying not to scare me with how much he felt. He wasn’t angry. He was listening, reserving judgment, and that’s what mattered.
“Before I ever met you. One when I was eighteen. Another last summer.”
He closed his eyes, breath catching, his brow furrowing like the weight of it hit him all at once. When he spoke again, it was barely above a whisper. “The prescription bottles. Is that why?”
Slowly, I nodded.
He didn’t say another word. Just gathered me into his arms. The hot water poured over both of us, steam curling around our bodies as he pressed me to his chest. I finally let myself just breathe. He made a safety net of his presence, and somehow it made all of my pain bearable—not a burden. My soul exhaled. I was trulyhome.
“Mon cœur…” he murmured, the name trembling with reverence.
“I was careful,” I rushed to explain. “I’ve always been careful. But things happen. Life happens. And I never told anyone. Not even my siblings. I kept it to myself, because what was the point? I didn’t even get to grieve. I just had to keep going. I always have to keep going.”
His voice broke in return, rough and full of conviction. “Not with me. You don’t have to justkeep goinganymore.” He cupped my face, thumbs stroking away the tears that mixed with the shower water. “You feel what you need to feel. We’ll handle it together. There is nothing in this world that could ever be too much for me. Not when it’s you.”
We stood in silence for a while, forehead to forehead, water dripping down our skin. When my tears finally quieted, he reached for the washcloth. His movements were slow and steadfast. He washed me gently, his touch a vow in every stroke, wiping the blood from my thighs, my knees, the curve of my hip. I didn’t feel ashamed. I felt loved. Seen.
When he finished, I looked down at the drain, where the water spiraled pink from the constant, slow trickle of blood between my legs. My lower lip wobbled. “I need to shave my legs,” I croaked. “But I hurt. And I don’t want to be prickly.”
He huffed a soft laugh against my shoulder. “I’ve got you, baby.”
And he did. He knelt, steady hands guiding the razor along my skin with a tenderness that made my heart ache. Every pass was an act of devotion, his thumb smoothing over the back of my knee, his breath warm against my thigh. It was an intimacy I never thought I deserved, but he showed me every single day that there was no running from the inevitable.
Because that’s what we were—completely and utterly inevitable.
When he finished, he turned off the water, wrapped me in a towel, helped me into another godforsaken diaper despite my protests, and carried me back to bed. The sheets were smooth against my skin, the duvet thick and warm. He left only long enough to bring me a glass of water and a sleeve of saltines, placing them within reach like he was building a small altar of care beside me.
Then he slid in next to me, pulling the blanket over us both. His arm came around my waist, and I tucked my face into the curve of his throat, listening to the steady beat of his heart.
For the first time in days, my body began to unclench. The ache in my chest dulled. My eyes fluttered shut.
And as sleep finally dragged me under, I realized… he didn’t just show up. Hestayed.
Aurélie satacross from me at the dining table, her legs tucked up under her, hands wrapped around her coffee mug. She wasn’t looking at her phone or scrolling through the storm of notifications that had probably blown up her social media.
No, she was looking at me. Listening, watching,waiting.
