Chapter 2 - The Ghost of Three YearsShe wanted to say something firm, something composed. She was going to say: "Yes, of course. Something professional; it's fine." Instead, her eyes filled with tears and she nodded; then she turned her face away, for she couldn't allow him to see her crumble. Not there. Not like that. He crossed the room and pulled the rolling stool to the side of the bed. Not at the foot, but at the side, next to her; he sat down as a person would, not a doctor.

He opened her chart and began to speak to her in a low, steady voice about what was happening and what to expect. His voice was still the same—perhaps a bit deeper now, maybe more subdued—but the same nonetheless. She had fallen in love with that voice long before she fell in love with his face.

Another contraction hit her hard, much harder than the previous ones. Clare gripped the rail and her breath reduced to a thin, desperate thread; then, without thinking, without meaning to, she reached out her other hand. Ethan took it. He held it firmly, the way one holds something they fear losing, and whispered: "Breathe. I’m right here with you. Breathe."

And she breathed. From that moment on, the hours passed in a strange way. Time compressed and dilated, as it often does in rooms where something momentous is happening. Nurses came and went incessantly. The monitors emitted their constant rhythms with a soft beep. The world, on the other side of the window, turned from black to that deep blue that precedes the dawn.

And, through all that time, Ethan Cole remained there. He stayed even when he had no obligation to do so. He stayed when another doctor could have taken over. He stayed because walking away was something he had already done once—or rather, something he had allowed—and he wasn't going to do it again.

They didn't talk about the past. Not yet. There was no room for it. And besides, there are conversations that must be chosen with care, held with both hands. But in the moments of stillness between contractions, in the long silences that were not awkward—as one might expect—they told each other small things.

"You’re still in Chicago," he said at one point.

"I moved back two years ago." A pause. "I didn't know."

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"I know you didn't." Another silence. Then, she said in a very low voice: "I'm sorry, Ethan..."

Ethan looked down at their joined hands. His thumb brushed over her knuckles, smooth and warm. "Don't, Clare. Not tonight. Tonight is for you and this baby."