22. anthony's angel

He was ready to build a future. He didn’t know her past was still watching.

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Trigger Warning: This chapter contains medical trauma. Themes of fertility, reproductive health complications, and emotional distress are present. Please read with care.

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ANTHONY HARRIS

The kitchen was a damn symphony—pots simmering low, oven humming steady, the knife tapping out a beat against the cutting board like it had something to say. But none of it could drown out what was banging around in my head.

Angel was in our room. Still. Still not right.

I thought I had things handled. Three pots working, rice draining in the sink, greens already seasoned just how she liked—onions, garlic, that splash of vinegar she always asked for. I was moving like muscle memory, like keeping my hands busy could fix something. But then—

Mama Harris came through the door with that crossed-arms stance and a face that said I was fooling nobody. My old man followed behind her, rubbing his chin like he was my damn corner man in a fight I didn’t sign up for.

“Boy,” Mama said, heading straight for my stove like it was hers, lifting lids, tasting sauces like she was judging a contest. “You got too much on your plate. Move out the way.”

I clenched my jaw, wiped my palms slow on the dish towel. Stopped moving as my parents came through the door—because when Mama set her sights on something, going against it wasn’t really an option. “I got it,” I said anyway, low and firm, like maybe saying it out loud would make it true.

But even I could hear the lie in it.

Angel was laid out in bed, curled up like her bones couldn’t hold her weight. Skin too pale, forehead slick. She’d been burning up all morning. Could barely keep water down. I’d watched her double over once, clutching her stomach like it was folding her from the inside out.

And still—still—she tried to brush it off, her voice small but stubborn.
“I just need some rest. I probably ate something bad.”

“DJ’s already packed,” Pops said to my mother, nodding toward the front door where the kid’s little overnight bag sat, bringing me back to the present. “We’ll take him for the weekend, not just tonight. Give you space to focus on takin’ care of his mama.”

I could handle Little Derek and Angel—no question. The problem was, it was damn near impossible to get her to rest when he was home, no matter how bad she felt. She tried to keep up. Acted like she could still run tutoring, handle bedtime, keep the rhythm going like always. Even stayed up late folding his clothes, her hands shaking so bad she had to pause between shirts. Thought I wouldn’t notice.

But now?

She didn’t get to play strong anymore.

I’d asked her once. Asked her twice. After that, it wasn’t a request. I helped her up from the kitchen table—slow, steady, but with a grip that said this was happening—and walked her to bed myself.

She pushed back, of course. Always did. Kept reaching for that damn water glass with hands that trembled like it might slip right through her fingers. Kept wincing every time she shifted, biting it back like I couldn’t see the pain stretched across her face.

“Stay in this bed, Angelina,” I said, pulling the covers up over her. “You’re not gon’ get better runnin’ yourself ragged tryin’ to do everything like usual. You’re sick. You need rest. And I said—I got it.”

“You’re so—”

“I’m not tryna hear it.” My voice cut through hers, not loud, but final. “I’m takin’ care of you. The boy is good. The house is good. You don’t need to move a damn finger right now, and I mean that. Stop fightin’ me on this, and chill.”

She sucked her teeth, muttered something under her breath like it might soften me. It didn’t.

I left the room, let her stew in the quiet. It was for her own good.

I handled DJ’s dinner. Checked his homework. Walked him through that reading log he always hated. Made sure he brushed his teeth, tucked him in, stayed long enough to listen to his breathing slow.

His mother needed rest—she just didn’t know how to give it to herself.

So I did it for her.

When I came back to the room and saw her curled up on her side, breathing shallow, skin flushed and clammy like she’d been dipped in fever...the bottom dropped out. I was two seconds—hell, maybe one—from scooping her up and hauling her to the ER, argument or not.

“Angel,” I said, my voice low but firm, “enough is enough. I’m takin’ you to the hospital. I told you—”

“I’m fine,” she whispered, paper-thin. “Just the flu…I’m sure. I just need rest. You’re gonna take me in there and they’ll just say the same thing—rest and fluids. Maybe give me the same medicine you already got in the kitchen. What’s the point?”

I sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, watching her like she might disappear if I blinked.

“No,” I muttered, jaw tight. “I’m takin’ you in. No talk.”

She let out a tired sigh, eyes fluttering like they were too heavy to stay open. “It’s late, just let me sleep. By morning, I’m sure I’ll be fine. You just got DJ down…”

“Angelina—”

“Morning,” she repeated, cutting me off, voice soft but stubborn.

She tried to smile, but it came out crooked. More wince than anything else. Still trying to be stronger than her body would let her.

I sighed and crawled in behind her that night, held her while she shivered in her sleep. Come morning, she looked worse—and I stopped asking questions. I made executive decisions. She was no longer running this house from a sickbed.

And now, with Mama Harris walking in like she owned the place—apron already tied, pulling mason jars and dried roots from that bottomless purse like she was about to summon the ancestors—I felt like maybe, just maybe, we could knock this thing out, whatever it was. That woman’s cooked through more fevers than I’ve had birthdays. And one thing I knew for sure: you don’t block a praying Black mama with a recipe and a mission.

“Thanks for takin’ DJ,” I said, wiping my hands on the towel. “Angel’s bein’ stubborn as hell. Hopin’ she shakes it off soon. Might get worse before it gets better.”

That’s when I caught the glance.

Quick flick between Mama and Pop. Quiet, but loud as hell.

My eyes narrowed. “What?”

They both looked at me like I’d missed something obvious. Like I was the fool in the room.

Mama kept her voice low, like she was passing secrets. “You sure she’s not pregnant?”

I exhaled slow through my nose, a tight pull settling in my chest. “No,” I said, flatter than I meant. “She just caught a bug. Besides, she can’t be.”

Mama tilted her head like she’d heard that before—and hadn’t bought it then either. Pops scratched his jaw, looking me over like I was the one running a fever.

“Can’t be?” he echoed. “Somethin’ wrong with your dick?”

I almost dropped the spoon. “Man—”

He held up both hands like he was just here for moral support. “I’m just sayin’—shooters shoot, son. If your gun’s jammed, we got a whole different situation on our hands. Bigger than Angel throwin’ up. You want me to call my urologist? He discreet.”

Before I could clap back, DJ’s voice cut through from the hallway. “I’m ready!”

I turned toward the sound, heartbeat catching mid-step. “Go on and have fun, Big Man,” I said, smoothing the moment over with a smile. “I got things covered here with Mommy.”

DJ nodded like it was a mission. “I’m gonna tell her I’m leaving,” he said, already turning on his heel with that little soldier focus he got when something mattered. He was still slower than he wanted to be, but physical therapy was working—had him steadier on his feet every week. We kept his wheelchair packed whenever he went out, just in case his legs gave out. He hated it, but I called it a backup plan. That boy had heart.

“Alright,” I called after DJ, stirring the soup harder than I needed to—like it could do something for the pressure building behind my ribs.

Soon as DJ’s footsteps faded down the hall, Pops turned back to me like he’d been waiting for his cue.

“So you are sayin’ your dick’s broke?”

“Pop—”

He didn’t blink. “How you expect to give DJ a sibling if you don’t fix your little situation?”

I stared at him. “What is wrong with you?”

He shrugged, dead serious. “You the one out here shootin’ blanks. I’m just tryna help the family line continue.”

“Anthony,” Mama cut in before I could say anything else, lifting a mason jar full of something that looked like danger. “I made Angel my elixir. This’ll straighten her out.”

I stared at the jar. “What’s in it?” Already knew. Didn’t stop me from asking.

“Turmeric, onions, ginger, cayenne…” She kept going like she was on Chopped, pulling ingredients out of thin air and childhood trauma.

Pops sucked his teeth. “Camille, that mess is nasty as hell. Girl’s already throwin’ up. You tryin’ to kill her or cure her?”

I let them bicker, leaning into the sound because it kept me grounded—but I was already one breath away from grabbing Angel and heading to the ER.

DJ came back in the kitchen, face serious like he had somewhere important to be. I crouched a little and pulled him in tight.

“See you later, Big Man,” I said, giving him that extra squeeze. Needed it more than he did.

“Okay. Mommy’s sleeping,” he said.

“Good. She needs that. She’ll be back up soon, and we’ll come get you—cool?”

He nodded, wide-eyed but solid, like he could read more than I wanted him to.

I kissed Mama’s cheek, hugged Pops. He grabbed my shoulders like he was about to deliver a blessing. Looked me dead in the eyes.

“Fix ya dick, Ant,” he said low, like it was sacred advice.

“William!” my mama barked from the door. “Leave that boy alone and let’s get Little Derek off his feet.”

Pops winked, clapped me on the back, and strolled out like he’d just saved a soul.

Then the quiet settled.

But it wasn’t peace.

I turned off the stove. Wiped my hands on a towel that smelled like lemon cleaner—Mama’s signature. Stood there, eyes on nothing, heart pounding like I was waiting for something to break.

Then I reached for my phone.

Thumb hovered over Bishop’s name.

Still no word from him. Still no answers about why his future father-in-law kept looking at Angel like she was a ghost come walking. The more I replayed it, the less it made sense. And I was past done with waiting.

Normally, I’d handle something like this myself. But Bishop said he had it under control, and out of respect for him, and because it involved his fiancée—I gave him space.

Now I was regretting it.

Because anything that touched Angel—anything—was mine to protect.

And I didn’t do loose ends.

I portioned everything out just how she liked—smoothie on the left, soup on the right, spoon tucked in the fold of the napkin. I had backup ready too—rice, soft veggies, something with protein—in case she kept this down and we could ease into solids in a few hours. At least I wouldn’t have to cook again later. Meant I could stay close. Focus on her.

Took a breath. Held it. Let it out slow. Steadied the tray in my hands and made my way down the hall.

The door creaked open soft. Didn’t want to bang it. Didn’t want to wake her hard—just ease in, speak soft, stay calm.

But the second I crossed that threshold, my gut clenched.

Something was off.

“Angel,” I said, voice low but solid as I stepped in. “Need you to try somethin’ for me. Just a few sips. Smoothie’s cold. Soup’s warm. You got options.”

Nothing.

Not even a stir under the covers.

I set the tray down on my writing desk. Something wasn’t right. I crossed the room fast. Flicked the lamp on with a snap.

And froze.

The light hit her, and everything inside me dropped. She looked…wrong.

Too pale. Too still. Like the color had drained out of her, like she was slipping somewhere I couldn’t reach.

“Angel,” I said, softer now, kneeling beside her. My palms cupped her face—hot. Too hot. I pressed my lips to her forehead, trying to ground myself, to make sense of the heat rolling off her skin.

My pulse roared in my ears.

“Angel,” I whispered, throat tight. “Papa needs you to wake up.”

Nothing.

My voice came sharper the second time. “Angel.”

I pulled the comforter back slow, heart knocking like it was trying to beat its way out of my chest. Still trying to stay calm.

And then I saw it.

The blood.

A deep, dark stain soaking through her panties, spreading into the sheets beneath her like it had been there a while.

My brain shorted.

“ANGEL!” I roared, jumping to my feet so fast I nearly knocked the lamp over. “Baby!”

Her eyelids fluttered—barely. Then rolled back. My heart stopped. Just stopped.

“Fuck.” The word scraped out of my throat as I grabbed my phone, nearly dropped it, shoved it into my pocket instead.

I hooked one arm under her knees, the other behind her back. She didn’t resist. Didn’t even stir. Her body sank into me like a rag doll, limp and light, her head falling against my shoulder.

The sheets behind her were soaked.

Red. Thick. Spreading.

My stomach twisted. My grip tightened.

I moved—fast, careful. Cradled her like glass.

Call 911? No time.

I could drive. Faster. Safer.

One step. Then another. My boots hit the floor too loud, my breath coming too fast. My heart wasn’t beating right—too hard, too deep, like it was trying to outrun what I’d just seen.

“Hold on, Pretty Girl,” I whispered, voice cracking low in my throat. “I got you.”

Her lips didn’t move.

I held her closer.

“I got you.”

I didn’t even hear myself praying until I was halfway down the hall, whispering under my breath like it was the only thing keeping me upright.

Out the bedroom. Down the hall. Past the kitchen. Out the front door.

I moved fast but gentle, like one wrong shift would break her apart.

I shouldered the front door open, the weight of her in my arms throwing off my balance. Gravel crunched under my boots. The cold bit at my neck. Didn’t matter.

I wrenched the car door open and eased her in, slow—like one wrong move might break her. Her head lolled to the side. I caught it, tucked it against the seat.

Buckle clicked into place on the third try.

My fingers were shaking too much.

I shut her door. Harder than I meant to.

Slid into the driver’s seat. Grip tight on the wheel.

Foot slammed the gas.

The tires screeched, dirt kicking up behind us. The house shrank in the rearview like it was nothing but smoke and memory.

She was all that mattered.

I drove like a man on the edge. Hands tight on the wheel, knuckles white, eyes flicking to her every few seconds like I could will her to stay awake.

“Stay with me, Pretty Girl,” I said, low, over and over.

Because if I lost her—

If I let her slip through my hands—

Don’t think like that, Ant. Focus.

The drive to the ER was a blur—red lights, white knuckles, and nothing but her in my passenger seat, too quiet. I don’t remember half the turns I made. Couldn’t tell you if I ran that stop sign on Jefferson or just dreamed it.

I kept talking to her the whole way.

One hand on the wheel. The other on her thigh, holding on like that touch might anchor her.

“Stay with me, Pretty Girl,” I said, voice low, steady as I could make it. “Just hang on.”

She made a sound—faint, broken. Like she wanted to answer but couldn’t find her way to the surface. Her head rolled back again, and that cold fist around my chest cinched tighter.

The tires screeched as I swung into the ER drop-off.

Engine still running.

My door flew open. Hers next.

I fumbled the buckle, hands shaking so hard it took three tries. She sagged against me, head falling limp against my chest.

I pulled her close.

Kicked the door shut with my boot.

And ran.

Through the sliding doors. Past the front desk. Every step louder than it should’ve been, like the world had gone quiet except for me.

“I need help!”

My voice cracked. Echoed.

A nurse was on me before I stopped moving—braids tight, eyes sharper.

“Gurney,” she barked over her shoulder, already pressing fingers to Angel’s wrist. “What’s her name?”

“Angelina Moore,” I said. “She’s burning up—she won’t wake up and—”
My throat closed.

“She’s bleeding. She passed out. I think…” I shook my head. Tried to force the words. “I—I don’t know.”

The nurse’s eyes flicked down, caught the blood, and snapped sharp.

“How far along is she?” she asked.

I blinked rapidly. “She’s not pregnant.”

No reaction. Just a short nod. Behind her, the gurney rolled up fast, silent.

They tried to take Angel from me. I didn’t let go. Not yet. I pressed a kiss to her forehead, rough and shaking.

“I’m right here, baby,” I whispered, breath catching. “You hear me? I got you.”

She didn’t answer.

I laid her down slow. Like every inch of motion mattered. Like if I moved too fast, she might break for good.

My arms felt empty the second she was out of them.

The doors swung shut behind her with a hiss as they took her away.

And she was gone.

I just stood there.

Chest heaving. Hands useless. Feet glued to the floor like staying still might stop the ground from disappearing again.

It didn’t.

I pulled out my phone, called my folks. Told them what happened. Told them not to worry DJ, no matter what.

Mama asked if I wanted her to come sit with me.

“Nah,” I said, voice scraped raw. “Stay with DJ. I’ll update you when I can.”

She went quiet on the other end. Then: “I’m praying.”

That made two of us.

I finally sat down sometime later, elbows on my knees, rubbing my hands together like I was trying to summon heat from nowhere. They still smelled like turmeric—Mama’s elixir clinging to my skin, sharp and earthy. Couldn't shake it.

I kept thinking about the way Angel wrapped herself around DJ when he was sick last month. How she stayed up two nights straight, laying cool cloths on his forehead, humming to him low and soft. The way she looked at me when she finally let me take over—eyes heavy with exhaustion, but still full of light.

I wasn’t ready to lose that.

Wasn’t ready to lose her.

When the doctor finally came out, I shot to my feet too fast. Head spun. Didn’t matter.

He looked young—barely out of med school, if that. Still probably using his college ID to get into bars. But his eyes were steady, and he walked like a man who’d done this a hundred times before.

“Mr. Harris?”

I nodded. “How is she?”

“She’s stable,” he said.

My knees nearly gave out. I had to lock them just to stay standing.

“Your wife?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He nodded, glancing at his chart. “She’s severely dehydrated. Running a dangerously high fever. And she’s anemic. That’s what led to the collapse.”

I blinked, struggling to track it all. “She hasn’t been able to keep anything down—not even water. But the bleeding…”

He gave me a look I didn’t like. Calm, but cautious. Like he was bracing me.

“We’re still running tests,” he said. “She may have miscarried.”

I stepped back.

The words hit low, heavy. Lodged somewhere in my chest and stayed there.

No. We weren’t pregnant. Couldn’t be.

“She’s not pregnant,” I said, confident.

He didn’t flinch. “You sure about that?”

I opened my mouth—nothing came out right away.

“I mean… she’s got an IUD,” I said, slower now. “We don’t use condoms. Her cycle’s been regular.”

The words sounded wrong the second they left my mouth. Too much, too personal, but maybe useful. Maybe something that could help her. Still, something in me started to pull loose. The doctor nodded.

“We’re keeping her overnight,” he said. “I’ll let you know when you can see her and we’ll update you then. Right now, we need to figure out what’s going on with your wife.”

I nodded, but my head felt disconnected—like my body was here, but my mind hadn’t caught up. When the doctor walked away, I sank back into the chair, elbows digging into my knees, head in my hands, trying to breathe like that alone could hold me together.

My wife. My fucking wife. Yeah, it wasn’t on paper yet, but it didn’t matter—she was mine, and I said it like it was law because if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have even had the right to stand there and hear what was happening to her. I wouldn’t have been allowed in the room, wouldn’t know what they were doing to her, what they were finding, what they weren’t saying. And I couldn’t have that.

I needed to be the one. The one they came to. The one who made the calls. Because no one else was gonna handle it right, and no one else loved her like I did.

Me and DJ—we were all she had. And right now, I needed her to be okay. I needed her to come out of this because we weren’t done. Not even close.

We hadn’t even scratched the surface of the life we were building. I needed her awake. I needed her whole. I needed her to keep making lists and fuss about DJ’s socks not matching and roll her eyes when I left dishes in the sink.

I needed her in every loud, soft, stubborn form she came in—every eye roll, every overpacked lunchbox, every late-night talk that turned into a fight that turned into a laugh that turned into her falling asleep on my chest.

So no, I couldn’t sit there and fall apart. I had to hold it, had to stay upright, because the second they let me back in that room, I was gonna make damn sure she knew I meant every word I said that night I picked her up from the club—that I was serious about building a life with her, not just playing house. We hadn’t talked about it since, just slipped back into our rhythm like always, but that didn’t mean I’d let it fade.

We had moves to make. A family to create. A future to chase. And we were doing it together. Period.

She was the one.

Eventually, I stood. Got a bottle of water from the vending machine. Cracked the cap, didn’t drink. Just needed to move—needed to do. Time dragged. Like the world had hit pause, but forgot to tell my heart.

I needed to know what was going on with my girl. But nobody was saying shit. No nurses. No updates. Just these sterile-ass walls and silence that felt like it had claws.

What if I lost her?

I sat down again, bottle still full, knee bouncing like it had its own engine. Brain refusing to quit.

How was I supposed to explain this to Little Derek?

He needed her.

I needed her.

We needed her. We hadn’t even started our life yet.

I didn’t know what was going on behind those double doors—what machines they were hooking her up to, what words they were whispering over her body—but I knew one thing, deep in my bones: she was coming back to me. And when she did, I was gonna hold her like I never had before. Not just in my arms, but in every way that counted.

I was gonna look her in the eye and let her know—really know—that I wasn’t playing about us. That night I said I wanted forever with her? I meant every damn syllable. Because not having her? That wasn’t an option. Not now. Not ever.

When the doctor finally returned, I was already on my feet, moving before his mouth formed the words. Followed him like a shadow looking for light.

The second I stepped into Angel’s room, something shifted in my chest—like air finally reached a part of me that’d been locked tight. The steady beep of machines tapped at the silence. White sheets tucked too neat. Tubes. Monitors.

That low hum that always made hospitals feel like waiting rooms for bad news. And there she was. Like the fight had drained right out of her. My throat tightened, but I kept moving. One step. Then another. Then—her eyes found mine. Just barely. But enough. My breath punched out of me like I’d been holding it for hours. Maybe I had.

And she smiled.

Not big. Not like before. But enough to stop my heart and restart it in a rhythm only she knew. That smile? That was home.

Didn’t matter how many wires she had in her or how quiet her voice was. She was still here.

“Baby…” I breathed, moving to her side. I bent down, kissing her face, her forehead, her temple—couldn’t stop. Her skin was warm again. Not burning.

I thanked God under my breath.

“Anthony,” she rasped, tired and a little annoyed.

I smiled, but my voice cracked. “You scared the hell outta me.”

Before she could answer, the doctor stepped in. Clipboard in hand, expression calm—but too calm. The kind that wrapped bad news in soft words.

I stayed standing, hand resting gently on hers. “What happened?”

He shut the door behind him with a quiet click. Glanced at the tablet, then back up at me.

“We’ve got a clearer picture,” he said. “Angel’s fever and the bleeding were caused by complications with her IUD.”

My jaw tightened. I looked at her—she already knew. Then back to him. “What kind of complications?”

“The IUD moved,” he said. “It’s called a uterine perforation. Rare, but it happens. The device dislodged from the uterine wall and migrated.”

I blinked. “Migrated?” The word sat wrong in my mouth. “Like… moved inside her?”

“Yes,” he said. “That can cause internal damage, inflammation, infection. Her immune system overreacted trying to fight it off. That’s what triggered the fever, nausea, and eventually her collapse.”

Angel’s eyes fluttered shut, like just hearing it drained the little strength she had.

The doctor kept going, voice steady but not cold. “Imaging showed the IUD had shifted—partially embedded in the uterine muscle. That explains the bleeding and pain.”

I stiffened.

“We were able to remove it without surgery,” he added quickly. “Thankfully, it hadn’t reached the abdominal cavity or caused more severe internal damage. But she was close.”

If I’d waited any longer…

I swallowed hard. “So… what now? She gonna be okay?”

“She’ll be just fine,” he said. “We’ve got her on IV antibiotics. She’ll need rest, fluids, and follow-up with her OB. The biggest concern is lingering infection or scarring, but long-term issues are rare. We won’t know for sure until after recovery.”

I looked down at her, thumb brushing across her knuckles. The doctor paused, almost like he didn’t want to say what came next.

“One more thing—just so you’re aware. While IUDs are very effective, in rare cases like this, if they migrate… pregnancy is still possible.”

My head snapped up. “You saying she was pregnant?”

He shook his head. “No evidence of that now. But with the bleeding… we can’t rule out a very early miscarriage. It’s impossible to know without a confirmed pregnancy beforehand.”

Her eyes stayed closed, but the words came soft, certain. “I would’ve known.”

I squeezed her hand. “You’re okay,” I said quietly. “That’s what matters.”

The doctor gave us both a nod. “She’s lucky. And you brought her in just in time. Another hour or two…we’d be having a different conversation.”

He stepped back. “I’ll check on her again soon. You can stay with her.”

I nodded, slow. My heart was still thudding in my chest like it was chasing something I couldn’t see.

The doctor turned, hand on the doorknob. Paused. “Oh, by the way,” he added with a small smile, “I love your brother’s music.”

Then he slipped out, like he hadn’t just dropped a brick on my chest. When the door clicked shut behind the doctor, I pulled the chair in close and sat heavy, elbows on my knees, head in my hands.

My fingers pushed hard through my hair like I could scrape the last few hours out of my skull, like if I just pressed deep enough, I could undo it all—her shaking, the fever, the blood. I should’ve brought her in sooner. I knew something was off. I felt it in my gut, deep and loud, the way a man knows when something he loves is slipping. And still, I waited.

I hesitated. Told myself she just needed rest. Told myself I was overthinking it. I gambled with time and almost lost her.

“It’s not your fault,” she said softly as she watched me, her voice barely there. “I was being stubborn.”

I lifted my head, met her eyes—tired, dulled by everything she’d just been through.

“No,” I said, jaw locked. “I should’ve trusted my gut. I felt it in my bones, and I still waited.”

She reached out, slow and steady, fingers curling around mine like they were always meant to fit there. She didn’t say much—didn’t need to. Just held on like she wasn’t planning to let go again.

“You got me here,” she whispered. “You saved me.”

I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move for a second. Because she didn’t see what I saw—the way her body went limp in my arms, her skin clammy and cold, the blood soaking into the sheets, her eyes rolling back like the light inside her was dimming. She didn’t hear me shouting her name and getting silence in return. That one second where she felt gone cracked something open in me I didn’t know could break.

“I thought I was losing you,” I said finally, the words raw, scraped out from somewhere deep. “You looked… gone, Angel. Like you weren’t in there no more.”

Her grip tightened. Stronger than I expected. Like she was telling me she was still here without having to speak.

And I believed her.

But it didn’t stop the guilt from sinking in deep and planting itself in my chest like it belonged there.

“I don’t care if you stub your toe,” I said, voice rough around the edges. “If I tell you we’re going to the hospital—”

“I won’t push back,” she cut in, smiling like we were talking about something as simple as dinner plans. Like she hadn’t just scared the life out of me.

I nodded, tried to calm down, tried to meet her where she was. She was safe now. They found the problem. They fixed it. She just needed rest. Just had to stay one night for monitoring. Nothing more.

Calm down, Ant. Breathe. She’s okay.

But my body hadn’t caught up to the news yet.

“Where’s DJ?” she asked, voice soft, a little strained.

“With my parents,” I said, already pulling my phone from my pocket. “We can call them in a little.” I sent a quick text—just enough to let them know she was awake. That she was okay. That I was right there.

She went quiet for a moment, her eyes drifting toward the ceiling like she was weighing something heavy.

Then—“What if I was pregnant, Anthony?”

My head turned toward her slowly. My eyes locked on hers. There it was—the question that had been sitting in the room with us all along, waiting for one of us to look it in the eye.

I didn’t answer right away. Didn’t move. Just sat there, staring at the woman I loved while something inside me twisted tight.

That thought—I’d been shoving it down every time someone even hinted at it. Every time my mother tilted her head a little too long. Every time the nurse or doctors tone changed.

The idea that she might’ve been carrying my child... and lost it without even knowing? I couldn’t sit with that. Not yet. Not without coming apart.

“Let’s just get you through tonight,” I said, my voice quieter than I meant. “After that… we’ll talk. I promise.”

She gave me that look—half-tired, half-smirking, like she was humoring me. “Ain’t much else to do in here, Anthony. We can talk now.”

I let out a slow breath through my nose, nodded once. “Fair enough.”

There was a pause, long enough for the machines to take over the room again. Then she spoke, softer this time, like the words tasted unfamiliar in her mouth. “I don’t wanna put another IUD back in. I don’t…think I want that.”

I froze, my thumb still brushing the back of her hand. My gaze moved to her face, searching for something—uncertainty, fear but, neither were there.

“What you sayin’?” I asked, the words barely above a whisper.

She didn’t blink. “Do you want children? Or better question, do you want to have children with me?”

My throat went tight, but I didn’t look away. Didn’t run from it. “Yeah,” I said, and it landed heavy in the space between us. “I do.”

I laced my fingers through hers, thumb drawing slow circles across her knuckles—just to ground myself.

“I wanna marry you,” I said, steady this time. “I wanna adopt DJ—make him mine in every way. And if you want more kids? I want ’em too. As many as we’re blessed with.”

Her eyes welled, but she didn’t look away. I leaned in and pressed a kiss to her forehead, held there a second longer than I needed to. Just breathing her in. Warm. Alive. Here.

“That’s all I’ve ever wanted,” I murmured, my lips against her skin. “You. DJ. A life we build from scratch. Whatever comes next… I want it with you.”

And I meant every damn word.

This wasn’t fear talking. Not adrenaline. Not grief. This was truth—raw and solid and overdue.

I loved this woman. I loved her boy.

And I wanted to make us a family. Officially.

Not someday. Now.

“I always thought it would just be me and DJ,” she said, voice quiet but sure. “I never wanted to be married again. Not after Carlos. Not after what I went through.” Her eyes flicked to mine, then back to the ceiling, like she was trying to hold her thoughts steady. “And kids? More of them? That never felt safe either. Raising DJ in that house, then without Carlos, trying to be everything for him—I’ve done it. I’ve done my best. But it’s been hard, Anthony. So hard.”

I didn’t say a word. Just stayed there, holding her hand, grounding her with the weight of my silence.

“But being with you,” she went on, “being loved by you... my heart started opening up to all of it again. Slowly. Quietly. Because I feel safe enough to picture it with you. Not just imagine it—but want it.”

I leaned back in the chair, fingers still laced with hers, my grip gentle but firm like I was holding onto something sacred.

“I want to be your wife, Anthony,” she said, her voice steady now. “And DJ... he’s been calling you Pops…”

I couldn’t help the smile that pulled at my lips. Damn near cried the first time I heard it—but if I’d broken down in the middle of Bishop and Emery’s engagement party, I’d never live that shit down. Still, hearing it? Knowing that bond I’d been building with Little Derek was real on his end too?

Nothing compared to that.

Angel looked at me again, something soft and shining in her gaze. “You’ve been the kind of father to him I always wished he’d had.”

“It’s my honor, Angel,” I said, and I meant it with every part of me.

She looked at me like she saw past all the weight I carried. “You make me dream again, Anthony,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “Make me believe the things I want might actually be possible. And more than that… you’ve shown me I won’t have to do it alone. You’ve shown me what it means to have a partner in every way.”

“And I’ll keep showing you, baby,” I said, my voice low but certain, the kind of promise you don’t make unless you’re ready to spend your whole life keeping it. She looked at me like she was memorizing the moment—like she didn’t know where to place all the love I was laying at her feet, like it was too big to hold and still somehow exactly what she needed.

Then she smiled. Small. But real. The kind that reached her eyes even when they barely stayed open.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Okay.”

She looked peaceful—finally. And for a second, I wondered if I’d have to say all this again once the meds wore off. Once her head cleared.

Didn’t matter.

I’d say it a hundred times if I had to.

I leaned down and kissed her lips, soft.

“Remember when I used to threaten to bubble-wrap you?” I said, brushing a curl off her forehead. “Yeah… I’m really thinkin’ about ordering one of those suits now, Angel.”

She gave a weak laugh. But there it was.

That spark.

Then my phone rang.

Blocked number.

Didn’t matter—I already knew.

“Pretty Girl,” I murmured, kissing her again. “Gotta step out a minute. I’ll be right back.”

She nodded, eyes already slipping shut, her body folding into rest. I watched her for one more second. Then slipped into the hallway, door clicking shut behind me.

“Yo,” I answered.

“Got those answers for you,” Dorian said.

Dorian. My brother Derek’s fixer. Quiet, lethal, efficient. He was always ten steps ahead. And Bishop? He was moving too careful, too slow. I didn’t have that kind of time. Not anymore.

If I was gonna make things official with Angel and DJ, I had to know what I was walking into. Who I was protecting them from.

“You ready for this shit?”, Dorian asked.

“You figured out the connection between Angel and Edwin?” I asked, already bracing myself.

Dorian chuckled—low and dry. “Come on, Ant. It’s me.”

I turned, glanced back through the little window in the door. Watched Angel sleeping, soft and small in that too-big bed. Fragile in a way I wasn’t used to seeing.

But she was still here. Still her.

I’d sat in this hallway before—practically lived here when DJ was fighting for his life. We’d made it through that storm. But now we were back. Different this time.

Dorian’s voice dropped. “Your girl… she’s not who she thinks she is…”

My gut clenched tight.

“What the fuck does that mean?” I asked, jaw already locked.

He went quiet for a beat. Then said it.

Dropped it like a bomb.

And just like that, everything tilted—for Angel, for me, for Bishop and Emery. Whatever we thought we knew? That shit was over…

to be continued…

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Jhéanell Westonberry is a romance author, filmmaker, and homemaker who crafts love stories that unapologetically celebrate Black women's right to rest, be cherished, and experience joy. Her narratives are infused with the soulful rhythms of R&B, Hip Hop, and Jamaican Dancehall, reflecting her rich cultural heritage. Through her storytelling, Jhéanell reclaims homemaking, romance, and intentional living as acts of resistance, reminding Black women of their inherent worthiness of care and desire. Whether through fiction, journaling, or immersive experiences, her work serves as a love letter to those who have long been expected to give but are now choosing to receive. She empowers others to romanticize the ordinary, embrace creativity, and live as the main character of their own story—rooted in love, family, and the beauty of life's simplest moments.

Interested in more of her stories? You can find her catalog HERE.