POV Jocelyn

Rain pressed against the clinic windows like the universe crying for all of us, muting Zurich’s skyline into shades of gray that matched my emotional state perfectly.

Machines pulsed in steady rhythm, filling this sterile room with soft electronic heartbeats that somehow felt more reliable than my own.

Every breath Mia took was counted.

Every tiny twitch of her fingers felt like either a miracle or a warning—I couldn’t tell which anymore, and that uncertainty was slowly driving me insane.

I hadn’t moved in hours.

Just sat here perched beside her hospital bed like some kind of exhausted guardian angel, watching her chest rise and fall beneath a tangle of wires and blankets that cost more than my monthly rent back in New York.

My fingers trembled as I reached out to tuck a curl behind her ear, like the world might actually crack from the weight of that small gesture.

Probably looked like hell—no makeup, no professional armor, just the raw ache of a mother teetering on the edge of complete breakdown.

The bruises under my eyes told their own story.

Sleepless nights, swallowed screams, and enough coffee to power a small city.

The door creaked open like something out of a medical drama. Rain clung to Zayden’s coat, dripping steadily as he stepped inside carrying two coffees that smelled like liquid salvation.

No words at first. Just breath and thunder and the steady beep of machines keeping my daughter alive.

He crossed the room slowly, careful not to disturb the delicate ecosystem of medical equipment, and handed me coffee without speaking.

I took it with a small nod, focusing on not spilling because my hands had developed a permanent tremor sometime around day three of this nightmare. He lowered himself into the chair across from me, Mia’s bed between us like a wall made of cotton and desperation.

“She asked for jelly this morning,” I murmured, staring at her pale hand that looked so fucking small against the white sheets. “Didn’t eat it. Just asked.”

A faint breath escaped his lips. “Sounds like my girl. Wants the world without taking a bite.”

“She’s tired,” I said, voice cracking around the edges like old paint. “So tired.”

Silence stretched long enough to hurt, filled only with rain and machines and the sound of two adults trying not to fall apart.

Then, quietly: “I used to dream of her.”

I looked up, surprised.

“Didn’t know her name. Didn’t know her face. But I’d see flashes—your voice, your laugh, the way you whispered my name like it was a secret worth keeping.”

Tears I’d been holding back for approximately seventeen hours finally started threatening to spill.

“I never planned to keep her from you. I told myself I’d tell you when the time was right. But time… it kept slipping through my fingers like water.”

“Because you were scared?” His voice was gentler than I’d ever heard it.

“Terrified,” I whispered. “Of what you’d do. Of how powerful you were, how small I felt beside your world. And of the possibility that you wouldn’t want her.”

Something shifted in his expression. “I was engaged to the wrong woman. Trapped in my grandfather’s sick game. But somehow I still knew something was missing. You.”

Finally I looked at him properly. “I thought if I stayed away, I could protect her.”

“From me?”

“From everything. From growing up in the shadows, being photographed by strangers, becoming a pawn in some legacy war I didn’t understand.”

Zayden ran a hand through his wet hair. “You don’t have to protect her from me anymore.”

“I know.”

Rain tapped against the window like morse code from the universe, trying to tell us something we weren’t smart enough to decode.

“I blamed you,” he said after a moment that lasted approximately six years. “Hated you, even. For the lies. For the missing years.”

“I hated myself,” I admitted. “Every birthday party with just us. Every fever when she cried for a daddy I couldn’t give her. Every night I lay awake wondering if I’d made the right choice.”

Zayden stood, walked around the bed with careful steps, and sat beside me. Our knees touched, and somehow that simple contact felt more intimate than anything that had happened between us seven years ago.

His voice cracked when he spoke. “I love her.”

I turned toward him. “I know.”

“I love you too,” he said, words tumbling out like he’d been holding them back for months. “Even when I didn’t want to. Even when I tried not to.”

Tears slid down my cheeks faster than I could wipe them away. I reached for his hand, held it tight enough to leave marks.

“You’ll be a better father than your own,” I said fiercely. “You already are.”

He kissed the back of my hand like I was something precious. “She saved me.”

“She saved me too,” I said. “Gave me a reason to survive when everything else felt impossible.”

He looked down at Mia’s face—so still, so small, so fucking perfect it hurt to breathe.

“And now she needs us.”

“We’ll give her everything,” I said with the kind of maternal fury that could probably level cities. “But not just money. Not just hospitals and lawyers and Swiss clinics. Love. Presence. Joy. Normal moments.”

Zayden smiled, just a flicker. “You sound like a dreamer.”

“I sound like a mother.”

“I want to do it with you,” he said, voice thick with emotion. “All of it. The late nights, school drop-offs, scraped knees, teenage drama. I want every messy, beautiful, terrifying moment.”

I rested my head on his shoulder, finally allowing myself to lean on someone else for the first time in six years. “Then stay. Stay and help me raise her the right way.”

He kissed the crown of my head. “You still scare me.”

“Good,” I said with a watery laugh. “You scare me too.”

He pulled me closer, heart thudding against my ear. “I don’t know how to be perfect.”

“You don’t have to be,” I said. “You just have to show up.”

Zayden looked at me like he was seeing his future for the first time and didn’t hate what he found there. “I’m not leaving again. Not unless you tell me to.”

My voice was barely audible. “I won’t.”

Mia stirred slightly in her sleep, making that soft sound somewhere between a murmur and a sigh. We both froze, watching, hoping, holding our breath until she settled again.

I looked down at our joined hands. “She’ll remember this. Even if she doesn’t know it now.”

“She doesn’t have to remember,” he said. “She just has to live.”

I reached up and brushed wet hair from his forehead. “You gave her a chance.”

“We gave her a future.”

Another pause filled with rain and possibilities and the steady rhythm of machines keeping our daughter alive.

Eyes shining, I whispered, “Say it again.”

Zayden closed the distance, forehead pressed gently to mine. Our breaths merged into something that felt like hope.

His voice cracked as he whispered, “I love you both.”