Thursday came too fast.I woke with my pulse already racing — that feverish, over-bright feeling behind my eyes that meant my body understood something my conscious mind was still pretending not to know. Damian was already up. I found him in the bedroom checking window locks for the second time, testing the panic room door handle with deliberate, controlled movements.
He stood in the doorway of what would be our daughter's nursery. Two full minutes. One hand flat on the frame. Not moving.
I pressed my palm against my belly. Our daughter rolled slow and certain beneath my hand.
"You can still stay here."
"No." I crossed the room. "I can't."
His jaw worked once. Twice. He knelt in front of me — slow, deliberate — his hands covering mine where they rested on our daughter. His forehead dropped against my stomach. One long exhale. Controlled. Like he was storing this moment against something.
"If something happens—"
"It won't."
