Chapter 33

The morning sunlight filtered softly through the blinds, casting golden stripes across the walls of the bedroom. Mia stirred first, her hand instinctively reaching across the bed, not for Max, but for the tiny form that wasn't there. The ache in her chest hadn't dulled; it only shifted each day, changing shape but never leaving.

Max was already sitting at the edge of the bed, lacing his boots slowly, methodically. His movements were quiet, almost reverent, as if any noise might shatter the fragile peace that had settled in their home overnight.

"She's probably had her early feed by now," Mia said softly, her voice still thick with sleep and emotion.

Max nodded, then turned toward her with a tired but gentle smile. "We'll be there soon."

Rowan wasn't home yet. Their baby girl, barely three pounds when she was born, was still in the NICU—tiny, fierce, and fighting. Every day apart felt like a lifetime, and every visit was a lifeline.

By the time Mia and Max made it next door to her brother's home, the hum of activity was already starting. Frank, Max's father, stood by the coffee maker, handing out steaming mugs like a battlefield medic. His voice was calm, a grounding presence. Jeremy, Max's younger brother, leaned against the counter in jeans and a rumpled hoodie, whispering with Max about traffic and parking passes for the hospital.

Are you sure you're okay to drive? Frank asked, looking from Mia to Max with that familiar mixture of fatherly concern and quiet strength.

Max gave a slight nod. "Yeah. Thanks, Dad."

Mia hugged Charlotte on the way out, her arms warm and steady. "Go be with your girl," Charlotte whispered into her hair. "We've got everything here."

Ashley—Jeremy's wife—was already helping Heather and April in the dining room, where streamers, florals, and pastel bunting were half-strung across the ceiling. Tomorrow would be the baby shower, planned before Rowan came early. No one had canceled it. Instead, it had become a celebration of hope, of strength, and of the family rallying behind them.

"You guys go," Ashley said as she set down a tray of delicate paper flowers. "We've got final touches left, but it's all under control. Rowan will be spoiled by the time she gets home."

Mia smiled, but it trembled at the edges. "Thank you. All of you."

The drive to the hospital was quiet and peaceful in its way. Frank sat in the front passenger seat, reading directions off his phone even though Max didn't need them. Jeremy sat beside Mia in the back, giving her space but letting his presence be felt. Sometimes, words weren't necessary. The shared silence said enough.

As the hospital came into view, Mia leaned forward, eyes fixed on the familiar entrance. Her heart quickened. Just a little longer, and they'd be with her. With Rowan.

With their daughter.

The hospital lobby was bathed in quiet light, with all the soft beeps and distant footsteps - the kind of place where time felt both fast and suspended. Mia walked in alongside Max, Frank, and Jeremy, the four of them moving with an unspoken rhythm—focused, patient, hopeful.

At the NICU reception desk, the nurse on duty, a kind-eyed woman with a name badge that read "Lena," offered them a small smile.

"Good morning," she said gently. "Rowan's doing well today. The doctor just checked on her a little while ago—strong oxygen levels and no brady episodes last night."

Mia let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Max's hand found the small of her back.

"But," Lena continued, her tone professional but kind, "we're still keeping the two-visitor rule in place. You'll have to go in pairs of two. Quiet voices, soft touch. And stay seated once you're in, please."

They all nodded.

"Go ahead, Mia," Max said, squeezing her hand. "You first."

She hesitated, glancing between her husband and his family. But it was Jeremy who stepped forward, offering her a small, reassuring smile.

"Let's go see her," he said. "I know Max'll want his turn."

Mia gave Max a quick kiss on the cheek, then followed Jeremy through the security doors. The moment they stepped into the NICU unit, the air shifted—cleaner, cooler, humming with the sound of monitors and a careful energy.

Rowan's isolette sat near the window, surrounded by soft beeping machines and gentle light. She looked impossibly small in her nest of blankets, a tiny pink cap barely covering the dark hair on her head. Her chest rose and fell with effort, but rhythmically and beautifully.

Mia sank into the chair beside her daughter and reached out, sliding her hand through the small opening in the isolette.

"Hi, baby girl," she whispered, her fingers resting lightly against Rowan's curled hand. "Mommy's here."

Jeremy stood quietly beside her, hands in his pockets, eyes misting a little.

"She looks stronger today," he said softly.

"She does." Mia looked at Rowan with a fierce love that nearly unseated her. "I feel like I can breathe again just seeing her like this."

They sat in silence for a few minutes, letting the sounds of Rowan's world surround them. Mia whispered little things to her daughter—how everyone was getting ready for the baby shower, how her nursery had the softest blankets, how she'd never have to do anything alone in this world.

"She's already got the whole village waiting on her," Jeremy said with a grin. "Just like her mom."

Mia smiled, and for a moment, the heaviness in her chest lifted.

Outside, Max paced slowly near the windows, hands clasped behind his back. Frank stood beside him, solid and still.

"You're holding up well," Frank said quietly, watching his son.

Max exhaled. "Some moments are harder than others. But she's strong."

"She is. Both of them are." Frank placed a hand on Max's shoulder. "Let's go see her."

Max nodded and followed his father through the doors. When he stepped into the NICU, he felt it—that electric, aching pull toward the isolette, where his daughter lay.

He sat down next to her, carefully opening the little port and slipping his pinky into her tiny grasp. She latched onto it like it was her lifeline.

"Hey, Peanut," Max murmured, smiling softly. "Dad's here."

Frank stood on the other side, hands on the clear plastic, his eyes gentle but wide with awe.

"She's a miracle," Frank said, his voice thick.

"She is." Max glanced up at his father. "I was scared. Still am."

Frank didn't say much, but what he did say mattered. "That's what being a dad is. Fear... and love."

For a long moment, the three of them—father, son, granddaughter—sat in that small, glowing world of beeps and heartbeats. Outside those walls, life moved on. But in here, time stood still, wrapped tightly around the hope that pulsed with every breath Rowan took.

The automatic doors slid open with a soft whoosh as the four of them stepped back into the morning light. Max's hand was around Mia's shoulders, and Frank and Jeremy walked a few steps ahead, deep in quiet conversation.

They hadn't even made it halfway to the parking lot when the calm was broken.

"Max! Over here! Jeremy—look this way!"

Click. Click. Click.

The rapid-fire sound of camera shutters sliced through the quiet like static. A man in a denim jacket and oversized sunglasses emerged from behind a pillar, camera already snapping. Another joined him from across the street, zoom lens in hand.

Mia instinctively ducked closer to Max. "You've got to be kidding me," she muttered, shielding her face.

"Back up," Max barked, stepping forward as Jeremy instinctively moved between Mia and the closest photographer.

"Just a few shots!" one of them shouted. "How's the baby? How's Mia doing? Is it true she came early?"

Max clenched his jaw. "We're at a hospital, man. This isn't the time."

Frank raised a hand, his voice calm and firm. "You're on private property. You need to leave."

Security from the hospital lobby appeared within seconds, ushering the paparazzi back toward the sidewalk, but not before a few more photos had been snapped. The four of them hurried back through the sliding doors, their hearts pounding, as their energy shifted.

Inside the lobby, Max turned to Mia, still shielding her with his arm. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes wide.

"I hate that they even know we're here," she said quietly. "I don't want Rowan's name or face anywhere near that circus."

"They won't get her. We won't let them," Max said. "But we need to get ahead of it now."

They moved toward the reception desk again and requested to speak with the hospital administrator. Within ten minutes, they were seated in a small office with Deborah Klein, the head of security operations for the hospital.

"We completely understand your concern," she said after listening to their explanation. "And I'll make sure every nurse and staff member in the NICU is briefed. We'll increase patrols outside the unit, and if anyone tries to access your daughter's information, photo, or identity, we'll be alerted immediately."

Max leaned forward, his tone serious but respectful. "We just want her safe. There might be more of them if the story spreads."

"Understood. I'll issue a temporary privacy lock on her records, and we'll post additional staff near NICU access points for the next several days. We'll treat this as a high-profile case."

As they left the office, Max pulled out his phone and dialed his agent, Cassidy Moore. She picked up on the first ring.

"Max," she said, her voice brisk, "I was just about to call you. Word is already out that you were seen at a hospital. You okay?"

"Rowan was born early," Max said, glancing at Mia beside him. "She's in the NICU, but she's strong."

"Oh my god. I'm so sorry. Congratulations... and I mean that with all the love I've got. I'll get ahead of it. What do you need from me?"

"There were photographers outside the hospital. I don't want Mia or the baby in any headlines. I need you to kill this story before it breathes."

"I'll talk to the networks and the online sites. Some of them will play ball. The tabloids might be harder, but if any photos of the baby appear, we'll send immediate takedown notices. I'll loop in PR."

"Thanks, Cassidy."

"And Max," she added, her tone softening, "don't worry about this side of things. Just focus on her. I've got you."

Max hung up and tucked the phone away. He turned to Mia and gave her a small, steady smile.

"They won't touch her," he said. "Not while I'm breathing."

Mia nodded and took his hand, lacing her fingers through his. "Let's go home. Tomorrow's going to be about joy."

And as they walked back toward the exit, this time escorted by security, they carried with them more than just the weight of new parenthood. They carried resolve. Fierce love. And a promise that their daughter would be protected, always.

The SUV crunched slowly up the gravel driveway, the warm Oklahoma sun stretching long rays across the open fields that framed the family ranch. As the four stepped out, dust rose in the air around their shoes. The scent of honeysuckle and freshly cut grass offered a strange contrast to the sterile weight of the hospital they had just left.

Inside the main house, laughter and voices carried from the kitchen, where Charlotte, Ashley, Heather, and April were putting the final touches on tomorrow's baby shower.

Max opened the front door, his arm still protectively around Mia, and called out, "We're back."

Ashley was the first to appear, wiping her hands on a dish towel, her eyes bright and searching. "How's Rowan? Tell us everything."

Frank smiled and clapped his hands together. "She's strong. Small but mighty. The nurses say she's improving every day."

"She had her eyes open for a minute," Jeremy added with a proud grin. "Looked right at Mia like she already knew her."

Mia gave a soft smile, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "She's holding her own."

As the group gathered in the living room, Max cleared his throat. "We also had an issue outside the hospital," he said. "Paparazzi showed up—got photos of me and Jeremy walking out."

Ashley's face fell. Charlotte's brow furrowed instantly.

"They didn't get any photos of Rowan," Max assured them quickly. "Mia and I talked to hospital security and admin. They're putting protocols in place—locks on her info, restricted access, more guards near the NICU."

"And I called my agent," he added. "She's working on stopping anything from going public."

Charlotte placed a hand over her heart. "Thank you for doing that. We'll keep everything tight here too—no posts, no leaks. Family only."

"I just want her safe," Mia said quietly, barely above a whisper.

April crossed the room and gently took Mia's hand. "She will be. And tomorrow? We're going to celebrate her like the little miracle she is."

Heather chimed in with a smile. "You should see what we've done with the patio—balloons, banners, all soft blush and sage green. It's beautiful, Mia. Just like you asked for."

The ladies leaned into their plans, their chatter lifting the mood slightly. Charlotte fetched mocktail ideas. Ashley described the table settings. For a few minutes, there was color again—like someone had opened the curtains just a little, letting joy filter through the heavy clouds.

Mia nodded and listened, but Max could see it: the way her shoulders curled inward slightly, the distant look in her eyes, her forced smiles. She wasn't there. She was somewhere else—back in the NICU beside Rowan's isolette, or deep inside her exhaustion.

After a while, Mia touched Max's arm and said, "I think I'm going to lie down for a bit, just for an hour or so. I'm… tired. And sore."

"You want me to come with you?" Max asked, already moving to help.

She shook her head. "No, I'll be okay. Just need some quiet."

Max watched her stroll out of the room, her steps careful. Her strength amazed him, but so did the silence she was wrapping around herself. He'd seen that kind of quiet before—after losses in the locker room, after injuries that changed careers, in his moments of fear—but it felt different on her. He hated it. Hated not knowing what to say, how to reach past the protective wall she was building brick by brick.

Jeremy clapped a hand on Max's back. "She's okay, man. She just needs rest."

Max nodded slowly but didn't answer. His eyes remained on the hallway where Mia had disappeared.

He knew she wasn't just tired.

She was hurting.

And what scared him most was how well she hid it.

The guest house was quiet. Too quiet.

Mia closed the door gently behind her, her fingers lingering on the knob for a second before letting go. The silence rushed in around her like a tide—no machines beeping, no voices offering comfort, no one asking if she was okay.

She strolled to the bed, each step heavier than the last. The moment her body sank into the mattress, her arms wrapped around a pillow, and her face turned toward the window, something inside her finally cracked.

The first sob slipped out before she could swallow it down.

She hadn't cried at the hospital—not when they told her Rowan would need to stay, not when she saw the wires and tubes, not even when she left her daughter behind to drive back to the ranch. She hadn't cried when the nurses had handed her tissues and said, "She's in good hands." Mia had only nodded, biting down on everything she felt.

But here, alone, the silence gave her permission she hadn't known she needed.

Her shoulders shook as she wept into the pillow, the sobs coming hard now, as if they'd been waiting their turn. Her chest ached, not just from her healing body but from the ache that only a mother's fear could cause.

"I failed her," she whispered through tears. "I couldn't even carry her to term."

She hated herself for thinking it, but the thought had taken root days ago and refused to leave. Rowan's early birth had thrown everything off course. She had dreamed of a peaceful delivery, of bringing her daughter home to a room painted soft green, of nursing in the quiet hours and rocking her to sleep. Instead, her baby was in a plastic box, fighting to breathe while Mia watched from behind a barrier.

And now she was here. Resting. While Rowan lay alone.

"I should be with her," she choked out, guilt curling around every word.

She hated this body—her body—that had gone into labor too soon and hated how everyone kept calling her strong when she felt like she was barely holding it together. Max was trying to be her rock, and she loved him for it. But he didn't see what she saw in the mirror: stretch marks over a belly that had let go too early, eyes that looked haunted, a woman who felt like a mother in name only.

The tears kept coming, pouring out all the grief she hadn't given herself space to feel.

"I'm her mom," she sobbed. "I should be the one holding her."

Eventually, the crying slowed. Her breathing evened, though it caught in her throat now and then. Her face was damp, her eyes swollen, but her body felt lighter—like she'd set down a bag she hadn't realized she'd been carrying.

And still, in the back of her mind, that voice whispered, You have to be strong.

But maybe—just maybe—being strong didn't mean pretending not to hurt.

Maybe it meant feeling it all and coming back anyway.