Chapter 4: Heartbeats and Hardwood Floors
The clinic on Elm Street smelled like antiseptic and lavender air freshener. Bucky hated it. The smell was a lie—a pleasant mask over cold steel and bad news. He stood with his back to the wall, arms crossed, watching the door, the window, the nurse’s station. Sol sat on the crinkling paper of the exam table, her dress hitched up over her knees, looking small.
“You’re gonna wear a hole in that linoleum, soldier,” a voice said from the doorway.
Ruth was maybe fifty, maybe sixty, with a stout, sturdy frame and hair the color of steel wool cut close to her head. She wore cargo pants and a faded t-shirt that said ‘Mama Midwife’ with a picture of a stork carrying a baby in a sling. Her eyes were the kindest Bucky had ever seen, and that put him more on edge.
“I’m not a soldier,” he said, his voice flat.
“Aren’t you?” She entered, not waiting for an answer, and set her large bag on a stool. She washed her hands at the sink, then turned to Sol, her demeanor shifting into something focused and calm. “Soliz. I’m Ruth. Mae sent me your file. How you feeling today?”
“Nervous,” Sol admitted, her fingers twisting in her lap.
“Good. Means you’re paying attention.” Ruth’s smile was quick and real. She glanced at Bucky. “You can stand guard from that chair, you know. I don’t bite.”
He didn’t move.
Ruth shrugged and turned back to Sol. She asked questions, her hands gentle as she took blood pressure, felt Sol’s ankles for swelling. Her movements were efficient, devoid of unnecessary fuss. Bucky’s eyes tracked every one.
“Okay, let’s listen to this kiddo,” Ruth said, pulling a handheld Doppler from her bag. She squirted clear gel onto Sol’s lower belly.
Sol flinched at the cold. Bucky pushed off the wall, taking a half-step forward before stopping himself.
Ruth pressed the wand, moving it slowly. Static filled the small room. Seconds stretched. Bucky’s heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic counter-rhythm to the silence.
Then it was there—a fast, strong, rhythmic thump-thump-thump-thump. Like a tiny horse galloping through a field.
Sol’s breath hitched. Her hand flew to her mouth, her eyes instantly swimming.
“There’s your baby,” Ruth said, her voice softening. “Strong heartbeat. One-forty-five. Perfect.”
The sound filled the room. It filled Bucky’s head. It was the most terrifying and beautiful thing he had ever heard. His vision tunneled, the edges going gray. The wall behind him was the only thing keeping him upright.
“Dad might need to sit down before mom does,” Ruth observed, not looking away from Sol’s face, a small smile playing on her lips.
“I’m fine,” Bucky gritted out. His voice sounded miles away.
Sol reached for him, her hand finding his. Her palm was slick with sweat. He grabbed it, anchored himself in her grip, his own fingers probably crushing hers. He couldn’t let go.
Ruth finished the exam, wiping the gel from Sol’s stomach. “Everything looks textbook. You’re doing everything right. Keep eating, keep walking, listen to your body.” She looked at both of them. “The fear doesn’t go away. You just make room for it. And for that.” She nodded toward Sol’s belly. “He’s perfect.”
He. The word landed in the center of Bucky’s chest.
On the drive back, the silence was different. It was full of the ghost of that sound. Sol kept one hand on her stomach, the other wrapped around the jar of pickles in her lap. She ate one, the crunch loud in the cab.
“A boy,” she whispered.
Bucky just nodded, his throat too tight for words. A son. The concept was a black hole, pulling all his fears and his father’s belt and his own bloody hands into a crushing point of gravity. He drove faster, needing the cabin, the perimeter alarms, the closed door.
They got home as the late afternoon light was turning long and golden. Bucky went straight to the woodpile. He swung the axe, splitting log after log, the violent thwack a pale echo of that heartbeat. He worked until his muscles burned and his t-shirt was stuck to his back with sweat. The physical purge cleared the static from his head.
When he carried an armload inside, the cabin was warm and smelled of roasting chicken and rosemary. Sol was at the counter, rolling out dough for biscuits, flour dusting her forearms. A pot of potatoes simmered on the stove. She’d changed into soft leggings and one of his old sweatshirts. She looked up, her face serene, grounded in the task.
“You’re making a mess,” he said, his voice rough from exertion.
“A delicious mess,” she corrected softly, not stopping her rolling.
He dumped the wood by the stove, then came up behind her. He wrapped his arms around her, burying his face in the curve where her neck met her shoulder. He smelled flour and her skin and the faint, clean scent of the baby shampoo she used. He just held her, his big body surrounding hers, breathing her in until the last of the clinic’s chill left his bones.
They ate at the small table, knees touching. The chicken was tender, the biscuits fluffy. He told her the fence along the northern tree line needed reinforcing before winter. She told him the seedlings in her grow-light setup were getting their true leaves. It was mundane. It was everything.
He washed the dishes while she dried. Her back was to him, putting a plate away in the high cupboard. The movement stretched the sweatshirt over the round curve of her ass. The frantic energy from the axe was gone, replaced by a slow, hot coil of possession.
He moved silently behind her, his wet hands finding her hips. He pressed himself against her, letting her feel his hard length through his jeans.
She stilled. A soft sigh escaped her.
“My girl made dinner,” he murmured into her ear, his voice a low rumble. “Took such good care of us.”
She leaned back into him, a subtle arch of her spine. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He nudged her leggings down over her hips, just enough. His own jeans were already open. He pushed the damp fabric of her panties aside and sank into her in one smooth, deep thrust.
She cried out, her hands braced against the cupboard door.
He set a relentless, possessive pace, his grip on her hips firm, holding her in place for his taking. The cupboard rattled with each drive of his body into hers. He watched himself disappear into her, the sight making his head swim.
“You feel that, baby girl?” he growled. “That’s me. That’s your man. Filling you up. Marking you. Keeping you safe.”
“Yes,” she gasped, the word breaking on a moan. “Yours. Always.”
He could feel her beginning to tremble around him. He slid one hand around her hip, his fingers finding her clit, rubbing tight, quick circles. “Come for me. Let me feel you come on my cock. Show me how much you love it.”
Her climax hit her hard, a silent, shuddering wave that clamped down on him like a vice. He followed her over, pumping his release deep inside her with a guttural groan, his seed spilling hot, claiming the space where his son grew. He stayed buried in her, panting, until he was soft, his forehead resting between her shoulder blades.
Later, in the deep quiet of their bed, she lay curled into his side, her head on his chest. The wind whispered through the pines outside.
“Bucky?”
“Hmm.”
“Ruth said the fear doesn’t go away.”
He kissed the top of her head.
“How do we make room for it?”
He thought about it, his hand stroking slow circles on her back. “We build something sturdier next to it. A place for the good things. We build it every day.” He paused. “Like biscuits and reinforced fence lines.”
She let out a sleepy laugh, her body relaxing fully against him. Her breathing evened out into sleep.
He lay awake, listening to her breathe, listening to the wind. The fear was there, a cold, familiar shape in the dark. But next to it, warm and solid, was the shape of her in his arms, and the faint, remembered rhythm of a galloping heart. He held onto that. He would build the rest around it.