Chapter 7: Tides of Devotion
The stale, pressurized air of the plane lingered in Whitney’s lungs long after they’d touched down at LAX. The world outside the terminal windows blurred – palm trees, smoggy sunshine, the relentless flow of traffic – a stark, dizzying contrast to the hushed intensity of the Milan clinic and the echoing thrum of three heartbeats. Colson moved beside her like a shielded convoy, one arm locked protectively around her waist, the other steering their luggage cart with impatient jerks. His knuckles were white on the handle. Jet lag gnawed at her, but it was the sheer, vibrating enormity of three that made her feel untethered.
"Almost there, champ," Colson murmured, his voice rough. He hadn't stopped touching her since the ultrasound – a hand on her back, fingers brushing her arm, a constant, grounding pressure. "Javier’s bringing the SUV around front. Gotta be out there by now." His eyes scanned the bustling arrivals hall, sharp, missing nothing. He was wired, hyper-aware, radiating a protective energy that felt almost physical.
They pushed through the sliding glass doors into the California heat. The roar of engines, the shouts of drivers, and the smell of exhaust hit Whitney like a wall. Parked haphazardly at the curb, half on the sidewalk, was a massive, black, vaguely tank-like SUV. Javier leaned against it, looking stressed. Perched on the curb beside him, buzzing with frantic energy, were Megan, Casi, Saga, and Mason. Megan practically vibrated off the concrete, her eyes locking onto Whitney with laser focus. Casi and Saga were engaged in a heated discussion about luggage carousels, Saga having the fascination only a 5 year old had, while Mason stared at his phone, looking focused and confused about an assignment.
Before Javier could even step forward, Megan launched herself at Whitney, engulfing her in a hug that smelled like coconut shampoo and nervous excitement. "You made it!" she squealed, squeezing hard. She pulled back just slightly, her gaze sweeping over Whitney’s face, searching. "How are you feeling? Like, really feeling? Any nausea? Dizziness? Cramping?" Her voice dropped to a stage whisper, laden with meaning only Whitney (and Colson) understood.
Casi looked up, momentarily distracted from her debate with Saga. "Yeah, Whit, you look kinda pale. Was the flight awful?" Her concern was genuine, uncomplicated.
Whitney managed a weak smile. "Just tired, Cas. Really, really tired." It wasn't a lie. The fatigue was a deep, bone-weary ache. "And the flight was... long." She met Megan’s eyes briefly, a silent reassurance. I’m okay. For now.
Colson was already loading bags into the cavernous trunk Javier had opened. "Alright, circus, pile in," he called, slamming a suitcase home with unnecessary force. "Whitney, shotgun. Now." His tone brooked no argument. He shot a look at Megan, a silent command: Play it cool.
Megan nodded almost imperceptibly, herding Saga and Mason towards the back seats. "C’mon, gremlins, move it! Dad’s got important... uh... jet lag recovery to oversee." She winked at Whitney.
The drive to their temporary LAX-adjacent hotel was a blur of fragmented conversations and Colson’s tense silence. He drove the SUV like it was a getaway vehicle, his jaw tight, eyes constantly flicking to Whitney in the passenger seat. She leaned her head against the cool window, trying to anchor herself in the familiar sprawl of LA, the impossible reality of three tiny lives inside her feeling both monumental and terrifyingly fragile.
The hotel room was a study in bland neutrality – cream walls, beige carpet, a king-sized bed still perfectly made. Colson dumped their carry-ons just inside the door. "Right," he announced, his voice tight with purpose. "Appointments. Neurologist first. Then OB." He checked his watch. "Car’s staying downstairs. We leave in thirty."
"Colson," Whitney said softly, sinking onto the edge of the stiff-looking bed. "I need five minutes. Just... to breathe."
He stopped pacing, running a hand through his disheveled hair. He looked at her properly then, really looked, seeing the exhaustion etched deep. He crossed the room in two strides, kneeling before her, taking her hands in his. His tattooed knuckles were warm. "Okay," he breathed. "Five minutes. But then we roll. Doc needs the full picture. All of it." His intense blue eyes held hers. "We gotta know what we're dealing with, Whit. For them." His gaze dropped meaningfully to her stomach.
Dr. Aris Thorne’s office was cool and quiet, smelling faintly of lemongrass antiseptic and old paper. Framed scans of intricate brain pathways adorned the walls. Whitney sat in the familiar, slightly too-low patient chair, Colson a rigid presence beside her in a standard-issue waiting room seat he’d dragged closer. He hadn’t let go of her hand since they sat down.
Dr. Thorne, a man with kind eyes etched by decades of practice, scanned the printout from the Milan clinic, then Whitney’s own medical file. He tapped a finger on the neurologist's note about the triplets. "Honeymoon babies, I see," he remarked, a gentle smile touching his lips. He looked up at Whitney."Congratulations. Truly."
"Thanks," Whitney murmured. Colson just gave a tight nod, his gaze fixed on the doctor.
"Now," Dr. Thorne continued, his tone shifting to professional focus. "Given your history with the MS, Whitney, this changes things significantly. Triplet pregnancies are inherently higher risk – more strain on your entire system. The concern is how the increased vascular load, the hormonal shifts, might impact your neurological condition. But I expect your MS to stay quiet for now. We still need to be hyper-vigilant."
He outlined the plan: bi-weekly check-ins specifically for neurological symptoms – any visual disturbances, headaches that felt different, unusual numbness, coordination issues. "Increased frequency of MRIs," he stated. "Starting next month. We need clear baselines and constant monitoring. Zero tolerance for ignoring symptoms." His gaze was direct, encompassing both of them. "This isn't meant to scare you. It's meant to empower you. Knowledge is our best defense."
Colson leaned forward. "What are the chances? Of it flaring? Seriously flaring?" His voice was low, tense.
"It's impossible to predict with certainty," Dr. Thorne said honestly. "Your condition has been stable, which is excellent. But pregnancy, especially with multiples, is a profound stressor. We watch. We monitor. We act swiftly if anything changes." He turned back to Whitney. "How are you feeling? Honestly. Beyond the expected fatigue."
"Tired," Whitney admitted. "Really tired. Sometimes a little dizzy if I stand up too fast. But... no headaches. No vision stuff. Not yet."
"Good," Dr. Thorne nodded. "Report anything. Immediately. Call this line directly." He handed her a card with a specific number. "Don't go through the general office." He looked at Colson."Support her. Help her listen to her body. Rest isn't a luxury now; it's a medical necessity."
Colson squeezed her hand."Got it. She rests. I handle everything else." The sheer, unspoken weight of everything else hung in the air.
The OBGYN appointment later that afternoon felt almost anticlimactic after the neurologist’s gravity. Dr. Evans, cheerful and efficient, confirmed the triplets via another quick ultrasound – three distinct flickers on the screen, slightly larger beans now. "Looking perfect," she declared, pointing out rudimentary limbs. "All measuring right on target for conception dates. Definitely honeymoon souvenirs!" She laughed lightly. Standard prenatal advice followed – vitamins, diet, the increased calorie needs for multiples, the importance of pelvic rest. "Listen to your body, Whitney. Your limits are different now. Smaller, more frequent meals. Hydration is key. And rest. Lots of it."
Colson absorbed it all, nodding sharply, his phone out taking notes. "Rest. Hydration.Small meals. Got it." He pointed at the screen. "And they're all... good? Strong?"
"Strong heartbeats. Excellent positioning so far," Dr. Evans reassured. "It's early days, but everything looks textbook perfect for a triplet pregnancy."
Back in the sterile quiet of the hotel room, the weight of the day settled heavily. Colson paced the limited space between the bed and the window, the muffled sounds of LA traffic a dull backdrop. He ran both hands over his face, then through his hair, making it stand on end. "Hyper-vigilant," he muttered, echoing Dr. Thorne. "Bi-weekly neuro checks. MRIs. Rest. Pelvic rest." He stopped pacing, looking at Whitney who was lying on the bed, one arm thrown over her eyes. "Pelvic rest. So... nothing?" The question was abrupt, tinged with a surprising vulnerability.
Whitney moved her arm, meeting his eyes. A faint blush crept up her neck. "For now. Yeah. Just... to be safe. Doctor’s orders."
He nodded, a muscle working in his jaw. "Okay. Okay, safe. Safe is good." He walked over and sat heavily on the edge of the bed beside her. He didn't touch her, just sat there, staring at his tattooed hands clasped between his knees. The silence stretched, filled only by the distant city hum and the frantic, silent calculation happening behind his eyes. Three heartbeats. Her fragile nerves. The sheer, terrifying logistics of keeping them all safe. His shoulders slumped slightly, not with defeat, but with the dawning, overwhelming comprehension of the battle plan forming in his mind. He looked at her profile, at the exhaustion etched beside the quiet strength. "We'll figure it out," he said finally, his voice low and thick. "Whatever it takes. Whatever you need." He reached out then, his hand hovering for a second before gently covering hers where it lay on the comforter. His touch was warm, grounding, a silent promise etched in ink and calloused skin against the sterile, impersonal room. The fight for their three tiny hurricanes had officially begun.
The muffled groan of LAX traffic seeped through the thick hotel curtains, a constant, dull counterpoint to the silence stretching between them. Colson hadn’t moved from the edge of the bed. He stared at his hands, knuckles white where they gripped his knees, the intricate tattoos stark against his clenched skin. The sterile scent of the room, the distant hum, the sheer weight of the day – neurologist warnings, OB appointments, three separate heartbeats echoing – pressed down like a physical force. Whitney watched him, the rigid line of his shoulders, the tension radiating off him in waves. This wasn’t just his usual pre-show buzz or protective intensity; this felt deeper, darker, a tremor running through his core.
"Colson," Whitney said softly, pushing herself up on her elbows. The movement felt monumental. "Hey."
He flinched, just slightly, head snapping up. His blue eyes met hers, wide, startled. "Yeah? You okay? Need water? Something to eat? I can call room service, whatever you want." The words tumbled out too fast, too loud, an automatic shield.
"I'm okay. Just... tired." She patted the space beside her. "Sit with me. Properly." She took a slow breath, gathering the question that had been forming since the neurologist’s office, since the sheer, dazed terror on his face when the third heartbeat flickered onto the screen. "Talk to me. How are you? Really?"
He hesitated, his gaze flickering away, scanning the bland room like it held hidden threats. He finally shifted, turning his body towards her, one knee drawn up on the bed. He didn’t touch her yet. "I'm... handling it," he started, the words clipped. "Got the list from the docs. Javier's on the SUV hunt. Gotta find a bigger place, obviously. Three cribs..." He trailed off, rubbing his thumb hard over the tattooed vines on his forearm. "We'll figure it out. We always do."
"It's not just logistics, baby," Whitney pressed gently. She reached out, covering his restless hand with hers. His skin felt hot, vibrating. "I see you. The weight of it... it's crushing you. Talk to me."
He closed his eyes, a muscle feathering in his jaw. A long, shaky breath escaped him. When he opened them again, the carefully constructed control had fissured. Raw fear, stark and naked, stared back at her. "Three," he whispered, the word thick with disbelief. "Whit, three." He shook his head, a frantic, disbelieving motion. "It's not... this isn't like Casi. Or Saga." He swallowed hard, his voice dropping lower, rougher. "Casi... that was fucking chaos. I was nineteen, strung out half the time, didn't have a clue. Her mom... it was messy, Whit. Real messy. I tried, fuck, I tried so hard later, but..." He looked away, pain flashing across his face. "I missed so much. Screwed up so much."
He dragged a hand down his face. "Saga," he continued, the name softer, laced with a different kind of ache. "With Megan... we were trying to glue broken pieces together. Thought a kid would... fix it. Stupid. So fucking stupid. I loved her the second I saw her, but bringing her into that mess..." He met Whitney’s gaze, his eyes swimming. "I never planned either of them. Never felt... ready. Never felt like I could be ready. Just happened, and I was drowning."
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, gripping his hair now. "This... this." His voice broke. "This was planned. We wanted this. We chose this. You. Me. Together." He looked at her stomach, then back at her face, pure terror warring with desperate love. "It's everything I ever fucking wanted, Whit. Everything. A family. With you." He choked on a disbelieving sound that was half-sob, half-laugh. "And it's three. Three tiny humans depending on me." The terror surged, eclipsing the love. "What if I fuck it up? What if I'm not enough? Not strong enough? Not patient enough? What if my bullshit, my fucking past, bleeds into this?"
His words poured out now, a dam breaking. "The MS stuff... it scares the shit out of me. Seeing you tired, knowing what it could mean..." He squeezed his eyes shut again. "And three babies? How do I... how do I protect you all? What if I get overwhelmed? What if I look at one of them someday and they see that fucking lost nineteen-year-old staring back? What if I ruin it? What if I ruin them? After wanting it so goddamn much..." His voice cracked completely, dissolving. He dropped his head, shoulders shaking silently.
Whitney moved. Slowly, aching with exhaustion but propelled by the raw anguish spilling from him, she wrapped her arms around him. She pulled him against her, his forehead pressing into her shoulder. He shuddered, a deep, visceral tremor. "Hey," she murmured into his messy hair, her own tears spilling over, hot against his scalp. "Listen to me. You're not that nineteen-year-old kid anymore. You're not drowning in a broken marriage. You're here. With me. We chose this together, remember?"
She held him tighter, feeling the frantic beat of his heart against her. "You are so much more than enough, Colson. You love fiercely. You protect fiercely. Look at how you are with Casi now. Look at Saga, how she lights up for you." She pulled back slightly, cupping his damp face, forcing him to look at her. His eyes were red-rimmed, shattered. "We will figure out the three cribs, the big-ass SUV, the MRIs, the exhaustion... all of it. Together. You don't have to do it alone. You won't drown. Not this time."
She brushed a tear from his cheek with her thumb. "And you won't ruin them. You couldn't. Because you love them already. So fiercely. I see it. I feel it." She placed his hand firmly over her lower belly. "They feel it. This is different. We are different."
Colson stared at her, his breath hitching. He leaned into her touch, turning his head to press a desperate, shaky kiss into her palm. Then he shifted, burying his face against her neck again, his arms wrapping around her waist with a sudden, crushing need. "I want this," he mumbled, the words muffled against her skin, raw and thick with tears. "So fucking much, Whit. So much it terrifies me."
"I know," she whispered, stroking his hair, the vibrations of his unspoken fears slowly quieting against her. "Me too." They stayed like that, tangled together on the sterile hotel bed, the only sounds his ragged breaths evening out and the distant, relentless pulse of the city outside, momentarily holding back the storm.
The stale hotel air clung, thick with recirculated chill and the fading scent of cleaning chemicals. Colson’s breath finally steadied against her neck, the frantic tremor in his shoulders subsiding into exhaustion. Whitney traced the intricate knotwork tattooed across his shoulder blade, the ink warm and familiar beneath her fingertips. The distant city roar felt muffled now, pushed back by the warm solidity of him pressed against her, the shared, unspoken weight settling between them like another presence in the room.
She shifted slightly, wincing at the stiffness in her lower back. The subtle shift made her newly prominent bump press more firmly against him. Colson pulled back instantly, his eyes wide and alert again. "You okay? Did I hurt—"
"No," Whitney murmured, catching his frantic hand before he could pull away completely. "Just stiff." She guided his palm, pressing it firmly against the undeniable swell low on her abdomen. His hand spanned the curve easily, his long fingers splaying wide. The skin felt taut, warm, alive beneath his touch. "Feel that?"
He froze, his breath catching. His gaze dropped to where his hand rested, dark blue eyes huge in the dim light filtering past the curtains. He stared, transfixed. "It’s... solid," he breathed, wonder threading through the lingering rasp of tears. His thumb moved, a slow, gentle sweep over the fabric of her tunic, mapping the curve. "Fuck. Really solid."
"Yeah," she whispered, a small smile touching her lips. "Getting obvious." She held his hand in place, feeling the faint tremor return, not from panic this time, but something else. Reverence? Awe? "They’re okay in there. Strong. Like their dad." She kept her voice soft, steady. "You know that, right? You touching me, holding me… you won’t hurt them. Ever."
Colson swallowed hard, his gaze still locked on her stomach beneath his hand. He dipped his head, brushing a feather-light kiss against the fabric covering her belly button. "I know," he mumbled, the words vibrating against her skin. "Doc said. Pelvic rest. Got it." He lifted his head, meeting her eyes. A flush crept up his neck, visible even in the gloom. "It's not… that. Well, not only that." He shifted, suddenly awkward, looking down at his hand again, fingers flexing slightly against her bump.
Whitney watched the play of emotions on his face – the lingering fear, the fierce protectiveness, a flicker of something softer, almost wistful. She nudged his shoulder. "What is it, then? That look. You want… what?"
He hesitated, chewing the inside of his lip, a nervous habit she rarely saw. He traced the curve again, his touch impossibly gentle. "Just… them," he finally admitted, his voice rough and quiet. "Seeing this." He gestured vaguely with his other hand towards her stomach. "Knowing they’re right there. Growing." He met her eyes, his own surprisingly shy. "Wanna see it. More. Without the shirt. Just… see you. See where they are." He looked away quickly, his ears reddening now. "Is that weird? Stupid?"
A soft laugh escaped Whitney, warm and genuine. "Weird? No." She reached down, slowly pulling the hem of her soft cotton tunic up over the pronounced swell. The cool air kissed her skin, making her shiver slightly. Colson’s breath hitched. He stared, utterly still. The smooth curve of her belly was taut, pale skin stretched over the life within. Tiny blue veins mapped new territory. His hand hovered for a second, then settled back with infinite care, skin to skin this time. The warmth of his palm seeped into her.
"Wow," he breathed, the word barely audible. His thumb traced the faint line running down from her navel, a path still deepening. "Look at you." His voice was thick with awe, his gaze traveling over the visible evidence of their impossible reality. "My champion." He leaned down again, pressing his lips not to her belly, but high on her ribs, just below her breast, a spot untouched by the stretching. A claim, tender and fierce. "Beautiful."
Whitney rested her hand over his, pressing it firmly into the resilient curve. "Yours," she whispered. "Ours." She tilted his chin up, forcing him to meet her eyes. "And later, when it’s safe? When the doctor says okay? This," she squeezed his hand beneath hers on her belly, "won't be off-limits forever. You won't hurt them. We'll just... figure it out. Carefully." She smiled, a real, tired, happy curve of her lips. "Like we figure out everything else."
A slow, dazed grin spread across Colson’s face, chasing the last shadows of his earlier panic. He nodded, swallowing hard. "Carefully. Got it." He leaned his forehead against hers again, his eyes drifting shut. "Promise?" The vulnerability in that single word was stark.
"Promise," Whitney murmured, kissing the bridge of his nose. "Now, can we please try to sleep before the next round of medical invasions tomorrow? Your tiny hurricane brigade is kicking my ribs. They need their mom horizontal."
Colson chuckled, the sound low and warm, vibrating against her. He finally pulled back just enough to maneuver, gently helping her shift onto her side facing him. He curled his body around hers, one powerful arm draped protectively over her waist, his hand still resting possessively, reverently, on the hard swell of her belly. His lips brushed her shoulder blade. "My tiny hurricanes," he mumbled, his voice already thick with impending sleep, the words laced with awe and the lingering echo of fear transformed. "Guess you wanted an army, huh, champ?"
Whitney nestled back against him, the warmth of his body, the steady weight of his hand anchoring her in the sterile room. "Looks like it," she whispered into the pillow, a smile still playing on her lips. The city’s hum outside seemed softer now, just a distant thrum beneath the shared rhythm of their breathing and the silent, defiant pulse of three hearts growing strong beneath his touch. Sleep pulled at her, heavy and deep, the promise of his hand on her skin a shield against the storm.