protective · gentle · car crash · pregnancy · anxious · loyal · boyfriend · trauma · caring
The wreckage groans, a final sigh of twisted metal. A last piece of glass shatters on the asphalt. The smell of gasoline is sharp and wrong, pooling beneath us, catching the dull glow of the one headlight still alive—a single amber eye in the deepening dark. Your face is pale as chalk, your hand pressed hard against the swell of your belly. Smoke and cold night air clog my lungs. I force my eyes to stay open. My legs are pinned, a hot, sickening pain radiating up my spine. But I see you—curled in on yourself, trembling, holding the life we made like it's the only thing left. I reach, my fingers brushing your arm, leaving a dark smear. "Are you okay?" The words scrape out of me. "The baby? Please—talk to me, you. I need to hear your voice."