Chapter Text
A week after Rafael’s birthday, you sat in a waiting room that looked like it had been designed by someone who’d never once been nauseous in their life. Everything was soft, pale, and expensive. The air smelled like lavender and citrus, the chairs were upholstered in something that probably had a maintenance contract, and the windows showed a gray Manhattan afternoon that made the world outside feel far away.
You were calm in the way you’d learned to be calm on purpose. You had delegated your director tasks with surgical precision, you had cleared your calendar like you were carving out time for a hearing, and you had told yourself—repeatedly—that this was information, not a verdict.
Rafael, meanwhile, vibrated beside you.
He sat with one ankle crossed over his knee, posture deceptively composed, but his fingers kept tapping the edge of a manila folder like it was a pulse point. He’d prepped for this the way he prepped for trial: calls, lists, notes, questions, contingency plans. He’d asked Olivia and Amanda for recommendations—people who’d seen enough of life to have opinions—and he’d triangulated it with insurance, location, and the kind of reviews that sounded real instead of purchased. He’d even made a spreadsheet. A spreadsheet. Like this was a case you could win by out-organizing it.
You stared at the clipboard in your lap, at the intake forms with the cheerful little headings, and tried not to laugh at the absurdity of writing down “last menstrual period” in the same neat handwriting you used for declarations.
Rafael leaned closer, voice low. “Do you feel okay?”
You glanced at him. His eyes were bright, tired, and soft in a way that made your chest ache. He’d kissed your whole face this morning like he was making sure you were still there, then stopped himself halfway through and said, “No more—” and then had to correct, clearing his throat, “no more kissing if it makes you nauseous,” like he could be rational about anything right now.
“I feel okay,” you said. “A little queasy, but okay.”
Rafael’s mouth tightened. “You ate?”
“Yes,” you said, because you knew he needed the answer. “Toast. Peanut butter. The very exciting diet of the newly pregnant.”
He exhaled like it was a relief anyway, then glanced around the room with the wary focus of someone scanning a jury pool. “This place is—”
“Overpriced?” you supplied.
Rafael’s mouth twitched. “I was going to say… serene.”
“You can say overpriced,” you teased.
Rafael leaned in, eyes narrowing slightly, and murmured, “I will pay for serenity.”
You made a small sound that was half laugh, half disbelief. “You didn’t have to go full trial-prep on an OB-GYN.”
Rafael’s gaze flicked to you, then softened. “Yes, I did,” he said quietly. “I don’t get to be casual about you.”
Your throat tightened. You looked back down at the clipboard so he wouldn’t see your face do something embarrassing.
A door opened. A nurse—no name tag you caught, just a polite smile—called your last name, and you stood, suddenly aware of the way your body felt different even before anything had been confirmed in a room with medical-grade certainty. Rafael stood too, faster than necessary, folder tucked under his arm like a shield.
As you followed the nurse down a hallway lined with soothing prints and muted lighting, you felt Rafael’s hand hover at your back, not pushing, not steering—just there. Present. Anchoring.
The exam room was clean and bright in a way that made you think of courtrooms: sterile neutrality pretending it wasn’t intimate. You changed into a gown and tried to ignore the way your hands shook a little as you folded your dress onto the chair. Rafael stayed by your side the whole time, facing the wall for exactly as long as you asked him to, then turning back with careful respect like he was aware this wasn’t his body, not yet his moment to speak.
When you climbed onto the exam table, paper crinkling under you, you made a face. “This is glamorous.”
Rafael’s mouth twitched. “You’re glamorous,” he said, then seemed to realize how earnest it sounded and cleared his throat like he could file the emotion away for later.
The door opened again, and Dr. Faith Powell walked in with the brisk, kind competence of someone who had built an entire career on making women feel safe while delivering facts that could change their lives.
She was warm without being overly familiar, the kind of doctor who made eye contact like it mattered.
“Hi,” she said, smiling at you first, then at Rafael. “I’m Dr. Powell. It’s nice to meet you both.”
You returned the smile, grateful for something steady. “Nice to meet you.”
Rafael straightened like he was being sworn in. “Thank you for seeing us.”
Dr. Powell’s eyes flicked over his folder with mild amusement, then softened. “Of course.” She turned back to you. “So, I understand you’ve had positive home tests?”
You nodded. “Five,” you said, because you couldn’t help it. “Different brands.”
Dr. Powell’s smile widened just slightly. “Lawyer energy,” she observed gently.
You huffed a laugh. “It’s a problem.”
“It’s a skill,” Dr. Powell corrected, then glanced down at the chart. “Okay. We’ll confirm today, talk through next steps, and make a plan.”
Rafael cleared his throat. “We have questions,” he said immediately.
Dr. Powell looked at him, amused. “I can tell.”
You shot Rafael a look. “Let her talk first.”
Rafael’s mouth thinned like he wanted to argue, then he nodded once, obedient in a way that would’ve been funny if it didn’t make your chest warm.
The visit moved quickly and methodically. Vitals. Questions about symptoms. A review of what you’d been taking, what you’d stopped the moment you saw those lines. Dr. Powell asked about fatigue, nausea, cramping, bleeding, pain. You answered carefully, precise as always, because facts were comfort.
“Okay,” Dr. Powell said after confirming the pregnancy with the kind of calm certainty that still made your pulse jump. “This is very early, which is normal for when people come in after home tests.”
Your breath caught anyway. Rafael reached for your hand like he couldn’t help it, fingers wrapping around yours with careful pressure.
Dr. Powell kept going, practical and kind. “We’ll likely schedule an early ultrasound, and we’ll do labs today. We’ll start prenatal vitamins if you haven’t already. No alcohol, no smoking, limit caffeine, and I’ll give you a list of foods to avoid—unpasteurized cheeses, certain deli meats unless heated, high-mercury fish, things like that.”
You nodded, absorbing it like a checklist.
Rafael’s eyes had gone glassy in that quiet way that meant he was trying very hard not to lose composure in public. His grip on your hand tightened slightly.
Dr. Powell glanced between you two, then back to you. “Do you have support?” she asked gently.
You almost laughed. You glanced at Rafael instead, because the answer was sitting right there, practically shaking.
“Yes,” you said. “A lot.”
Dr. Powell smiled, then leaned in slightly, lowering her voice like she was offering something precious and private. “Good,” she said. “Because the first trimester can be rough, and it helps to have someone who treats it like a team sport.”
Rafael nodded like he’d just been assigned a role. “Yes,” he said, too serious. “Team.”
You squeezed his hand, affectionate and amused.
Dr. Powell reviewed timing next, walking you through expected milestones and how due dates were calculated, her tone steady and matter-of-fact. She gave you an estimate—still flexible this early, she emphasized—somewhere in late June, pending ultrasound dating.
Late June.
Your brain tried to sprint ahead to calendars, work cycles, board meetings, court schedules, office politics, and the sheer logistics of being visibly pregnant in two very public jobs.
And then Rafael made a sound beside you—small, sharp, disbelieving—and you looked over.
His eyes were bright. Not panicked. Not calculating. Just… full.
“Late June,” he repeated softly, like he was testing the shape of it in his mouth.
You swallowed. “It’s early,” you reminded him, because you couldn’t stop yourself.
Rafael nodded once, gaze still fixed on your hand in his. “I know,” he said quietly. “But it’s real.”
Dr. Powell slid a folder toward you—resources, providers, appointment schedules, lists of what to do and what not to do, names and numbers and pamphlets that tried to make the reality of growing a person feel manageable.
“This is a lot,” she said, meeting your eyes. “So here are the priorities. Rest when you can. Hydrate. Eat what you can tolerate. If you have severe pain, heavy bleeding, fever, or you can’t keep anything down—call immediately. Otherwise, we take it step by step.”
You nodded, grateful for the structure.
Rafael finally opened his folder like it had been physically painful not to. “Okay,” he said, voice careful. “Questions.”
Dr. Powell’s smile turned fond. “Go ahead.”
Rafael glanced at you first, a silent check-in. You nodded—green.
He asked about nausea management, about what symptoms were normal versus concerning, about genetic screening timelines, about exercise, about sleep, about stress, about whether your work schedule could impact anything. He didn’t ask like a man trying to control. He asked like a man trying to protect, trying to build a case for safety out of information.
Dr. Powell answered him with calm competence, never making him feel foolish, and you watched Rafael’s shoulders loosen a fraction with every clear explanation.
At one point, Dr. Powell glanced at you and said, “How are you feeling emotionally?”
You hesitated, because the truth was layered.
“Happy,” you said first, because you were. “And… anxious.”
Dr. Powell nodded, unsurprised. “Both are normal,” she said. “This is a major life change. Give yourselves permission to feel what you feel.”
Rafael squeezed your hand again, gentle.
When the appointment wrapped, Dr. Powell stood and smiled at you. “Congratulations,” she said simply. “You’re pregnant.”
The words landed with a different weight when spoken by a doctor. They were no longer plastic sticks on a counter. They were clinical confirmation. They were a timeline.
They were a baby.
You thanked her, still a little dazed. Rafael thanked her too, voice thick, too earnest to hide. Dr. Powell handed you one more sheet—next appointments, lab instructions—and then she left you in the room with the folder, the facts, and each other.
The door clicked shut.
Rafael turned to you slowly, like he was afraid to move too fast and jostle something delicate.
You stared at him. “Okay,” you said, voice quiet.
Rafael’s expression crumpled into something raw and joyful. He stepped close, cupped your face with both hands, and kissed you gently—forehead, cheek, mouth—careful, reverent, like he was still whispering thanks even without words.
“Mi amor,” he murmured, voice shaking. “We did it.”
You huffed a laugh, eyes stinging. “It happened,” you corrected, because you were still you.
Rafael’s mouth twitched. “Yes,” he conceded softly. “It happened.”
You watched him—this brilliant, exacting man, buzzing with fear and love and awe—and you felt your own anxiety loosen its grip just enough to let happiness take up space.
You weren’t alone in this.
And for the first time since the bathroom floor, the future stopped feeling like a threat and started feeling—quietly, unbelievably—possible.