Breathing Room

The morning light was soft and golden, spilling over the kitchen table where Doc was helping Anthony stack blueberries into tiny towers on his highchair tray. Laughter bubbled between the two of them, Anthony’s high-pitched giggles and Doc’s warm chuckles.

Andrea stood in the doorway, barefoot in one of Doc’s old T-shirts, coffee forgotten in her hand. The scene before her was perfect—so perfect it hurt.

She wanted to walk into that moment. Wrap her arms around them both. Feel safe in it.

But something twisted inside her. A sharp, unexpected pang that tightened around her lungs.

This won’t last.

The thought hit hard, cold and fast. She hadn’t expected it. Lately, things had felt good. Steady, even. But in that second, watching Doc and Anthony—her son—something ancient and panicked rose to the surface.

She turned away quietly, slipping down the hall.

Doc noticed the shift. He always did.

By the time he reached the bedroom, Andrea was already seated on the floor in the corner, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them, breathing fast.

“Hey,” he said gently, crouching down without touching her. “Talk to me.”

She couldn’t meet his eyes.

“It felt like… like I didn’t belong,” she whispered. “Like I was watching someone else’s life. And it was so perfect, I couldn’t breathe. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Doc sat on the floor with her, letting the silence fill the space between them before he spoke.

“There’s nothing wrong with you. Your body’s just remembering what it’s like to have things taken away.”

Tears welled in her eyes. “What if I mess it all up?”

“You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“No,” he agreed. “But I know you. And I’m not here because this is perfect. I’m here because I want us. Even when it’s messy. Even when you spiral. Even when you need to hide in a corner and breathe.”

He reached out his hand. She stared at it.

“What if I can’t always be okay?” she asked.

Doc’s voice was steady. “Then I’ll love you through the not-okay, too.”

Her hand slipped into his.

He pulled her into his lap, held her close, her head against his chest like so many nights before. But this time, the holding felt different—less about comfort, more about anchoring her in the now.

Andrea buried her face in his shirt and sobbed.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic.

But it was honest.

And when the storm passed, she lifted her head, eyes red but steady.

“You still want this?”

“I want you,” he said. “Not the polished version. The whole you.”

She leaned in, kissed him—salt and warmth and trembling lips.

And though they didn’t make love in that moment, the intimacy was deeper than anything they’d ever shared in bed.

Later that night, Doc curled around her protectively, whispering, “You don’t have to be perfect to be loved. You just have to stay.”

Andrea didn’t say anything.

But she didn’t run yet.