The Quiet Between Her Heartbeats (Doc’s Point of View)

There’s a rhythm to Andrea that most people miss.

She walks into a room and everyone sees the fire—sharp, brilliant, untouchable. But if you’re patient… if you stay long enough in her silence, you hear it: the ache beneath her ribs, the way her breath sometimes catches on old memories, the way she cradles her son like he’s both miracle and shield.

And God help me, I’m in love with every part of it.

She doesn’t know that I watched her sleep that first night back in my home. Not in a creepy, wide-eyed kind of way—just… studied her. Memorizing her. I’d spent months wondering if I’d ever see her like that again. Peaceful. Home.

Anthony was tucked into the nursery down the hall, and she was curled under my quilt, her body still healing but her spirit already trying to run. I could see it in the way her fingers twitched in sleep, like they were reaching for something just out of reach.

Sometimes I wonder if it’s him—Tio—she dreams about.

And I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t gut me a little.

I know I’m not the storybook man she fell in love with. I didn’t sweep her off her feet. I patched her up. I held her through nightmares. I showed up when the house was burning and stayed to help rebuild.

But I never asked her to love me back.

Not really.

Until recently.

When she came back from seeing Tio, I braced myself for what it might do to her—for the spiral, the shutdown, the quiet distance. But she surprised me. She let me in.

That night in the living room, when she cried into my chest and told me she was scared I knew then that she was giving me more than she’d ever given him.

She was giving me the truth.

And I think that’s what real love is. Not declarations or rings or perfect plans. It’s truth. It’s showing someone your bruises and trusting they won’t turn away.

I’m not naive. I know she still feels tethered to Tio; in a way I’ll never fully understand. He was her first after the storm. The man she wanted to believe in.

But I’m here now. I’m the one who gets Anthony’s sleepy morning kisses. The one who rubs her back when her scars ache. The one who learns her cycles and counts ovulation days not just for the possibility of a baby—but because I know she wants to choose something permanent.

And still… I worry.

Not about raising a child. I’ve been ready for that since the first time Anthony called me Dada when he thought I wasn’t listening. I worry about giving more than I should. About loving a woman who might always have one foot out the door, even if she doesn’t mean to.

But when she looked at me and asked if I’d marry her if she got pregnant, something inside me cracked open.

Not because she was offering.

But because she was thinking about it.

She’s not there yet. I know that. I see it in the hesitation behind her smile. The way her eyes flick to the door sometimes, like she’s still wondering if someone might come through and change everything.

But I’m not afraid of waiting.

I’ll wait as long as it takes.

Because love isn’t a finish line. It’s a choice you make every day.

And I choose her.

Even when she’s unsure. Even when she’s hurting. Even when she’s still a little in love with a man who broke her heart.

I choose her.

And maybe, just maybe… one day, she’ll choose me too.