Elena's pov
The ultrasound room smelled like warm gel and antiseptic and something oddly hopeful — the small ordinariness of it somehow making the extraordinary feel possible. I had been to this room before, of course; I knew the rhythm: the chair that squeaked, the low hum of the machine, the soft, practiced voice of the sonographer who flattened her palms as if she were smoothing out nerves rather than images.
Justin's hand was a weight and an anchor in mine. He squeezed once, twice, as if counting each press like a promise. Clara had texted from somewhere between schedules and life to say she'd hold the fort in the office. Justin mother had offered to stay with his sister in case we needed anything immediately. It felt intimate, like a small conspiracy of people who loved us doing their best to carve out ease.
