Jonathan had taken the news badly — worse than he'd expected, if he was honest with himself.
That's why he'd wanted this evening to be quiet, calm… maybe even healing.
Instead, it had been capped off by the worst movie in cinematic history.
That damn Vought flick.
It was supposed to be a distraction, but all it did was leave him hollow.
For three days straight he'd buried himself in work like a man trying to outrun his own thoughts.
Up before dawn, asleep well after dark.
Cold dinners Martha didn't cook. No pauses, no breaks — just chores, repairs, anything to keep from thinking.
And then there'd been the nursery.
The first night after their visit to the fertility clinic, he'd nearly torn the whole room apart.
Nearly.
The crib had survived — but only because it was an heirloom, carved from solid oak, older than him, and stubborn enough to endure his rage.
He still remembered Martha finding him there.
Blank expression.
Shattered picture frames.
Stuffed animals on the floor, their button eyes staring like they'd witnessed a crime.
"It'll get better," Jonathan said softly now, his voice almost swallowed by the hum of the truck engine.
"The weather?" Martha's tone was light, but distracted. "Oh, sure. Sunshine all next week." She didn't look at him — just kept her eyes on the cornfields streaming by in the dark.
"No, it's not—" He paused, forcing a slow breath. "I mean us. I know it's hard right now, but it's going to get better."
"How, Jonathan? How can it get better?" Her voice cracked on the second word. He couldn't see her face, but the tension in her shoulders told him she was fighting tears. "How do you know that?"
"Because I love you," he said without hesitation, letting one hand leave the wheel to rest on her shoulder. She flinched. Just barely, but enough to make his chest ache.
"How can you, when I'm the one who's caused all this?" Her whisper was brittle, and it broke into a sob halfway through.
"Good God, Martha, it's not you." He felt his own tears sting as he said it. "I love you. Now and forever. Nothing—nothing—will ever change that."
She didn't answer. Just kept staring out the window, where the first streaks of a meteor shower had begun tracing across the night sky. She held her tears like someone gripping a wound shut, but he knew what was behind them.
She thought she'd failed him.
She thought that because he'd wanted children for as long as she'd known him, this was the end of something.
"Martha, please look at me," he said, squeezing her shoulder gently. She shifted away. He tried again, softer this time. "Please."
She finally turned, pulling her gaze from the glittering sky. "Please, just stop. I know you're mad at me… that you hate me, because—"
"Hey. Hey. I don't hate you." The words came out sharp, almost angry, because the thought of her believing that was unbearable. "What on earth makes you think that? What have I done to make you think I could ever hate you?"
"I saw what you did to the nursery," she said quietly. "And you've barely spoken to me for two days. It's obvious you hate me."
"Oh, horse shit."
Her head snapped toward him, startled. "Jonathan!" Her shock was almost comical — he'd probably sworn less than ten times in the decades they'd known each other.
"No, I'm serious. That's exactly what it is — horse shit." His eyes stayed on the road, but his voice carried the weight of truth. "I wasn't mad at you. I was mad at myself. I felt like I'd let you down. That's why I tore that room apart. That's why I couldn't talk to you. Because I'm an arrogant asshole and a damn fool. If anyone needs to apologize, it's me. Can you forgive me?"
"Oh, Jonathan…" She exhaled, some of the tightness in her chest finally giving way. "Of course I forgive you."
"Good. Because if we hated each other, any kid we had would be a disaster," he said with a half-smile, the tiniest note of levity breaking through.
"But Jonathan, you know I can't—" she began, but he cut her off with a shake of his head.
"So what? There are other ways. Adoption, maybe. Your sister works for Vought International, right? They run hospitals, children's centers… maybe she could help us." His smile was small but hopeful, the kind of look he'd always had when talking about the future.
Martha chuckled softly, touched by his optimism but unwilling to feed it too much. "Adoption's expensive. Complicated. We've already drained so much into the clinics. And the farm…"
"I know," he said, reaching over to brush a stray hair from her face. His thumb lingered against her temple. "But we could make it work."
"What if we can't?"
"Well," Jonathan said in a mock-serious tone, dragging the word out until she smirked despite herself, "in that highly unlikely event, we'll just have to settle for being the coolest aunt and uncle in Kansas. We'll spoil your sister's kids rotten and send them back home sugared up and half-feral."
Her laugh this time was real, and for the first time in days, the weight between them felt just a little lighter.