He gives me the slow half smile. “You had a brutal day.”
“That is one way to describe it.”
His mouth twitches. “And then there was me.”
I roll my eyes.
“I was not trying to add to the crisis.”
“You succeeded anyway.”
His gaze softens, heavy with meaning. “I meant it. You know that. But I’m not going to push,” Savannah gives a tiny grunt like she’s calling BS. “Burp cloth?”
He stands instantly and heads to the bag; he knows which bag, knows which pocket. He then hands it to me without me needing to explain anything. I position her, pat gently, and she gives a perfect little burp and turns to him and gives a milk-drunk smile.
He holds out his arms. “Come here, little one.”
He stands with her, and rubs her back, and she nuzzles into him as she does me. The sight of the two of them, the trust she has in him, the way he moves with her like he has been doing this forever. Big hands. Soft sway. That warm hum under his breath that isn’t even a song, just comfort. I watch them as he walks slowly around the room and then lays her down in her bassinet.
He is too good at this. Too steady. Too sure. And that is what terrifies me most.
“Eat?” he says gently.
“I am mentally eating.” I stretch.
“You need real eating. Not the anxious kind where your brain is chewing, but your mouth is not.”
I let out a breathy laugh because he is not wrong.
He studies me for a few seconds. The way he always does when he is about to say something intense, but holds back and begins pulling containers from the bag.
“You are good with her.”
His eyes flick to me. “I am good with you, too.”
There it is again. That quiet certainty. The things he says like they’re facts and grenades.
“Deacon,” I warn softly.
“I know,” he says, smiling a little. “I’ll shut up.”
He does not shut up with his eyes, though. Those keep talking as he swirls a fork around in the container and leans in and says, “No garlic.”
I can’t help but smile as I take a bite. After chewing and swallowing, I ask, “Did you read that in your breastfeeding bible?”
“Didn’t need to, last time we ate Italian, Savannah was extra gassy.”
I laugh, and so does he.
He gets another forkful and feeds it to me. “Taking notes?”
I cover my mouth, “Making a list and categorizing what is most important.”
“You put yourself at the top?” He shakes his head. “Of course not. But that’s okay. Because you’re at the top of my list.”
“You have a list?” I joke.
“Not exactly like yours, fewer highlighters and scribbles,” He smirks.
