"Do you have name ideas?"
I haven't let myself think that far ahead. Haven't let myself hope we'd be doing this together.
"I don't know. What about you?"
"Harper." She says it quietly. "After the paper girl. But I don't know if that's too... I don't know."
"It's perfect." My voice cracks. "Harper Rodgers-Williams."
She looks up, surprised. "You'd want your name included?"
"Only if you want to. I know I don't deserve—"
"Daniel." She stops me. "What kind of dad do you want to be?"
The question catches me off guard.
"Nothing like mine." The answer is immediate. "Present. Patient. Safe. Someone she'll never be afraid of."
"You'll be good at it."
"You think so?"
"I saw your face in there." Her eyes are soft. "That wasn't fake. That was real."
We sit in silence, the weight of our daughter's existence holding us.
"Come back to my place." Bailey sets down her cup. "We should talk."
My heart stops. "Are you sure?"
"No. But we need to talk anyway."
***
Her apartment is small but warm—nothing like my sterile penthouse. Photos on the walls. A couch that looks lived-in. Evidence of a real life, not just an existence.
We sit on the couch, careful space between us.
"I've been thinking about us," she says.
I go very still. "Okay."
"I'm still hurt. I'm still scared."
"I know."
"But I miss you." She looks at me. "Is that stupid?"
"It's not stupid." My voice is rough. "I miss you too. Every second of every day."
"Are you still going to therapy?"
"Twice a week. Dr. Chen says I'm making progress."
"What does progress look like?"
I think about the last three months. All the sessions. All the tears. All the times I wanted to run and chose to stay instead.
