“Because you’re panicking. Someone has to keep a level head.” I met his gaze, and something electric passed between us. “But inside? I’m falling apart. Because she matters. Because losing her would destroy me.”
Griffin’s hand covered mine where it rested on his leg, his fingers warm and strong. “She matters to me too.”
“I know. That’s what makes you a good father. You don’t need to have all the answers.”
His thumb traced across my knuckles, the touch sending heat spiraling through me. Even in crisis, even terrified for Hazel, there was this pull between us. This awareness that made my skin tingle and my thoughts scatter.
A knock at the door broke the spell. Griffin shot to his feet and rushed to the door.
“Dr. Matthews? Thank Christ you’re here.”
She was younger than I’d expected, with kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. Professional but approachable, the kind of doctor who probably dealt with panicking parents regularly.
“I understand we have a sick little one.”
“She’s burning up,” Griffin said before she’d even set down her bag. “Fever of 38.3, maybe higher now. And she feels like, well, feel her yourself.”
He hovered behind the doctor’s shoulder, memorizing every move she made. The way he absorbed information, asked pointed questions, took detailed notes. It was impossibly attractive. This fierce dedication to getting it right.
Julian would have written a check and disappeared until the crisis passed.
“Good news,” Dr. Matthews said finally. “This appears to be a viral infection. Very common, especially after international travel.”
Griffin’s entire body sagged with relief. “Not meningitis?”
“No. Her reflexes are normal, and she’s alert and responsive. This is her immune system doing exactly what it should.”
After the doctor left detailed instructions and departed, Griffin immediately started organizing: creating charts, measuring out the first dose with scientific precision.
He’d be like this with everything. Feeding schedules, developmental milestones, school choices. Meticulous, devoted, present.
The kind of father I’d always wished for. The kind of father I’d want for my children.
The thought blindsided me again, more vivid this time. Griffin teaching a toddler to ride a bike. Reading bedtime storieswith voices for all the characters. Panicking over scraped knees and first heartbreaks with this same fierce protectiveness.
I could see it so clearly it made my chest ache.
“You don’t have to document everything,” I said, pushing the dangerous thoughts away.
“Yes, I do. If something changes, we’ll need exact data.”
The methodical approach seemed to calm him, and some of my own anxiety eased watching him take control. When he administered Hazel’s medicine with gentle competence, pride swelled in my chest.
“See? You’re getting the hang of this.”
“Am I? Because twenty minutes ago I was ready to drag her to emergency.”
“You were scared. Now you’re thinking clearly. That’s what parents do, they adapt.”
The word ‘parents’ hung between us, loaded with implication. We weren’t parents. Not together. But sitting here in this hotel room, caring for Hazel through her first real illness, it felt like we were.
It felt like family.
We settled into our vigil, Griffin updating his chart every hour while I monitored Hazel’s breathing, her skin temperature, the subtle changes in her condition. Somewhere around midnight, exhaustion began to blur the edges of my careful emotional boundaries.
“This waiting is torture,” Griffin muttered, rubbing his eyes.
“Welcome to parenthood. Half of it is waiting and worrying.”
