“They make zero sense to me.” Griffin rubbed his eyes, groaning. “Adults are easier. They tell you what they want, what they’re thinking.”
“Children are honest. Adults lie all the time, even to themselves.”
His gaze rose back to mine.
Silence settled between us, broken only by Hazel’s soft suckling sounds. Griffin remained watchful, his presence filling the room despite his stillness.
“I never wanted kids,” he said suddenly. “Never saw myself as father material.”
I glanced up. “And now?”
He shrugged, a careful gesture that betrayed more than it concealed. “Now I don’t have a choice.”
“There’s always a choice, Griffin.”
His jaw tightened. “Not this one. I’m not abandoning her.”
The vehemence in his voice surprised me. It shouldn’t have made my heart ache.
“That’s... commendable,” I said carefully.
He snorted. “Don’t sound so shocked.”
“I’m not shocked. I’m...” I searched for the right word. “Impressed.”
His brows rose. “Now I’m shocked.”
A reluctant smile tugged at my lips. “Don’t get used to it.”
Hazel finished her bottle, and I set it aside. The moment I held her out to Griffin, he stared at me like I’d asked him to hold a checkered flag while driving at full speed.
“She needs burping.”
“Why?”
“Babies swallow air when they feed. It needs to come up.”
“And if it doesn’t?” he asked, still not taking her from me.
“Then she’ll get gassy, and you’ll be in for another round of screaming.”
He grimaced. “Delightful.”
“Take her.”
He looked at Hazel, then at me. “I don’t—what if I do it wrong?”
“Then she’ll be mildly uncomfortable for an extra thirty seconds.”
Still looking uncertain, he leaned back on the sofa, letting me place Hazel against his chest. The concentration on his face would’ve been funny if I weren’t so tired.
“Support her neck,” I murmured.
“I am.” He frowned, adjusting slightly.
He tapped her back with careful, terrified movements. Hazel let out a surprisingly loud burp, and Griffin’s eyes widened comically.
“That came from her?”
