VIOLET
My four days without Griffin had been glorious. Ten out of ten, would recommend.
No dirty mugs in the sink. No one leaving wet towels on the bathroom floor. No smirking face across the breakfast table, judging my coffee-to-milk ratio.
Of course, the man had to ruin it by coming home.
With so many gifts.
I glanced over my shoulder as I stirred the pasta and swallowed a groan. I’d tidied the living room this morning. I’d put away all of Hazel’s things, cleared the coffee table, actually vacuumed. Griffin had been home two hours and ruined it.
I counted three new additions to the living room. A plush lion, its mane dyed racing red. A teething ring that looked suspiciously like a steering wheel. And a onesie with “Future Champion” printed across the chest in bold letters.
Griffin sat cross-legged on the floor, Hazel propped against his thighs, holding up the onesie like he’d just won the Italian Grand Prix all over again.
“This one’s my favorite.”
She blinked slowly, her gaze unfocused and drifting.
“She’s five weeks old,” I said from the kitchen. “She can’t even see you properly.”
“She smiled at the lion.”
“She has gas.”
“Agree to disagree.” He turned back to Hazel, his voice dropping to that soft murmur. “You smiled, didn’t you? I saw it.”
She answered him with a strangled cry.
Hazel’s face crumpled, going blotchy and red. The cry turned into a wail.
“Alright, alright. Come on, kid. Give me a break here. I just got home.” Griffin scooped her up and settled her against his chest. His hand cradled her head with the kind of care I wouldn’t have expected from him a week ago.
He stood, pacing slowly, one hand rubbing circles on her back.
That low murmur lodged under my ribs and wouldn’t shift. He spoke to his daughter like she was the most precious thing in the world.
My throat tightened.
Damn it.
No. I refused to let this get to me. Refused to let him get to me. Everything about Griffin annoyed me. The smirk. The sarcasm. The way he left mugs in the sink like I was his personal housekeeping service.
But this? Watching him be a good father? It undid something in me I couldn’t afford to lose.
I gripped the wooden spoon tighter and focused on the pasta, willing my body to stop betraying me.
“She needs changing.”
“How do you know?” he asked, his tone confused.
“The cry. It’s different when she’s uncomfortable versus hungry.”
“They sound the same.”
“They don’t.” I turned off the burner. “You’ve just been gone for four days. You’ll pick it up again.”
“Right.” His footsteps retreated toward the stairs. “We’ll be back.”
