“Frustration,” I echo, because the fact that he can label her emotional state like that still makes something warm bloom in my chest.
He adjusts her slightly, supporting her head and neck with a confidence he didn’t have when we first brought her home. Back then, he held her like she was precious glass.
Now he holds her like she’s his.
Like he knows she won’t break if he loves her properly.
She’s still fussing, face red, voice climbing again.
Julian taps her back gently, then shifts her upright against his shoulder. He hums, a low, almost growl-like sound, and I feel my mouth twitch.
“You’re doing the thing,” I murmur.
Julian’s brows lift slightly. “The thing.”
“The… Dad hum,” I whisper, as if she might hear me and protest. “You swear you don’t do it, but you do.”
A flicker of amusement crosses his face. “It works.”
“It does,” I admit.
Our daughter lets out a sound that is somewhere between an angry sigh and a tiny hiccup, then goes quiet for two blessed seconds, just long enough for my heart to soften before she starts again.
Julian’s gaze stays on her. “Okay,” he murmurs. “Tell me.”
Like she’s capable of a conversation.
Like he expects her to be heard even when she can’t speak.
My throat tightens.
He looks up at me again, and in his voice there’s that same steadiness from the hospital room.
“I’m here,” he says softly, like he’s answering the unspoken question still lodged in my bones. “You can go back to sleep.”
A small, almost embarrassed laugh scrapes out of me. “I’m awake now.”
But the truth is, even though I am exhausted, I love watching them like this.
Julian rocks again, slow and steady. Our daughter’s cries start to fade into smaller sounds, softer protests. She squirms, then relaxes a fraction, cheek pressed to Julian’s shoulder.
He whispers something to her.
“I used to think I was good at staying awake,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Boardrooms. Red-eye flights. Twenty-hour workdays.”
I huff a small laugh. “And now?”
“And now a three-month-old can dismantle me in six minutes,” he says, deadpan.
I bite my lip to keep from laughing too loudly.
Julian glances at me with a look that feels like home. “I love you.”
He says it so freely now, but it doesn't dim the power those words have over me.
Our daughter’s eyes flutter closed. Her lashes are tiny and dark, her mouth slackening into sleep like she’s forgotten the injustice of being awake at two in the morning.
Julian doesn’t move right away; he looks down at our daughter again, and his voice turns almost reverent. “I love you too, Charlotte.”
