I feel tears sting behind my eyes. I blink them back because if I start crying at two a.m. I might not stop.
Julian shifts carefully, rising from the rocker with slow, practiced movements. He carries our daughter to the bassinet and lowers her like she’s the most precious thing in the universe.
Then he stands there for a beat, hand hovering over her.
When he turns back toward me, he holds out a hand.
Not a demand.
An invitation.
I take it.
His fingers wrap around mine, warm and sure, and he pulls me gently into his arms. We stand there in the dim light, my head exactly where Charlie's just was.
Julian leads me back to bed, and we slide under the covers.
He shifts us so I am wrapped in him, his chin resting on the top of my head, so we are facing the bassinet.
I drift off feeling safe, secure and surrounded by the love I once dreamed of.
Morning arrives in fragments: soft light through the curtains, and a baby’s coo that sounds like she’s testing her voice.
I wake slower than usual, disoriented for a second, until Julian’s arm tightens around my waist, anchoring me.
He’s awake, I can tell. He always wakes before me.
I roll over and find him watching me.
“Morning,” I murmur.
“Morning,” he echoes.
His eyes flick to the bassinet, then back. “She’s awake.”
“I heard,” I say, smiling faintly.
Julian’s mouth curves. “Do you want me to get her?”
The old version of me would’ve said no automatically.
I still feel the reflex rise.
But I swallow it down and breathe through it like I’m learning a new language.
“Yes,” I say simply. “Please.”
Julian’s expression shifts, so subtle most people wouldn’t catch it. Something like relief. Like pride. Like he’s grateful I let him.
He stands and crosses the room, scooping our daughter up with practiced ease. She makes a happy little sound and rubs her face into his chest like she’s claiming him.
He brings her back to the bed and sits beside me, handing her over carefully. She looks at me with serious eyes and then sneezes dramatically.
Julian freezes. “Was that...”
“It’s fine,” I say, laughing. “It’s normal.”
Julian narrows his eyes at our daughter like she’s been warned. “You’re not allowed to be sick. Understand?”
