“But why?” I whisper.
His arms tighten slightly. “Because I love you.”
My chest aches. “And because,” he continues, voice low, “you’ve been carrying too much for too long.”
I close my eyes, leaning back into him. I’ve spent years making things work with scraps—scraping together care plans and budgets and grocery lists and overtime hours and prayers. I’ve spent years believing smooth was for other people.
I turn in his arms and look up at him.
His eyes are warm, steady. He looks proud. Not of himself. Of me being here.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” I whisper.
He cups my face. “Yeah,” he says. “I did.”
A laugh bubbles out of me through tears.
Miles wipes my cheeks with his thumbs. “You keep looking at me like I’m gonna ask for something back.”
Because I am. Because that’s how life has always worked for me.
I swallow hard. “I’m waiting for the catch.”
His eyes soften. “No catch,” he says.
I stare at him, searching. He doesn’t flinch. “There’s just you,” he adds. “And him.” He nods toward the recliner. “And us.”
The simple way he says it nearly breaks me. I take a shaky breath. “Miles,” I say slowly, “I don’t know how you’re affording all this. I can pay for things you know. I have a good job. I will be taking boards to get licensed here and go back to work.”
He chuckles. “Baby.” He guides me back toward the living room, still holding my hand, like he knows my legs are a little unsteady under all these emotions. “I’m a man who wants to provide, protect, and be your partner. I have funds. I lived alone with no real bills, my money got stock piled away. You wanna work, you work. You wanna stay home and take care of Papa, you do that. The bills are paid either way. You do what you want, Danae, no pressure for anything.”
“I don’t know what to say,” I tell him the truth.
“So say nothing and let’s unpack.”
And just like that he’s making it all so easy again. We stop near a pile of boxes labeled PAPA—MEDICAL.
Miles crouches and starts cutting tape. “Let me,” I say automatically, but he shakes his head.
“You’re unpacking your books and your clothes. I’ll handle his equipment.”
“That’s my job,” I say without thinking.
He looks up at me, eyes steady. “Not alone, not anymore.”
The words hit deep.
Miles pulls out a folder from the box—medical records, insurance forms, caregiver schedules, a list of local providers.
He taps the top page. “I got home health set up. Same kind you had there, but better coverage. There’s a nurse who’ll come by twice a week to evaluate the caregivers and give his body a once over for sores so we don’t miss anything and it doesn’t fall on you all the time, therapist once a week if he wants it, and an aide at all times through a rotating schedule.”
My mouth falls open.
“You already did all that?”
He shrugs again. “Phone calls. Paperwork. Some cash where insurance didn’t quite cover.”
My throat tightens.
