I set up the bassinet, checking the blankets twice. I stock the fridge with easy food. I leave a bottle of water on the nightstand beside the bed.
By the time I finish, the sun is setting, the house glowing softly under lamplight.
I stand in the nursery doorway and imagine Josie in the rocker, baby tucked against her chest. The thought makes my eyes burn. My phone buzzes. She’s had the baby.
I press my hand to my mouth and laugh quietly, joy flooding through me like a wave. I’m here to hold her hand through the emotions. Bringing a new baby home is a rollercoaster of hormones, fatigue, and healing. I know helping Papa is important, but being here for Josie simply feels fulfilling.
Everything is ready. And for the first time in a long while, I feel exactly where I’m supposed to be.
Seven
Miles
I don’t expect to see her.
That’s the thing about it. This hits so hard because there is no warning. No time to brace. One second I’m stepping into Raff’s house with the familiar weight of quiet joy and exhaustion hanging in the air, and the next—She’s there.
Danae.
Arkansas Danae. The pussy I can’t get out of my head.
Standing in my brother’s living room like she belongs. While I’m stuck in the doorway staring like an idiot.
My brain stutters. My feet keep moving because they’re trained to, but everything else in me locks up. The room sharpens around her, the way she stands on alert, the way she holds herself like she’s ready for the world to come at her sideways, the familiar green of her eyes softening when she looks at the baby in Raff’s arms. The genuine love as she gazes at Josie and then back to the baby.
I don’t breathe. She’s real and right in front of me. Not a memory. Not a phantom from a night I’ve spent weeks pretending didn’t carve itself into my bones.
She’s here. In North Carolina. In Raff’s house.
My world feels smaller all of a sudden. Like the walls leaned in without asking permission. I stay in the doorway, half-shadowed, watching as she steps closer to the baby. She doesn’t crowd. Doesn’t rush. She moves like someone who knows exactly how fragile moments like this are.
“She’s perfect,” Danae says, her voice softer than I’ve ever heard it. “Good job, Josie Mosie.”
Josie snorts from the couch. “Tell my body that. I feel like I got hit by a truck.”
Danae smiles, an actual, unguarded smile, and something in my chest twists. “That’s what happens when you push a human out of your body. But hey. You survived.”
The room laughs quietly around her. Like gravity shifted when she walked in and everyone adjusted without realizing it.
I should leave. That’s the smart move. Back away. Give them space. Keep this night about what it’s supposed to be about. New life, Raff and Josie’s love.
But my body doesn’t listen. I clear my throat instead, leaning against the doorframe like I planned it this way. “Damn. I was just coming to check in, didn’t know there’d be a whole welcome committee.”
Danae turns.
Her eyes hit mine and stop.
There it is.
That flicker. That sharp, unmistakable recognition that slices through me like a blade. She schools her face fast. The same way I saw it when she woke up and realized I was gone because yes, I watched. She’s clever and can cover up her emotions easily. Too easily if you ask me.
My brain is in overdrive. I didn’t know she’d be here. Honestly, I didn’t know she’d be anywhere near me again unless I went back for more. And that thought had crossed my mind more than once.
“Didn’t know you’d be here,” I manage to speak, because the truth feels too big to hold in my mouth.
She crosses her arms, defensive reflex snapping into place. “I could say the same about you.”
I grin automatically, because that’s my armor. Because if I don’t smile in a smirk, I might stare too long. Might give away how hard my pulse is hammering.
