Danae
I lose track of time these nights. Working regular night shifts, I’m used to having my sleep pattern being different. These nights, though, with a newborn, well, it’s a special brand of torture.
They blur together here in Salemburg, measured not in hours but by cries, diapers, bottles and the soft whir of the noise machine. A week in, my instincts have adjusted in a way my brain hasn’t. I wake before Journey even cries now, already half-sitting, listening for the change in her breathing.
Josie sleeps through most of it. That’s the point. She needs rest—real rest—so she can heal, so her body can remember how to be her own again. She pumps during the day, labeling bags with dates and times, lining them up in the fridge and freezer as necessary. At night, I take over.
It’s strange, holding someone else’s newborn in the dark. Sacred, yet ordinary at the same time. Journey fits perfectly against my chest, her weight light but powerful, like she knows she belongs. I settle into the rocker in the nursery, bottle warmed, house quiet except for the hum of the white noise machine, and the occasional creak of settling wood.
She makes these little sighs when she eats, tiny sounds that feel like trust. “You’re doing great,” I whisper to her, even though I don’t know if that’s more for her or for me.
Sometimes I think about Papa in those moments. About how many nights I’ve spent awake with someone who needed me, how my life has been shaped around other people’s fragility. But this feels different. This feels lighter. Maybe because her life is just beginning and the reality is every day he wakes up is another day closer to his death because that is the inevitable. The circle of life that owns us all.
During the day, the house fills with life. Justice bursts in after school, loud and joyful, always checking on his sister first before anything else. Raff moves like a man learning a new routine, but all of it focused on his family with awe tied with a bit of exhaustion.
And Miles. I don’t plan for him. He just shows up. Not every day. Not predictably. But often enough that my body starts anticipating him before my mind does. The sound of his bike outside sends a quiet jolt through me every time, even when I tell myself not to react.
Tonight, it’s late. Later than usual. Journey has just finished her bottle, eyelids fluttering, when I hear the soft click of the back door.
I freeze.
My heart kicks hard in my chest as I ease her back into the bassinet, making sure she’s settled before stepping into the hallway. The house is dim, lights low, shadows long.
Miles stands in the kitchen like he belongs there.
I stare at him. “You can’t just break into people’s houses,” I hiss.
He grins, that slow, maddening smile that shouldn’t do things to me anymore but absolutely does. “Didn’t break in.”
“Yes, you did.”
He jerks his chin toward the hall. “Raff knows I’m here. I have a key.”
My stomach drops. “You,” I lower my voice instinctively. “You told him about us?”
Miles’s expression shifts, not alarmed, not guilty. Just thoughtful. “Not exactly.”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
He steps closer, boots quiet on the tile. “It means I don’t know what to say about us.”
“There is no us,” I respond immediately. Too quickly. “I don’t even know your name.”
Something flickers in his eyes. Amusement, maybe. Or something more dangerous.
“Danae—”
I shake my head tossing a hand up to silence him. “This is a bad idea.”
He closes the distance. My breath hitches. I don’t speak because I don’t know what to say.
Before I can process that he is merely inches from me, that every inhale is filled with the scent of his cologne, he leans down and kisses me.
It’s not rough. Not hurried. It’s deliberate, like he knows exactly how loud my thoughts are and how to quiet them. My hands come up to his chest before I can stop them, fingers curling into his shirt.
I melt. I hate that I melt.
When he pulls back, my forehead rests against his chest. “That right there,” he murmurs, “means more than a name ever has.”
