"I'm not going anywhere," I promise. "Just to the kitchen."
She nods, releasing my hand reluctantly. I watch her curl onto her side, one hand instinctively moving to her stomach.
In her tiny kitchen, I open cabinets searching for something simple I can make. The contents are sparse—Emma's been staying at my place most nights lately. I find a can of tomato soup pushed to the back of one cabinet and pull it out. In the refrigerator, there's bread, butter and a half-empty package of cheese slices. Not exactly gourmet, but it will do. Simple comfort food might be exactly what she needs right now.
I put the soup in a pot to heat and grab a small pan for the sandwiches. As I work, I keep glancing back at Emma on the couch. She looks so small, so vulnerable. The fiery, independent woman I've come to love reduced to this fragile state by her father's horrible words.
I butter the bread for the grilled cheese sandwiches, watching as they slowly brown in the pan. The familiar task gives my hands something useful to do while my mind continues to race. I flip the sandwiches, then stir the soup that's starting to bubble.
When everything is ready, I plate it up and carry it to the living room. Emma hasn't moved from her position on the couch, but her eyes follow me as I set the food down on the coffee table.
"Here," I say softly, sitting beside her. "Nothing fancy, but it's something."
She sits up slowly, the blanket pooling around her waist. Her face is still blotchy from crying, eyes puffy and red, but she looks at the simple meal and tries to smile at me.
"Thank you," she whispers, reaching for the bowl of soup.
We eat in silence, the only sound the occasional clink of spoons against bowls. I watch her from the corner of my eye, relieved to see color gradually returning to her cheeks as she eats.
To my surprise, she finishes almost her entire bowl of soup and most of the sandwich. I'd expected her to just push the food around, too upset to eat, but apparently her body's needs overruled her emotional state.
When she sets down her spoon, Emma looks at me with tired eyes. "I didn't realize how hungry I was."
"Your body knows what it needs. I’m glad you were able to listen.”
She takes my hand, her fingers twining with mine. "Will you stay tonight? I don't want to be alone."
"Of course," I say immediately. We rarely spend the night at her place—my king-sized bed is more comfortable than her full, especially with my height—but right now, the last thing I want is to make her leave the safety of her own space. "I'm not going anywhere."
Relief washes over her face. "Thank you."
I take the dishes to the kitchen and wash them quickly. When I return, Emma's curled up on the couch again, remote in hand, flipping through streaming options.
"Maybe we could just watch something mindless," she suggests. "I need a distraction."
"Good idea." I settle beside her, pulling her against my side. She immediately melts into me, her head finding that spot on my chest that seems made for her.
She selects a baking competition show—nothing that requires much thought. Perfect for tonight. I kiss the top of her head, breathing in the faint scent of her shampoo.
An hour later, I realize neither of us is actually watching. Emma's gaze is fixed on the screen, but her eyes have that distant look that tells me she's somewhere else entirely. My own thoughts keep circling back to David's face, to the venom in his voice when he called me a predator.
"I keep thinking about what he said," Emma whispers.
"Me too," I admit, feeling the weight of David's accusations. "But Emma, listen to me. He was hurt and lashing out. He just found out his best friend is with his daughter. That's a shock for any father."
I gently tilt her chin up so she's looking at me. Her eyes are bloodshot, doubt clouding their usual brightness.
"He's going to come around eventually," I continue, trying to sound more confident than I feel.
"Once he sees how happy we are together, how committed I am to you and our children. This isn't going to be forever."
Emma's expression remains skeptical. "But the look on his face when he walked out—he meant what he said."
"People say things they don't mean when they're in shock." I stroke her hair, tucking a strand behind her ear. "Your father loves you. That doesn't just disappear overnight."
"But what if it does?" Her voice is small, fragile. "What if he never wants to see me again? What if our children grow up without knowing their grandfather?"
The fear in her voice makes my heart ache. I pull her closer, pressing my lips to her forehead.
