“I appreciate everything y’all are doing. My mom left some casseroles in the fridge, and there’s always coffee, water, and soft drinks in the kitchen. Snacks in the pantry. Help yourselves.” Dawson smiled. “Hayley told me she sends snacks with you, but she warned that, and I quote, you raid the fridge like a wild raccoon.”
Walker’s grin widened. “That woman dares to call me a wild raccoon. She’s five months pregnant and eating everything in sight.” He shook his head with the unmistakable pride of a man completely besotted with his wife. “We ordered Thai the other night, and she ate all the egg rolls. Crumbs were the only thing left in the bag.”
Dawson shot him a warning look. “I’d be careful about mentioning how much your pregnant wife eats. Especially if you plan on having more children.”
“Right you are. I stand corrected.”
They both laughed. Hayley was known for her good sense of humor, and wouldn’t have found anything her husband just said as offensive. In fact, if she’d been there, she would’ve dished it right back to him.
With a final wave, Dawson headed back toward the house. The conversation and the warm way Walker spoke about his wife struck a chord. He’d had that once. With Peyton. He missed it. The inside jokes and shared meals. Someone to laugh with after a long day. He could’ve tried to build that with someone else after the divorce, but hadn’t wanted to.
He wanted Peyton. No one else would ever do.
Dawson entered the quiet house. It was late, after ten. A faint murmur from the living room drew his attention. He slipped off his jacket and shoes and quietly drifted into the living room. Peyton sat in a rocking chair, the warm glow of a side table lamp caressing her features. Nestled in her arms was Grace. The baby sucked a bottle with vigor, eyes fixed on Peyton’s face while she sang a soft lullaby.
The peaceful scene was tender and sweet. Dawson couldn’t help but think of Samuel. Grief rippled through him, but the pain wasn’t as sharp or as harsh as before. Instead, it melted into something warmer. Gentler. A bittersweet ache that held both the loss of what they'd never have and the unexpected gift of what was right in front of him. Peyton, singing to a baby she hadn't expected to love. Grace, trusting her completely.
Samuel would never be in her arms. That truth would always hurt. But watching Peyton with Grace, Dawson realized that the love he'd stored up for his son—all that fierce, boundless, ready-to-burst love—hadn't disappeared. It’d just been waiting.
Peyton must’ve registered his presence because she glanced up. Their gazes met. Her expression, softened by talking to the baby, shifted to understanding. A beat passed between them, one that needed no words. Then her lips curved into a smile. “Hey.”
“Hey.” He stepped into the room, drawn in by her silent invitation. “From tangling with bikers to feeding a baby. You’re like a Swiss Army knife.”
A soft laugh escaped her. “It’s been an interesting week, that’s for sure.” Peyton tilted her head to look down at Grace again, and tenderness swept over her face. “She’s so beautiful.”
“She is. And a good eater. An expert crier. So-so in the sleep department.”
“Not anymore. Your mom’s sling trick has made her an expert sleeper.” Peyton wriggled the bottle free from Grace and then positioned the baby on her shoulder to burp her. She winced with the movement, probably from the pull on her wound.
Dawson crossed the room and held out his hands. “Give her to me before you rip a stitch open.”
Peyton scowled. “You’re as bad as your mom. You’ll think of any excuse to grab her away from me.”
He kissed her lightly as he took the baby. The move was automatic. As natural as breathing. And when he tucked Grace on his shoulder and began patting her back, warmth and tenderness spread through him. She smelled of baby powder and soap and a touch of milk.
Peyton rose from the rocking chair and carefully lifted Grace’s head to place a burp cloth on Dawson’s shoulder. Then her expression shifted, the lightness leaving her eyes. Dawson paused in patting Grace on the back to brush a strand of Peyton’s hair back from her cheek. “I know you’re worried.”
“I’ve been praying.” She sighed. “For Lilia, of course. But also asking for forgiveness. I lost my temper with my aunt today. Nana Grace always preached patience and understanding, and grace. She’d be disappointed in me.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” Dawson returned to patting Grace’s back. “There’s such a thing as righteous anger, babe. Jesus flipped over tables, don’t forget. Sandra’s addiction is awful, but she made choices. Decisions that hurt her daughter and slowed our investigation. You did what was necessary to get the truth out of her, and I doubt Nana Grace—or God—would fault you for it.”
Grace let out a tiny burp, and Peyton smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. She lightly touched the baby’s back, her fingers brushing against Dawson’s.
“I wish I knew where Lilia was. It doesn’t make sense, Dawson. She would contact me if she could. It’s getting harder and harder to believe that she’s simply hiding out somewhere.” Her expression was haunted. “Someone attacked Lilia at that train depot. We have the blood to prove it. Marvis could’ve grabbed Lilia, and then sent men back for Grace and the backpack, probably assuming the evidence was inside. But I got in the way. All the other attacks—the kidnapping attempt, shooting at me and you—were Marvis, trying to either frame Cade or get his hands on the evidence. It’s the only thing that makes sense, right?”
Dawson couldn't refute her. He'd considered the same scenario.
“I know the odds.” Her voice grew soft as her chin trembled. “Lilia probably died on the night of the train depot attack, and we just haven’t found her body yet. But I don’t want to believe she’s gone. Does that make me foolish?”
“No.” He pulled her closer, into a sideways hug. “It means you have faith, even when things look bleak.”
She snuggled into his embrace, and holding her, along with Grace, undid the last of his resistance. The shields he'd built. The fear. The stubborn refusal to risk his heart again. All of it crumbled, quietly and completely, in the space of a single breath.
He didn't want to say goodbye or let Peyton go. He never had. What he wanted was right here—messy and uncertain and terrifying—and he was done pretending otherwise. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head before releasing her in order to gently set Grace down in the baby swing. She fussed slightly before he turned on the device and it swayed. Her eyelids fluttered closed.
Drawing a breath, Dawson turned to face Peyton. His wife. His ex. His everything. “I love you, Peyton.”
She froze, the baby blanket she’d been folding swinging comically from her hands. Her eyes widened and then filmed with new tears. “I love you too.”
