Guarding.
Always guarding.
“I’m not trying to fight you,” he says finally.
His voice is rough from too many hours awake.
“I know,” I whisper.
Silence settles again.
Then he looks at our daughter.
“I’m trying to build a world where she’s safe.”
The words land softly but heavily.
“So am I,” I say.
Our hands meet on the edge of the crib rail.
Neither of us planned it.
Neither of us pulls away.
“We don’t get to break,” I tell him quietly. “Not you. Not me. Not like that.”
His thumb shifts slightly against mine.
A silent acknowledgment.
He nods slowly.
“Okay,” he says.
Then after a moment:
“Then we do this your way, too.”
His gaze softens just a fraction.
“Now get some sleep.”
It’s not a promise.
Not yet.
But it feels like the beginning of one.
75
Saint
The letter is waiting on the bar when I come downstairs.
Official envelope.
County seal.
