Or maybe he had. He wasn’t entirely sure anymore when it came to Naomi.
He’d told himself he just wanted to make sure the house was secure. Check the locks, say good night to Ruby and Caleb, be sure everyone was settled after Gio’s visit.
He had professional reasons. Practical reasons.
But when Naomi disappeared through the front door toward the sound of Grace crying, his feet had followed without consulting him.
Now he stood in the doorway of the small nursery while Naomi lifted Grace from the crib, murmuring softly.
“She’s hungry. Would you mind—” Naomi nodded toward the door. “I need to warm a bottle. Could you just?—?”
“Of course.” Micah crossed the room.
Naomi transferred Grace carefully into his arms, making sure he had her before she let go. The baby was warm and solid and smelled like something powdery and clean.
She blinked up at Micah with dark, serious eyes, apparently deciding whether he was worth crying about.
She must have decided he wasn’t. She settled against his chest with a small, shuddering sigh.
Micah stood still.
He’d held babies before. He had a nephew and two nieces. He knew what to do.
But something about this was different. Something about holding this child made his heart twist.
He listened to Naomi’s footsteps move down the hall toward the kitchen. The soft sounds of the house settled around him as Grace’s breath evened out against his collarbone.
“You’re okay,” he whispered. “You’re safe.”
She grabbed a fistful of his shirt.
Micah looked down at her small hand, at her fingers curled around the fabric. Something slow and tectonic moved through his chest.
He was in trouble.
Not the kind he was used to. Not the kind with a clear protocol and a chain of command and a procedure to follow. The other kind. The kind that snuck up on you in quiet nurseries while you were holding someone else’s baby and listening to the woman you cared about in the next room warming a bottle.
Naomi came back a few minutes later, bottle in hand. She stopped in the doorway when she saw them and something crossed her face—an emotion too quick to name.
“She’s fine,” Micah insisted. “She didn’t fuss.”
“She likes you.” Naomi crossed the room and held out the bottle. “Do you want to?—?”
“No. No . . . you should.” He carefully transferred Grace into her arms.
Then he stepped back and watched them settle into the rocking chair. Grace latched onto the bottle immediately, her eyes drifting closed. Naomi tucked the baby closer.
As he watched, as he remembered the kiss he and Naomi had shared earlier, the slow tectonic thing kept moving.
He watched Naomi with Grace and thought about what it meant that he’d followed her inside without thinking. What it meant that he knew exactly how Grace smelled and how much she weighed and that she grabbed onto whatever was closest.
What it meant that the thought of walking out of this room felt harder than it should.
He thought about his marriage. About how thoroughly he’d failed the one woman he’d promised to protect. About what it had cost him, and what it had cost Caroline, and the years he’d spent afterward telling himself that was reason enough to keep his distance from anything that mattered too much.
Grace had gone still in Naomi’s arms, the bottle nearly empty.
Naomi looked up and caught him watching. She smiled, small and tired and real.
