Grace paused, eyes wide. She didn’t cry. Didn’t squirm. Just stared up at him, the way she sometimes stared at the ceiling fan, like she’d found a new species and wasn’t sure what it ate.
Braham looked down at her with a poker-face. I watched his jaw unclench, just a millimeter, and for a second I wondered if this was what tenderness looked like on a man who could disassemble a wolf with his bare hands.
He tucked her closer to his chest, turned to the window, and said, “She likes the view.”
“You sure?” I asked. “She’s been glaring at it for an hour.”
He gave a low, almost-laugh. “It’s genetic.”
We stood in silence, the three of us triangulated between the kitchen, the window, and the idea of breakfast. I leaned againstthe island, flexed my toes against the tile, and pretended not to notice how Braham’s entire body shifted to absorb Grace’s weight. She melted, finally, boneless against the lapel of his suit. Her eyes drooped. It was the closest she’d come to sleeping since I’d gotten up.
I said, “You don’t have to dress for a hostile takeover at six a.m., you know.”
“I prefer to be prepared.”
I grinned, sharp. “For what? Milk emergencies?”
He met my eyes, no expression. “You’d be surprised.”
I believed him.
The penthouse didn’t feel empty anymore. It was a weird thought. The kitchen still smelled like cigars, but there was an overlay now—a cherry-sugar residue that came from my own skin and, apparently, the baby. It didn’t clash. It layered.
I watched the way he held her: not stiff, not anxious, just deliberate. His thumb traced a circle on her back, the motion almost invisible, but I saw it.
Grace’s hand flopped loose, caught on the edge of his shirt, then went still.
“You’re good at that,” I said.
He looked at me, and for once, the gold in his eyes went soft. “So are you.”
I shrugged. “You haven’t seen my work on diaper duty.”
He looked down at her, and I saw the corners of his mouth tilt, just a fraction. “I’d rather not.”
Silence. Not awkward, just present. I rolled my shoulders, stretched, and let myself appreciate the moment: me, a baby, an apex predator, and a sunrise that made the city look less like a threat and more like a promise.
Braham shifted Grace to his left arm, freeing his right. “Do you want coffee?”
I blinked. “You make coffee?”
“I have staff for that,” he said, but moved to the French press anyway, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
He worked the press like it was an extension of his own body—efficient, precise, no wasted motion. The kettle hissed, the grounds bloomed, and the smell of actual caffeine filled the kitchen.
My soul did a small, embarrassed somersault.
I watched him for a while, Grace sleeping deeper with every pulse of his hand on her back. He poured two mugs, set one in front of me, and didn’t bother with cream or sugar.
I sipped. It was good. Dangerous, even.
He sipped his own, then said, “You are welcome to stay as long as you need.”
I nodded, not trusting my own voice.
Grace exhaled, loud and wet, and snuggled deeper into the crook of his arm.
For a second, I let myself pretend this was normal.
