Page 9 of My Girl to Use

“I’m not here to complain,” he says quietly, lifting one hand like he’s trying not to spook me. “I just…I think I can help.”

I blink at him. “Help?”

“Yeah,” he nods, glancing at Levi again as another sharp cry cuts through the space between us. “I’ve got nieces and nephews. A lot of them. I’ve dealt with this before—colic, restless nights, all of it.”

I tighten my hold on Levi instinctively. “He’s not…”

“I know he’s not mine,” he cuts in gently, like he already understands what I’m about to say. “I’m not trying to overstep. I just feel bad we woke him, and you look like you haven’t slept in days.”

I stiffen slightly. “I’m fine.”

He raises a brow, clearly not buying it. “Sure.”

Levi cries again, louder, his tiny body tensing in my arms. And whatever argument I was about to make dies in my throat. I close my eyes for a second, exhaling slowly, then open them again.

“You really think you can get him to stop?” I ask, my voice quieter now.

“I can try.”

A pause stretches between us. I shouldn’t. I don’t know him.

Every rule I’ve made since the night my mother left him on a doorstep says no. You don’t let strangers near him. You don’t let anyone near him because everyone who’s ever gotten close to something I love has taken it or broken it or walked out holding it.

But he’s been crying for an hour. I have no one to call. There’s no version of tonight where I fix this by myself, and I’m too far past empty to pretend otherwise.

Help is help. Even from a stranger. Even from him.

“Fine,” I mutter, stepping back and opening the door wider. “If he screams louder, you’re leaving.”

A corner of his mouth lifts slightly. “Deal.”

He steps inside, his presence immediately filling the small space, but not in an overwhelming way. Just…steady. Grounded. Like he belongs anywhere he stands. I close the door behind him, suddenly aware of everything. The clutter, the smallness of the room, the fact that I just did the one thing I swore I’d never do.

He’s looking at the swing. It’s the beige one with the faded jungle print, and there’s a strip of masking tape on the base where somebody wrote NAP ROOM 2 in marker years ago. The bassinet’s the same—the director pulled both out of the storage closet when I first brought Levi in, said they were replacing them anyway, and didn’t wait for me to say no. I never took the tape off. I don’t know why.

“They were getting rid of them,” I say.

He doesn’t ask anything.

Levi cries again, pulling my attention back instantly.

“Here,” I say, a little hesitant as I shift him carefully. “Just…support his head.”

“I’ve got him,” Jax replies, his voice calm as he steps closer.

I pass Levi over slowly. I watch every movement, my body tense like I’m ready to snatch him back at any second. But Jax doesn’t fumble. Doesn’t hesitate.

He takes Levi like he’s done it a hundred times, one hand supporting his head, the other resting gently along his back, pulling him close to his chest.

“Hey, little man,” he murmurs softly, his voice dropping in a way I haven’t heard before. “What’s all this, huh?”

Levi’s cries don’t stop immediately, but they soften. Just slightly. I blink.

Jax shifts him a little, adjusting his hold, then starts a slow, steady sway, his hand moving in gentle circles along Levi’s back. “Yeah…I know,” he whispers. “Rough night, huh? I get it.”

I watch, completely still. Because it’s working. Not instantly. Not like magic. But it’s working. Levi’s cries turn into soft whimpers. Then hiccups. Then nothing. Silence.

My mouth parts slightly. “How did you…”