Page 41 of Beautiful When He Breaks

Killian looks at me like I’ve just proven his point. “Yes. We’re in the kitchen,” he says before walking away.

I’m halfway off the bed before I even realize how abrupt the movement was. Julian laughs under his breath, and that sound does one more unhelpful thing to my insides. I leave the room because the kitchen means Mila, and Mila is the safest thing in my life right now.

Mila is simple. Mila needs things. Mila is my shield, at this point.

I’m aware of the way my skin still feels too tight from waking up wrapped around Julian, but I’m trying hard not to think about that as I head downstairs. The house is waking up properly now. I can hear cabinets opening in the kitchen, a television on low in the den, and Roman saying something too loudly from somewhere outside on the back patio.

When I hit the bottom of the stairs, I see Killian wasn’t lying.

He’s standing by the island now with Mila on one arm and his coffee in the other hand, which would look ridiculous if he didn’t somehow manage to make it look natural. Mila is wide awake, staring at him with that same solemn expression she gets when she’s deciding whether the world is currently beneath her standards.

My chest softens instantly.

“There’s my girl,” I say before I can stop myself.

Killian hands her over without comment, though his mouth twitches faintly. Mila settles into my arms with an ease that still feels miraculous every single time. Warm. Small. Real. Mine. She smells like baby wash and milk and whatever impossible thing makes babies smell of hope and panic at once. I tuck her against my chest and press a kiss to the top of her head.

Mila blinks up at me, then relaxes into my chest. “Hey, baby girl,” I murmur, brushing one finger over her cheek. “You terrorized everybody already?”

Killian takes a sip of coffee. “Just me.”

“You volunteered.”

“I did,” he says dryly. “That doesn’t make her less bossy.”

“You’re training her well, then,” I say and smile down at her, shifting her a little higher against my shoulder. Her tiny hand catches in the front of my shirt and stays there. Holding her like this makes one truth impossible to avoid any longer: my parents need to know.

Not eventually. Not when things are more convenient. Not after I’ve found the perfect words. They need to know now, or as close to now as I can stand. Every day I wait, it gets bigger and harder to explain. And selfish as it is, I’m tired of bracing for the call. I’d rather choose the moment than keep fearing it.

Maybe it’s waking up in Julian’s bed and realizing I cannot keep living in this suspended state where everything important is either unspoken or delayed. Maybe it’s the way Mila turns her face into my chest like she already trusts that I’ll hold her steady. Maybe it’s just the simple fact that I’m her father and fathers don’t get to hide behind fear forever.

My stomach drops anyway.

There will be questions, disappointment, and Catholic outrage. The disbelief and judgments I can already hear in my head before either of them says a word.

Why didn’t you tell us sooner?

How could this happen?

What kind of situation have you gotten yourself into?

Where is the mother?

Why are lawyers involved?

The questions about Celeste. The questions about me. The questions I still can’t answer cleanly without opening the door to uglier truths I’m not sure they’ll even believe.

No. Enough.

I’m done waiting for courage to arrive in some perfect, holy beam of light. I’ve got a daughter. I’ve got a legal file. I’ve got a house full of people stepping up for me in ways I never expected. The least I can do is stop hiding.

“I’m telling them today,” I say.

The kitchen quiets enough that even Roman stops rustling the cereal box.

Killian looks over first. “Your parents.”

I nod.