Page 52 of Beautiful When He Breaks

Julian reaches over and takes the clipboard from my hand before I can crush it.

“You’re holding that like it’ll bite you,” he says, settling into the seat beside me.

I glare at him. “Why are there so many questions? She’s small. She eats, sleeps, poops, and screams. Isn’t that enough medical data for one day?”

Julian’s mouth twitches. He’s got Mila’s car seat parked between our knees, one hand resting lightly on the handle, casual and automatic. He looks so at ease here, and it annoys me on principle. Not because I want him to be stressed. I don’t. I just wish I wasn’t the only one internally preparing for spiritual collapse over a baby appointment.

“You say that now,” he murmurs, reading the form. “Give it ten minutes, and you’ll be asking what consistency her spit-up should have on a numerical scale.”

“I already asked Mrs. Alvarez about poop this morning.”

That gets a full grin out of him. “I know. I heard you from the hall.”

He fills in a few lines I missed because apparently my brain stopped working after date of birth and legal guardian, then hands the clipboard back for my signature. My eyes catch on the section marked Parents/Guardians Present, and the weirdness in my chest starts immediately. There’s only enough room for two names, and I’ve already written mine. The second line sits blank for a second longer than it should.

“Write mine,” Julian says quietly.

I look up at him. “As what?”

He shrugs one shoulder easily, and my pulse jumps for no good reason. “As the other adult here who knows how to burp her without looking terrified.”

I drop my gaze before it shows on my face and write his name with fingers that suddenly don’t feel steady enough. Julian West. Then I sign at the bottom and hand the clipboard back before I can think too hard about why writing his name there felt so weirdly intimate.

The receptionist takes it without comment.

Mila sleeps through the whole exchange with the sort of stubborn, dead-to-the-world commitment I’m starting to understand she inherited neither from her mother nor me. I sit there with my knee bouncing, and my hands clasped too tightly between them, while Julian scrolls through something on his phone, and every adult around us somehow manages to look tired but not actively deranged.

“How are you not panicking?” I ask under my breath.

He pockets his phone and leans back in the chair. “Because it’s a routine checkup.”

“That means nothing to me.”

“It means they’re going to weigh her, measure her, ask about feeding, ask about diapers, check reflexes, and probably tell you you’re doing fine.”

I stare at him. “You said that way too calmly.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Because I’m calm.”

“That makes one of us.”

His hand lands briefly on my knee, warm and grounding, and so casually familiar that it almost derails me more than the doctor’s office does. “Breathe, Liefling.”

I do. Mostly because when he calls me that, my body listens before my mind can argue. I should really ask him what Liefling means.

The nurse calls us back ten minutes later, and that’s where things really go to hell.

First of all, nobody prepares you for the indignity of baby weight checks. Mila gets stripped down to just her diaper and laid on the little scale while I stand there feeling personally attacked by how small she looks against the cold white plastic.

The nurse, who is far too cheerful for somebody holding all the power in the room, tells me Mila’s weight is good for her age and asks how many ounces she’s taking per feed. I answer too fast, then second-guess myself halfway through, then look at Julian because maybe he remembers the exact number better, and maybe he doesn’t judge me for the fact that I absolutely rehearsed this on the drive here.

Julian answers smoothly, “Usually three to four, depending on the feed. More at night if she hasn’t yelled herself tired first.”

The nurse smiles like this is adorable.

I, meanwhile, am trying not to lose my mind because she’s also measuring Mila’s head and saying things like “perfectly within range,” which implies there are ranges for baby heads and somehow nobody warned me that parenting was this math-heavy.

Then she asks how many wet diapers Mila has in a day, and for one horrifying second, my mind goes completely blank.