Page 94

Maddox rises from the chair as Henry finishes at the sink, and gently, carefully, he passes Vivienne into Henry’s waiting arms. The sight of her curled against his chest—tiny, warm, and perfect—takes the breath from me. Their hands, both big and calloused, cradle her like she’s made of spun glass.

“You too, heifer,” Evie calls over to me, nodding toward the sink. “Wash up.”

I roll my eyes but obey, stepping to the sink and turning on the warm water. As I scrub, I steal glances at Henry, at the way he looks at her like she’s the beginning and end of every prayer he’s ever said. “Look at all that hair,” he murmurs, voice cracking around the edges with soft laughter. “Thank God she looks like you, sunshine. There’s only room for one big growly bear in this family and your daddy has proudly already taken that role.”

“Explains the heartburn,” Evie says with a grin, rubbing her chest like she still feels echoes of it.

Dallas is pressed against Henry’s side now, both of them bent over Vivienne, cooing and whispering like she might open her eyes and recognize them. I feel the sting of emotion swell up sharp in my throat. That familiar, bitter burn of longing and loss, of what ifs and can’t haves.

But I swallow it down. I’ve done too much work to give that pain a home again.

I refuse to carve out space in myself for grief that isn’t mine anymore.

“Alright, Lou,” Henry calls gently, his eyes still on her. “Come take her before I decide not to give her back.”

He stands and turns toward me, moving slowly, carefully, like he’s carrying the whole damn world in his arms as I take his spot in the chair. Gently, he places Vivienne in mine, her tiny weight warming my chest, her breath feather-light against my collarbone.

This precious baby—who shouldn’t even be here if life had its way. Born from two people who nearly didn’t survive the wreckage they crawled out of. Two people who had every reason to give up, but didn’t.

And she’s named after me.

Me—the woman who once flinched at the idea of her. Who turned green with envy at the thought of someone else holding what I thought I’d never have. Who let my own emptiness twist into something sharp and ugly the second I heard she was coming.

“What’s wrong, wildflower?” Henry’s voice is quiet, gruff in that way it always is when he’s trying to keep himself steady. He crouches a little, tilting his head to catch my eyes, his hand still resting on my knee like it’s the only thing tethering me to the ground.

I look down at Vivienne—her impossibly tiny body warm and heavy in my arms, her breath whispering softly against my chest. Her fingers twitch and curl near her cheek, her little mouth making shapes like she’s dreaming. Something twists hard in my chest. A slow, deep ache that’s lived in me for so long, I don’t remember where it ends and I begin.

I breathe her in—sweet, soft, new, and when I look up at him, I already feel myself breaking.

“I…” My throat closes up. I try again, voice thinner than paper. “I can’t ever give you this.”

It guts me. Just saying it. Because it’s the truth I’ve buried under a hundred jokes, a thousand excuses, every wall I ever built between us, and now it’s out in the open, raw and bleeding between us.

Henry doesn’t move. His brows draw together, confusion flickering into something sharper.

“Give me what, wildflower?”

I close my eyes, tears sliding hot and quiet down my cheeks. “When they took my gallbladder out they botched it, and caused an infection that rotted my reproductive system.” My voice is barely a whisper. “I can’t have kids, Henny.”

The silence that follows is suffocating.

He doesn’t speak, not right away. Doesn’t reach for me. Doesn’t recoil either. He just breathes, like the weight of what I said is settling onto his chest.

For a second—for a cruel, endless second—I think this is it. This is where he lets go. Where all the reasons I pushed him away finally make sense, and he sees why I was never enough.

But then I feel it.

His hand on my cheek. Calloused. Warm. Gentle.

He leans in until our foreheads touch, and his breath shakes when he lets it out.

“You little fucking idiot,” he says, voice hoarse with emotion. “You really think that changes a God damn thing?”

I swear, in that moment, I could’ve wept forever.

Because I’ve spent years believing that broken meant unworthy. That love had to come with conditions—perfect bodies, perfect timing, the promise of a future I couldn’t give. I thought if I couldn’t hand someone a baby, a legacy, a reason to stay…then what was I worth?

But Henry never asked for any of that. Never made me feel like I had to earn him. He didn’t want some version of me I couldn’t live up to.