Page 132 of Beautiful When He Breaks

“That almost cured me.”

“You loved me when I argued that rugby was just football with commitment issues.”

I pull back enough to glare at him. “You were wrong then, and you remain wrong now.”

His smile starts slow and sleepy and devastating. “You shoved me first.”

“You insulted my culture.”

“I was five.”

“You were loud.”

He laughs, and the sound fills the room so gently that for a second, I forget I ever cried. Then his expression softens again, and he brushes his fingers along my jaw.

“You stayed through a lot too,” he says.

“So did you.”

He shakes his head slightly, not letting me deflect that easily. “No, Jules. I mean it. Even when I was an asshole. Even when I pushed you away because of Celeste. Even when you were dealing with your own shit, and I didn’t see it. You stayed.”

I swallow hard. “Sometimes I stayed badly.”

“Yeah,” he says, because he isn’t going to lie to make either of us feel cleaner. “Sometimes I loved you badly too. That doesn’t mean it wasn’t love.”

The sentence settles between us with a strange, painful grace.

I think about all the years we hurt each other by omission. All the words we swallowed. All the assumptions we let harden because saying the truth felt too risky. Maybe it would be easy to grieve that time forever. Maybe part of me will. But Eli is here now, hand on my face, daughter in the cot, morning light on his bare shoulder, and I don’t want to spend the first morning after losing myself in everything we didn’t know how to do sooner.

“I don’t want to waste today being sad about the years,” I say.

His gaze holds mine. “Then don’t.”

“That easy?”

“No,” he says, kissing me once. “But we can be emotionally fucked up after breakfast.”

I laugh into his mouth. “Romantic.”

“I contain multitudes.”

“You stole that from me.”

“I’m keeping it.”

Mila decides then that she’s done being patient with the emotional breakthroughs happening around her and lets out a tiny, offended sound that is not quite a cry yet but definitely the opening argument.

Eli’s head turns immediately, father mode engaging so fast it would be funny if it weren’t beautiful. He looks back at me, then down at the sheet pooled around his waist, then at the cot, then at me again.

“Your emotional breakdown has been postponed by a tiny tyrant,” he says.

I wipe the last dampness from my face and nod solemnly. “She’s a ruthless household manager.”

“She gets that from Killian.”

Eli moves to get up, but before he can, I catch his wrist gently. He turns back, brows lifting.

“I’m okay,” I tell him, because I want him to hear it while he’s fully awake this time. “They were good tears. Overwhelmed tears, maybe. Slightly embarrassing tears. But good.”