Page 133 of Beautiful When He Breaks

He studies me for a second longer, then leans down and kisses my forehead in a move so tender and unexpected it makes my eyes threaten me all over again.

“Okay,” he says quietly. “But next time lead with that before I wake up ready to fight God.”

“I’ll make a note.”

“Use one of your emotionally unavailable notebooks.”

I smile as he climbs out of bed and crosses to Mila’s cot, bare feet quiet on the floor, shoulders warm in the morning light. He bends over her with that soft, automatic murmur he uses only for her, and Mila’s almost-cry turns into a gurgle the second he lifts her. The sight opens the ache in me again, but this time I let it sit there without drowning in it.

Fifteen years ago, he argued with me over a rugby ball.

This morning, he stands in front of me with our whole impossible future tucked against his chest, messy and fragile and real.

And for once, I don’t have to pretend wanting that future is enough from a distance.

It’s here.

He’s here.

I’m allowed to reach for it.

40

Julian

The house is already awake in that particular Sin Bin way that makes quiet feel like something everyone is personally offended by.

Ryan is in the kitchen still wearing his silk bonnet and one sock on his foot, arguing with Liam about whether coffee counts as breakfast if you put protein powder in it, while Liam looks at him with tired disgust.

Thorn is slumped over the island with his head on folded arms, one hand wrapped around a mug. Roman is leaning against the counter beside Damon, who looks far too composed for someone who’s been back in the house only long enough to understand this place runs on caffeine, trauma, and people yelling across rooms instead of walking ten feet.

Luca is already dressed for the day because of course he is, standing near the fridge with Sage tucked against his side, both of them watching Ryan’s sock situation with the dead-eyed resignation of men who know better than to ask.

Eli comes down the stairs with Mila in his arms, and the entire room shifts around him.

That happens now. It’s subtle, but not if you know what to look for. Voices dip. Bodies adjust. Coffee mugs move farther from edges. Ryan stops mid-sentence long enough to make a ridiculous face at Mila, which she ignores with the brutal indifference of a girl who has higher priorities than basketball players before breakfast.

Eli still looks tired, and I know every mark of it because I spent the morning watching him wake up beside me after the most impossible night of my life. There’s a softness in him that wasn’t there yesterday, but there’s also a heaviness. The flash drive didn’t stop existing because we made love.

His fingers tighten slightly around Mila’s back when we step into the kitchen, and I move closer without thinking.

His gaze flicks to me for half a second, and his shoulders ease. That alone feels like it could undo me all over again if I let it. I keep my hand near the small of his back, not touching yet, just there in case he wants the contact. I’ve become ridiculous about that, about making sure he has every chance to choose even the smallest thing. I don’t know if I’m doing it right, but I know I’ll keep trying until I stop breathing.

Killian enters from the front hall with his phone in one hand, face already set in that expression that makes the rest of the house pay attention. “Mara’s here,” he says.

Eli goes still beside me. Mila, being Mila, chooses that exact moment to let out a happy little squeak and kick one foot against his stomach. It’s absurd and perfect and awful, because she has no idea that every adult in this house is bracing for another legal update about the woman who hurt her father and then abandoned her at the front door.

I touch Eli’s back this time, just two fingers between his shoulder blades. “You want me to take her?” I ask quietly.

He looks down at Mila first, then at the hall where Mara’s heels sound against the floor. “No,” he says after a second. “I want to hold her.”

I nod. “Okay.”

That’s all. He wants her in his arms when this comes; I get it. Mila is the whole point, the anchor, the wound, and the blessing all at once. None of that is fair to a baby who only wants breakfast, dry diapers, and someone to admire her deeply judgmental facial expressions. But Eli’s arms settle more firmly around her, and I see him breathe a little better.

Mara walks into the kitchen with a leather bag over one shoulder and a file tucked under her arm, looking as immaculate as always in a navy suit that says calm professional while her eyes say she has already mentally set fire to several institutions this morning. She gives the room a quick scan, takes in who’s present, then focuses on Eli with that careful directness I’ve come to appreciate.

“Good morning,” she says. “I can speak with you privately if you prefer.”