Page 15 of Beautiful When He Breaks

The mattress dips under me as I slide back against the headboard, and Julian sits on the edge beside me. He adjusts the blanket someone threw over my chair last night, folds part of it over my chest, then looks at me with that no-bullshit expression he gets when he’s about to make me do something good for me that I don’t want to do.

“Take your shirt off,” he says.

I choke. “What?”

He rolls his eyes. “Not for me, you fucking idiot. Skin-to-skin. Last night the pediatrician said it helps regulate her temperature and breathing. Helps bonding. You can keep the blanket over her.”

Heat rushes up my neck because for one stupid second, my brain went somewhere else. Somewhere it has no business going when there’s a newborn between us, and my life is on fire.

“Right,” I mutter, grabbing the back of my shirt and pulling it over my head. Julian looks away while I do it. That hurts too, for reasons I’m not touching.

Once I’m settled, he places the baby against the center of my bare chest, belly down, her head turned to the side. I freeze immediately.

“Relax,” Julian murmurs, arranging the blanket over her back. “One hand here. Yeah, across her back. Other hand under her butt so she doesn’t slide. Don’t press. Just hold.”

She is impossibly warm. That’s the first thing my body registers. Warm and soft and heavy in a tiny way that makes every instinct in me go quiet. Her cheek rests against my skin, and her breath puffs over my chest in small, damp bursts. One of her hands opens, then closes against me.

I stop breathing, and Julian notices. “Eli.”

“I’m scared to move.”

“So don’t move.”

“I’m scared to breathe.”

“Breathe anyway, dumbass. She needs that part.”

I drag in air, shaky and uneven.

The baby shifts, then settles deeper into me with a soft sound that isn’t a cry. It’s almost a sigh. Like she’s comfortable and I’m safe. She fits there too well, and my body notices before my head does. My chest goes tight and full and awful all at once.

“I’m not ready,” I say again, barely above a whisper this time.

Julian leans against my dresser, arms folded loosely, watching me with those light hazel eyes that always see more than I want them to.

“No, you’re not. But she’s here anyway.”

I shut my eyes for a second because that’s the truth of it. There’s no extra time. No clean transition. No nine months of preparation. No classes. No nursery planning. No easing into the idea. Just a knock on the door and a baby on the porch, and a life shoved into my arms with a note that basically said good luck.

When I open my eyes again, I’m staring down at her face.

She’s got dark little wisps of hair. Tiny nose. Tiny mouth. Her lashes are stupidly long. I can’t look at her without feeling wrecked by it, by all of it, by the fact that I’m terrified and still the strongest thing in me is the need to keep her safe.

“What if I fuck up?” I ask.

Julian doesn’t answer right away. He looks at me for a moment, really looks. “You will,” he says eventually.

I blink. “Jesus Christ, Jules.”

“No, hear me out,” he says, pushing off the dresser and coming closer. “You’ll get things wrong sometimes because every parent does. You’ll panic. You’ll miss cues. You’ll do one bottle too cool or one diaper a little too loose or fall asleep sitting upright and wake up feeling guilty as hell. That’s normal. The question isn’t whether you’ll be perfect. It’s whether you’ll keep showing up.”

I stare at him, and he nods toward the baby. “You picked her up yesterday and looked at her like the earth tilted. You almost had a breakdown because you couldn’t fix one crying spell fast enough. You’re already in deep.”

I give a weak huff of breath that might pass for a laugh if anyone were feeling generous.

Julian’s mouth softens. “Get some more sleep if you can. I’m in the next room. Knock if she wakes again.”

Something about that undoes me a little more. “Thanks, Jules.”