Page 19 of Beautiful When He Breaks

He turns his head slightly, and I regret saying it before his eyes even reach me. “No, I don’t know what it’s like to have Catholic parents from a blue-collar family who measure shame in Sunday whispers and family reputation. But I do know what it’s like to have powerful people decide your life belongs to their image of you. Different decoration. Same cage.”

I look down. “Sorry,” I mutter.

“Don’t waste apologies on me, Matthews.”

I laugh under my breath, but there’s no humor in it. “My mom used to say pregnancy out of wedlock was what happened when girls weren’t protected properly, and boys weren’t raised with discipline. What the hell is she gonna say when it’s me?”

“She’ll probably say a lot of things that hurt.”

That honesty lands with a dull thud. I blink at him, and he shrugs once. “You don’t need me to lie to you. They may react badly or make it about shame before they make it about the baby. They may ask the wrong questions in the worst order and say things they can’t take back. So don’t tell them alone.”

I stare at him, and he holds my gaze. “When you call them, you do it with someone in the room. Me, Julian, Liam, Luca, whoever you want. If they come here, they don’t get to go upstairs unless you say so. They don’t hold the baby unless you say so. They don’t take her anywhere. They don’t take paperwork. They don’t pressure you to hand over decisions because they’re older and scared and loud.”

“It’s not that simple.” My chest squeezes. “They’re my parents.”

“No, it’s not,” he says. “But simple or not, you’re the one sitting beside that bassinet, not them.”

I look away because my eyes burn. The baby shifts again, and my gaze cuts to her once more. She’s so small. That’s the thought I can’t escape. So fucking small; small enough that everyone else’s anger feels obscene next to her. My parents’ disappointment, Celeste’s excuses, her parents’ church-gossip bullshit, my own fear—it all feels too loud for a person whose whole hand can barely wrap around my finger.

“I don’t feel like her dad,” I admit.

Killian’s voice softens, but only a little. “What do you feel like?”

“A fraud,” I say, and the word comes fast because it’s been sitting in my throat all morning. “A scared kid with a baby in his room. Someone’s gonna come in and realize I don’t know enough, and they’re gonna take her because I’m not ready.”

“No new parent is ready.”

“That’s what Jules said.”

“Julian’s right.”

I swallow. “He usually is. It’s annoying as shit.”

Killian’s mouth twitches. “Yeah. He hides competence under bad jokes and good hair.”

That gets the smallest laugh out of me. It hurts, but it comes.

Then Killian’s face settles again. “Listen to me. Being scared doesn’t make you unfit. Asking for help doesn’t make you weak. Taking time to understand your legal position doesn’t make you selfish. And loving that baby before you know how to build a life around her doesn’t make you stupid. It makes you human, Eli.”

I look at him, and something in me almost breaks at how calm he is. Killian is not soft. He’s not the guy anyone goes to for gentle words or hand-holding or sentimental bullshit. He’s sharp edges and bruised knuckles and a stare that makes people remember they have somewhere else to be. But he’s here, sitting backward on my desk chair with coffee in his hand and advice in his back pocket.

“I can’t pay for a lawyer like yours, even when my trust pays out,” I say, because my brain grabs onto the practical fear before the emotional one drowns me. “If this gets ugly—”

“Stop,” he says, and I tense. His tone isn’t harsh, but it doesn’t leave room for argument. “My father is sending Mara because I asked him to. The King family is covering it.”

My stomach drops. “Killian—”

“No.”

My heart starts beating way too fast. “I can’t let you—”

“You can,” he says. “And you will.”

I stand because sitting suddenly feels impossible. “That’s too much.”

He gets to his feet as well. “A newborn was left on our doorstep. You live in my house. You’re my friend. This is exactly what family money is for when it isn’t being wasted on ugly art and tax shelters.”

I whirl back on him. “This isn’t your responsibility, Kill—”