Page 32 of Beautiful When He Breaks

I turn my head toward him fully then, because even with all the shit bouncing around inside me, that gets my attention in a way lust or longing can’t blur. “Based on what?”

Eli’s mouth tightens. He looks past me toward the bassinet before answering, and when he finally does, his voice is rough. “Based on the circumstances of how Mila was conceived. Mara said that, right now, it’s about building a record and protecting us early. She doesn’t want Celeste or her parents getting cute later and trying to show up here or force contact before the court has everything laid out properly.”

There’s no clean way to talk about any of this. Every practical step has something rotten underneath it, and every legal protection is also confirmation that something bad enough happened to require protection in the first place.

I know Eli’s still trying to hold both truths at once: that Mila is his and loved and wanted, but the way she came to be in his life isn’t something he’d ever have chosen. The guilt in him is quieter now than it was the day the DNA results came back.

“That’s good,” I say after a moment. “Not the reason behind it. The order. The record. All of that.”

“Yeah.” He rubs his palm over one thigh absently. “I swear to God, having a baby is like accidentally joining the most bureaucratic cult in the world.”

That gets a real laugh out of me, low enough not to wake Mila. “You should put that on a parenting blog.”

“Yeah, I’m sure all the wine moms would love me.”

My gaze drifts for one traitorous second, from his face to the line of water still drying at his collarbone and then lower to the hard plane of his chest, the spread of muscle over his stomach, the dark waistband riding low on his hips. I know better. I know better, yet I still look.

Because it’s always been Eli for me. That’s the ugly truth of it. I don’t even know when it started. I can’t point to one clean moment and say, “there, right there, that’s where I lost the plot.” I’ve tried other bodies, other mouths, other distractions, and none of them ever made even the slightest dent in it.

All roads lead back to Eli Matthews. Always. Every time.

I drag my eyes back to his face and find him still talking, thankfully oblivious to the direction my brain just sprinted.

“Killian’s basically both dad and mom of the house at this point,” he says, and there’s tired affection tucked under the complaint. “He keeps appearing every time I’m about to forget something important. He reminded me to sign the pediatric records transfer form. He ordered a lockbox for Mila’s paperwork. He somehow already has a schedule worked out for who can be around if Mrs. Alvarez ends up needing overlap before classes let out. I don’t even know when he slept.”

I smile despite myself because that’s painfully accurate. “Killian doesn’t sleep. He powers down for twenty minutes in a coffin full of tax returns and wakes up meaner.”

Eli laughs more softly this time, careful of the bassinet. “That sounds right. I swear, he’ll walk in here tomorrow with a matching daycare spreadsheet and a first-aid certification program.”

“He probably already has.”

“Yeah, probably.” The amusement in his face slowly fades into something more thoughtful. He leans back on his hands and turns his head toward the bassinet. The light from the bedside lamp catches his profile, the line of his nose, the wet ends of his hair curling slightly at the nape of his neck, and I have to clench my jaw not to stare too obviously.

“I know how lucky I am,” he says quietly. “I know most single dads don’t have it as easy as I do with all of you. Most people wouldn’t turn their whole house upside down for somebody else’s kid. They wouldn’t help with lawyers, diapers, fucking outlet covers, emergency grocery runs, and all the rest of it. They definitely wouldn’t just accept a baby into their lives this fast.”

He says it with that open sincerity he only shows when he’s too tired to protect himself from being earnest. That’s still one of the purest things about Eli. For all the guilt and the religious baggage and the blind spots that have wrecked things between us more than once, gratitude comes naturally to him. He notices care and effort.

“You’d do the same,” I tell him, and his smile fades into something more serious.

“Still. It’s different when it’s actually happening to me,” he says. “I keep looking around and thinking how easy it would’ve been for everyone to back away. They could’ve said it was too messy or too weird or too much. Instead, Killian called his family lawyer. Liam started making those stupid food schedules. Luca keeps rearranging football shit so I can make appointments. Even Ryan’s trying, and Ryan’s version of trying includes a musical rubber duck that plays Mozart when you squeeze it, which I’m still convinced is psychological warfare.”

I laugh under my breath. “That duck is cursed.”

“That duck is loud as fuck,” he says, smiling again. “Mila’s probably gonna love it.”

The use of her name still affects him every time; I can hear it. The fact that he named his daughter after my mom has made me fall a little harder into a hole I can’t afford to be in.

“She probably will,” I say. “She’s got no taste yet.”

He shakes his head at me, but then his expression changes into something more private. “I’m serious, though. I’m grateful. For all of it. For everyone. For you.”

The last part lands hard enough that I feel it in my throat. “You don’t have to be grateful for me.”

His brows draw together. “Why the hell wouldn’t I be?”

Because I’d still be here if you hated me. Because loving you has never been contingent on getting anything back, and I’d rather tear my own skin off than make you feel indebted to me for that.

I shrug one shoulder and force a crooked smile. “Because I’m your best friend. That’s just the job description.”