Page 91 of Beautiful When He Breaks

That actually gets a proper laugh out of Eli, small but real. I watch the last of the fight drain out of him with it, and some tight place in me loosens. He’s going to take the help. Mila’s going to have a place that courts can’t sneer at. Killian is going to bulldoze whatever stands in the way because that’s how he loves people. It doesn’t fix the rest, but it fixes this one thing.

Eli reaches for the bottle sitting on the warming tray by the counter—Killian had one ready, the absolute psychopath—and tests it against his wrist before settling Mila into the crook of his arm. The move is smoother than it used to be. Less panicked. He still looks a little amazed by himself every time she latches and drinks without complaint.

“Thank you,” he says quietly after a minute, not looking up.

Killian waves it off with the tiniest movement of his mug. “You’ll pay me back.”

Eli’s mouth twitches. “Draw up a contract so I can believe you.”

“I’ll even charge interest if it makes you feel less emotional about it.”

“Fuck off.”

“Now you sound better.”

I lean more fully into the counter beside him and watch Mila drink, one tiny hand opening and closing against Eli’s chest—her signature comfort move now. The kitchen is still quiet enough that we can hear the little sounds she makes around the bottle, the soft swallow, breath, and settle that have become the background rhythm of our lives without any of us really noticing when it happened.

Morning light is starting to break more cleanly through the big windows over the sink, turning the stone and counters a soft gold instead of gray.

“You know,” I say, because the thought’s been rolling around in my head for a minute now, “the outbuilding thing is probably smart anyway.”

Eli glances at me. “You and Killian tag-teaming me now?”

“Absolutely.” I shrug. “Mila needs something that reads stable on paper. You need something that feels like yours. And before you start, yes, I know the main house is yours too in a way, but that’s not what I mean.”

His expression shifts slightly, softer around the edges. He knows exactly what I mean. The Sin Bin has been home in every meaningful way since his parents made their choice, but it’s still a shared life. Shared kitchen. Shared noise. Shared chaos. Shared people who would all die for Mila and also definitely teach her swear words too early if given the chance.

The outbuilding gives him something separate without taking him away from us. A door he can close. A place to build around his daughter that belongs to him in a new, undeniable way.

“It’ll be good,” I say more quietly. “For both of you.”

He watches me for one second too long, and under the table, his knee brushes mine. The contact is small. It still feels like a declaration.

“Yeah,” he says, and there’s more in it than agreement. “It will.”

Killian, who absolutely notices everything and has the decency to say nothing about it, checks the time on his phone. “Contractor’s coming out at ten. Mara wants photos once the nursery corner’s framed up. Mrs. Alvarez said she’s happy to help organize if needed.”

I blink. “Mrs. Alvarez knows?”

Killian looks at me like I’m stupid. “Mrs. Alvarez knows everything.”

That, honestly, is fair.

Eli shakes his head slowly, feeding Mila and looking half wrecked by gratitude all over again. “This whole house is insane.”

The floor creaks overhead, followed by the sounds of Ryan cranking Taylor Swift’s The Story of Us. The peace of the morning is about to end. In another minute, the kitchen will be filled with voices and coffee and questions and all the usual movement of too many people living in one place. But right here, for this little stretch of time, it’s just us. Me, Eli, Mila, and Killian in his own grim, terrifying version of family-man mode.

“Sounds like Ryan is in his Speak Now era,” Killian grumbles.

“We should be lucky he got over his Tortured Poets era. I can’t stand Ryan quoting Taylor Swift when he’s mopey,” Eli deadpans.

I look at Eli again while he feeds his daughter in the morning light and think, not for the first time, that love wears some strange fucking shapes.

Sometimes it looks like a man standing in your kitchen telling you he’s building you a home and you can pay him back after the NFL gets done claiming your body for profit.

Sometimes it looks like a duck onesie and a bottle at dawn.

Sometimes it looks like the quiet understanding between two people who’ve been through hell separately and somehow ended up here anyway, side by side at an island while the rest of the house still sleeps.