Page 90 of Beautiful When He Breaks

“As a fucking heart attack.”

“That could be years.”

Killian lifts a brow. “Then I guess I’ll wait years.”

I look down at the counter for a second. Killian’s never been the soft, sentimental one; that’s what makes moments like this hit so much worse. He doesn’t dress up care and love in softer language. He just builds a place for your kid to live and dares you not to take it.

Eli’s throat works. He shifts Mila again and presses his mouth briefly to the top of her head, maybe because she’s there, maybe because he needs one second to hide his face from both of us. When he looks back up, his eyes are bright in that way he hates anybody noticing.

“You’re an asshole,” he says thickly.

Killian nods once. “Correct.”

“This is emotional blackmail.”

“No,” Killian says. “It’s a loan with excellent long-term returns.”

I can’t help it—I laugh. It comes out rough from too little sleep, but it’s real, and Eli cuts a look at me that’s half betrayed and half relieved because now the air has shifted just enough that he can breathe inside it again.

“You’re not helping,” he mutters.

“I am absolutely helping,” I tell him. “You just hate competent people.”

He glares at me, but there’s no real force in it. The fight’s already going out of him. I can see that too. He wants to argue, but he also wants Mila to be safe. He wants something he can point to if the court questions where she lives, something that says stable, separate, cared for, and not temporary. He knows this fixes a problem that’s been making him quietly sick ever since Mara first hinted at how family court likes to read appearances.

Killian lets the silence work for him before adding, “Mara says it matters, so that’s enough for me. Separate entrance, proper nursery setup, your own kitchen space, your own living area. We make it clean and obvious that you’re the custodial parent with a real residence on the property, not a guy crashing with his kid in a mansion.”

That phrase lands on Eli exactly the way Killian intends. Not to shame him. To tell him the truth in a way he can use.

Eli stares down at Mila in her duck onesie for a second before letting out a slow breath. “How fast?”

Killian’s expression doesn’t change, but the victory is there in the tiny easing of his shoulders. “Fast.”

“That means you already started.”

“Yes.”

I look at him then. “How long have you been planning this?”

Killian picks his mug back up. “Since Mara first mentioned housing optics.”

“That was like four days ago,” Eli says.

Killian sips his coffee. “And?”

Eli just shakes his head in that helpless, disbelieving way he gets when someone out-cares his ability to deflect it. “You’re insane.”

“Also correct.”

Mila makes a little snuffling noise against Eli’s shoulder and starts rooting at his shirt. It breaks the tension completely because there is no human alive who can hold onto a dramatic moment while a baby starts headbutting them for breakfast. Eli glances down immediately, the instinctive softness in his face washing everything else out for a second.

“She’s hungry,” he murmurs.

“I gathered that,” Killian says dryly. “Unlike her father, she has no hesitation in asking for what she needs.”

Eli shoots him a tired look. “You are on fire this morning, King.”

He shrugs. “I slept.”