“No one’s ever ready.” She gives me a sad smile. “Even the parents who had nine months to plan. No one is ever ready to be a parent, even when they think they are.”
A parent? Fucking hell.
“Take your time,” she says, stepping away. “I’ve got a call to make anyway. I’ll be down the hall. When you’re ready… just go in and say hi, Kade. That’s all you have to do.”
She walks away, and I’m left with nothing but a pulsing heartbeat in my ears and a trembling breath in my lungs.
The door’s cracked open just enough that I can see the faint glow of machines inside. The fish stickers stare at me like they know I don’t fit in, and I barely resist the urge to flip them off.
But I step forward anyway.
Because Marlee died.
Because Georgia, Frank, and Aurora, are depending on me.
Because it’s what my dad would do.
Just say hi.
Chapter Ten
Just Say Hi
Ipush the door open, slow and quiet, then just stand there for a second completely frozen.
The room’s dim, lit mostly by the soft blue-white light of a monitor in the corner and the late afternoon bleeding through the edges of closed blinds. There’s a chair, a couch too short to sleep on, and in the middle of it all, a small crib on wheels.
Another step. A slow breath. A shaky exhale.
The crib is small because Aurora…
Aurora is so fucking small.
It’s the only thought I have, and it circles through my fogged-up brain on a loop. Not the machines. Not the quiet beep of her pulse on the monitor. Not even the butterfly bandage on her cheek, where a faded bruise still lingers.
Just how small she is.
Barely takes up half the crib.
She’s curled up on stark white sheets, one chubby arm flung out to the side like she owns the place. Her cheeks are round and flushed, lips parted slightly in sleep—the top one fuller than the bottom.
Unlike Marlee’s golden tan, Aurora’s skin is pale—fair enough that the fading bruise stands out. Maybe it’s just the hospital lights. Or maybe it’s from everything she’s been through.
And her hair’s a wild, messy halo of soft brown curls that stick up like she’s fresh out of a wind tunnel. There’s a dried curl stuck to her forehead, and another twirling in the shell of her ear.
She looks like chaos. Like sweetness and strength, all knotted together in this tiny, impossible package.
Just say hi.
I take the last few steps till my thighs are bumping the crib. And then I stop, because my knees threaten to buckle.
“Fuck,” I choke out. My throat constricts. “Holy shit.”
I’m not ready. I don’t know what to do with this—this precious baby. This human that has no idea who I am. No idea why I’m here. No idea that someone she’s never met just made a promise he’s scared to death he can’t keep when her world’s already been turned upside down.
My fingers twitch at my sides. I want to touch her, but I don’t. What if I wake her? What if she cries? I try to breathe deep, but it’s like my lungs are full of rocks.
God, I don’t know what I’m doing.
