Suddenly, she stirs. Just a little. A shift of a tiny foot, covered by a tiny white onesie. A scrunch of her button nose. I hold my breath, my entire body tense as hell, waiting to see if she’ll fully wake up.
She settles for a second—no more than a single breath. Then her eyes flutter open.
Big, deep brown eyes rimmed with thick lashes, blink up at the ceiling like she sees something I don’t. I follow her gaze, stomach flipping.
Please don’t be a ghost of your mama.
Nothing. Of course, there’s nothing. My heart skips, stumbles, then slams. I look back down at the baby occupying the crib—flipping my world on its axis.
Aurora turns her head slowly—so slowly it feels like it takes a lifetime—and locks eyes with me.
And everything…just stops.
No sound. No panic. No spiraling. Just a weightless, breathless pause as this tiny girl stares up at me like I mightmatter. Like I’m not a stranger, or a mistake, or a man who’s already wrecked too much to be trusted with anything soft.
My knees give out.
I drop into the chair beside her crib as if I’ve been hit. Elbows on my thighs. Hands shaking like I’m back in the desert, waiting for something to blow.
Out of nowhere, a tear slips free. Then another.
I wipe my face with the back of my hand, jaw clenched tight—hard enough to crack bone. But the tears keep coming. Thick and fast and stupid.So fucking stupid.
Don’t even know why I’m crying.
I’ve seen worse. Lived through worse. Buried friends, dodged bullets, held men in my arms while they bled out and begged for their mamas.
But this?
Thiswrecksme.
She’s so damn small. So new.
Unbroken.
She doesn’t know what’s out there waiting. Doesn’t know about heartbreak or betrayal. Doesn’t know the way the world kicks you when you’re already down. Doesn’t know that sometimes, one bad second is all it takes to fuck everything to hell.
Aurora has no idea that someday, when she’s old enough, she’ll learn she lost everything before she even knew she had it.
Her eyes are wide, dark, and innocent. She trusts me. Without hesitation. Without question. She doesn’t know she’s been alone. Has no idea she’s not anymore.
I swallow hard, chest threatening to cave in under the weight of something I can’t name. She’s perfect. And I’m not. Not even close.
But in this moment—this one, impossible, breaking-open-my-ribs moment—I’d do anything to protect her from the kind of pain I’ve spent my whole life choking on.
The door opens softly behind me, and I sit up straight, trying to hide the worst of it, quickly wiping my face on my sleeve. Fuck, I haven’t had to hide tears since I was a boy.
An older nurse walks in, short and round and kind-eyed. Her scrubs are covered in sunflowers, and her face softens when she sees me. “You must be Mr. Archer.”
I nod, not trusting my voice, and shove to my feet.
She moves to the crib and checks the monitor, then the chart clipped to the side. “She’s doing well. The concussion’s resolved. The bruising’s fading. The cut on her cheek will scar, but it’s clean. No lasting damage.”
My throat tightens again, and my voice is rough as I speak. “How long’s she been here?”
I feel like Georgia’s told me, but everything’s been a whirlwind.
“Two weeks,” she says gently. “She’s a fighter.”
