“Shit,” she muttered under her breath, steeling herself with a deep inhale before opening the door. “What are you doing here?”
“We need to talk, Ava,” Deacon replied, his voice steady.
“How did you know where I lived?” she asked, a hint of incredulity in her tone.
Deacon’s lips curled into a slight smirk. “I have ways.”
“My dad told you, didn’t he?” she pressed, suspicion lingering.
“I’m not ratting on your dad. May I come in?” he asked, his expression softening.
“Yes, of course,” Ava conceded, pulling the door wider to let him enter. She watched as he removed his hat and wiped his feet on the welcome mat before stepping inside. “Have a seat. Would you like something to drink?”
“No, thank you,” he declined politely, choosing to remain standing. He gestured for her to sit first, an unspoken courtesy, before he settled into the chair opposite her, his eyes scanning the room. “Where’s Ellie?”
“Asleep. She’s out by seven-thirty,” Ava replied, her voice gentle.
“I see,” Deacon murmured, his voice low and thoughtful as he studied the quiet house around them. He paused, then added, “Could I look in on her? I won’t wake her.”
Ava nodded and rose from the armchair. Deacon followed, his boots whispering against the hardwood floor in the hallway. She led him down a narrow corridor lined with framed photographs, until they reached a slightly ajar door. Ava pressed a finger to her lips, the warm glow of a nightlamp spilling through the crack.
Gently, she pushed the door open. Inside, the lamp cast golden light across the ceiling, where delicate butterflies ‘flew’ in an endless spiral. Ava’s eyes softened. “She loves butterflies,” she whispered, stepping forward and motioning Deacon to join her.
He lingered in the doorway for a moment, as if afraid to break the enchantment. At her gesture,he crossed into the bedroom. The scent of lavender and baby powder filled the air. Together, they stood beside the white wooden crib. Deacon’s gaze settled on their daughter’s soft curls, and she saw him blink his eyes quickly.
“She’s so beautiful,” he breathed.
Ava’s throat tightened. “Yes, she is.”
“And healthy?”
“Yes.”
Deacon reached out, his fingers trembling as they brushed against a ringlet.
“I don’t know where she got those curls.”
“My mother,” Deacon replied.
“I was sure they didn’t come from my side of the family.”
“Mine and my brothers’ hair curls on the ends.” He pointed to the curled ends of his hair.
Ava smiled, then tugged his sleeve. “Come on. Let’s sit and talk.”
Deacon followed her down the hall to the living room. “Please sit,” Ava invited, gesturing to the sofa.
“Do you have any whiskey?”
Ava smiled and nodded. She returned moments later with a shot glass half-filled with amber liquid. Deacon took it without a word, downed it in one motion, and handed it back. “Another?”
“No, thank you.”
Ava rinsed the glass and placed it in the sink, then returned to find him still standing by the armchair. “Deacon, please sit.”
He glanced at her. “After you.”
She sighed and settled onto the sofa. He sat beside her, the tension between them as intense as the hush in the room. At last Ava turned to him,voice trembling. “I know you’re in shock. Seeing you with her… I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I should have.”
