Page 96 of Full Out Fiend

“I missed my little angel, and I haven’t gotten to hold her since this morning,” I push, shucking off my shirt before making gimme hands.

Daphne gives me a look, and I know better than to challenge her objection. She’s overheard more than one nurse talk about the “hot dad” in room 207. But what does she expect me to do? Skin-to-skin is beneficial for bonding and for helping Winnie regulate her body temperature. It’s practically required that I walk around shirtless.

She shifts forward and lets me scoop up our sweet girl. She’s a warm, pliant ball of love in my arms. Bracing Winnie against my chest, I use my other arm to help Daphne up, letting her ease into it as she stands and finds her balance.

Daphne’s had a few teary-eyed moments over the last nine days, but one thing’s for damn sure—my woman is a fighter. I think she surprised even herself with the ferocity with which she’s taken to motherhood.

Aside from being the hot dad (a moniker I fully intend to put on a T-shirt), I swear the nurses are grateful for the levity I bring to the room. Daphne is on top of everything: constantly asking questions, insisting we handle all the diaper changes, and Googling every damn thing they tell us to verify that it’s the most up-to-date information and that she understands it. She’s a badass, but she doesn’t stop. Hence my need to lighten the moments, to make her rest, and to draw out those smiles.

“I’ll be back before her next feeding,” she tells me, grabbing her bag and looking over wistfully.

I settle into the vinyl-covered recliner and get comfy, rearranging Winnie’s legs and making sure none of her EKG wires are tangled. When I look up to give Daphne a reassuring smile, our eyes lock, and it’s like my whole world falls into perfect harmony.

“Love you,” I mouth before placing my lips on the top of my daughter’s forehead and breathing her in. Why do babies smell so damn good?

I fish out my phone and snap a selfie to send off to Maddie and Dem, asking if they want to FaceTime later. Then I close my eyes contentedly and rock my daughter in my arms.

Chapter 55

Daphne

“Idon’tknowwhatto do. She doesn’t want to nurse. She won’t burp. Her diaper’s clean. She’s so—she’s just—”

Fielding’s moving across the room and lifting her from my arms before I finish my train of thought.

“She’s just a baby. And you’re a fucking rock star,” he adds, giving me a sympathetic smile as he cuddles her tight to his chest.

She stops crying immediately. As soon as the wailing dies down, he repositions her tiny body to wrap around his forearm, and I’m almost pissed when she visibly relaxes and finally starts to settle. Thankfully, I can’t muster the energy to actually be upset. All I really feel is relief.

There’s something so painstakingly unfair about the newborn stage. At least in our dynamic. I’m on the brink of a breakdown, and he’s somehow standing there cool, calm, collected, and looking like a freaking snack with a baby in his arms.

“How many times did you wake to feed her last night?” Fielding asks as he sways in place and shushes her in a calm, soothing tone.

I open the tracking app on my phone. “Eleven?” I exclaim in disbelief. And that’s probably a low estimate. At some point around four a.m., I stopped counting. Getting up, getting her out of her bassinet, and trying not to nod off as she ravenously bopped around like a barracuda was almost more than I could handle.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath. “She’s cluster feeding. It’s just a phase, but you need sleep. I have breakfast ready for you in the kitchen. Go eat, then you’re going to take a shower and a nap. Youhaveto sleep, angel. I’ll keep her with me while I get things ready for today.”

Ready? That’s right. My parents and sister are coming over to meet Elowyn. I’m already a harried, stressed-out mess. I groan as I think about coming face to face with my father for the first time in months.

“We can cancel,” Fielding reminds me. We’ve had some version of this conversation several times over the past few days. I’m not even upset at his constant reminders. He’s just looking out for me and trying to protect my already feeble mental health. “We can tell them it’s not a good day. Just say the word—”

“No,” I insist. “I’ll feel better once I’ve eaten and showered. I just want to get this over with.”

“Text me if you need anything.” He pads over to the bed, our baby still balanced on his forearm, and kisses me before threatening, “And don’t you dare interrupt my baby time.”

He’s teasing. And trying to make me feel better about desperately wanting a little time to myself.

I tear up at his covert kindness. “If she—”

“She’ll want for nothing,” he insists with a pointed look, backing toward the door. “And if she gets sassy with me, she and I will negotiate. Are you okay with me giving her a bottle if you’re napping?”

I work my lip between my teeth. Am I? Am I more desperate for sleep, or the assurance that I’m doing all I can to keep up my supply?

“If you sleep through a feeding, you can pump when you get up,” he reminds me.

I sigh with relief. That’s all the convincing I need.

I rise to my feet slowly—my low back and shoulders ache from being hunched over and trying to get her to nurse so many times throughout the night—and make my way over to where he stands in the doorframe.