Page 27

The soft knock on the hospital room door pulls me from the doze I’d fallen into with Emma curled against my chest. My body aches in places I didn’t know could ache, but the bone-deep satisfaction of having her here, safe and perfect, overshadows everything else.

“Come in,”

I call quietly, not wanting to wake her.

Mom appears first, her face already crumpling with emotion as she takes in the sight of me holding her granddaughter. Behind her, Fleur bounces on her toes, trying to see over Mom’s shoulder, eyes wide with curiosity and excitement.

“Oh, ,”

Mom breathes, moving to the bedside with careful steps.

“She’s beautiful.”

Emma chooses that moment to open her eyes, those unfocused newborn blue that seem to take in everything and nothing. She makes a soft sound, and Mom’s hand flies to her mouth, tears spilling over.

“Can I hold her?”

Mom asks, voice thick with wonder.

I look to Nash, who’s been quietly organizing the flowers and cards that arrived this morning. He nods encouragingly, and I carefully transfer Emma to my mother’s eager arms.

“Hello, sweetheart,”

Mom coos, settling into the chair beside my bed.

“I’m your grandma. We’ve been waiting so long to meet you.”

Fleur crowds closer, one finger extended to stroke Emma’s tiny hand.

“She’s so small,”

she whispers, awe coloring her voice.

“And she looks just like you did as a baby, .”

“She has Nash’s nose,”

I observe, glancing at where he stands by the window, giving my family space but staying close enough to intervene if needed.

Mom looks up at him with an expression I can’t quite read.

“Thank you,”

she says simply.

“For taking care of them. Both of them.”

Nash’s scent shifts slightly, surprise mixing with his usual cedar.

“Of course. They’re my family.”

The certainty in his voice, the way he claims us without hesitation, sends a flutter through my heart that I try to ignore. He’s been trying to claim me for months. Somehow this is different. This isn’t the time for hormonal reactions to my daughter’s father stating the obvious.

The doctor arrives for my final check-up, disrupting the family moment. The examination is thorough but mercifully brief, and she pronounces me fit for discharge.

“Take it easy for the next few days,”

she advises, making notes on her tablet.

“No lifting anything heavier than the baby. Follow up with your regular OB-GYN in a week.”

When she leaves, I notice Nash by the window, holding Emma and murmuring softly to her.

“He’s good with her,”

Mom observes quietly, following my gaze.

“Yeah,”

I agree, something tight in my throat. “He is.”

The ride to my mother’s house passes in comfortable silence, Emma sleeping peacefully in her car seat between us in the back. Mom insisted on driving so Nash could sit with me.

“in case you need anything.”

The thoughtfulness of the gesture isn’t lost on me, though I suspect it has more to do with giving Nash and me time to figure out our next steps.

My phone buzzes constantly from the cup holder where Nash placed it, unknown numbers calling repeatedly.

I’m too exhausted to care who’s trying to reach me. Whatever it is can wait until I’ve had more than two hours of consecutive sleep.

“Someone’s very popular,”

Nash observes, glancing at the screen as another call comes through.

“Probably reporters,”

I mutter, shifting to find a more comfortable position. The hospital’s discharge instructions included warnings about media attention fo.

“high-profile patients,”

which apparently now includes me thanks to our very public relationship drama.

“I can handle them,”

Nash offers.

“Screen the calls, deal with whatever needs dealing with.”

The casual way he assumes responsibility for protecting me from media harassment should irritate me. Instead it settles something anxious in my chest. I’m too tired to fight, too overwhelmed by new parenthood to handle anything beyond the immediate needs of my daughter.

“Thank you,”

I say, meaning it.

The house looks the same as always but something feels different as Mom pulls into the driveway. Maybe it’s having Emma with me, or maybe it’s the way Nash’s presence changes the entire dynamic.

Mom parks and I reach for the seat.

“Let me,”

Nash says as I struggle with the seat’s release mechanism. His fingers brush mine as he lifts Emma out, still sleeping peacefully despite the transition from car to cold air.

Mom shepherds us all inside, fussing over blankets and tea and whether I need to lie down immediately. She decides that I do and Nash follows me up the stairs, carrying Emma in her seat.

The guest room—my temporary room—feels smaller with Nash in it. He moves around the space like he belongs there, checking the temperature, adjusting the blinds to block the sun. Small gestures that show he’s thinking about what we’ll need, what will make us comfortable.

“I should go,”

he says eventually, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

“Let you rest. Get settled.”

“You don’t have to leave,”

I find myself saying.

“I mean, if you want to stay for dinner. Mom’s probably already planning to cook enough food for an army.”

His smile is soft, pleased.

“I’d like that. If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

But as evening approaches and Emma begins her first night at home routine of feeding and fussing and brief stretches of sleep, reality intrudes. Nash will have to leave eventually. I’ll be here with my parents, figuring out how to be a single parent in my childhood home, while he goes back to his apartment and his life and his work.

The thought sits heavy in my stomach as I watch him burp Emma, having somehow mastered the technique in the few hours that we’ve had her.

“You’re good at this,”

I observe, echoing what Mom told me at the hospital.

“She makes it easy,”

he replies, settling her against his shoulder.

“Don’t you, sweetheart?”

After dinner, after Emma’s been fed and changed and finally settled into the portable crib in my room, Nash lingers by the door. The air between us feels charged with things unsaid.

“Nash,”

I start, then stop.

“I don’t want to stay here,”

I admit, the words rushing out before I can second-guess them.

“Not because I don’t appreciate my Mom, but because this isn’t home anymore. And I don’t want Emma’s first weeks to be about me hiding from my life.”

“—”

“I want to come with you,”

I continue, cutting off whatever reasonable objection he’s forming.

“To your apartment. To the nursery you’ve prepared. To whatever life we can build together.”

His eyes widen, hope blooming bright and undeniable across his features. For a moment I think he’ll say yes immediately, sweep me and Emma into his arms and take us home where we belong.

Instead, he shakes his head.

“No.”

The single word hits like a slap. “What?”

“You just had a baby, . Twenty-four hours ago you were in labor, and now you’re making life-altering decisions while running on no sleep and a massive hormonal shift.”

His voice is gentle but firm, the tone of someone who’s thought this through more clearly than I have.

“I love you and I want you and I’ve been wanting to hear this for so long, but I’d be doing you wrong if I said yes. This isn’t the time.”

“When is the time?”

I demand, frustration and hurt bleeding into my voice.

“When you’re sure,”

he says simply.

“When you’re choosing me because you want to, not because you’re overwhelmed and grateful and don’t know how to separate what you need from what you feel.”

The calm rationality of his response makes me want to scream. Or cry. Or both. He is such an infuriating ass.

“I am sure,”

I insist, but even as I say it, doubt creeps in. Am I? Or is this the emotional aftermath of birth.

Nash steps closer, close enough that I can feel the warmth of his body.

“Think about it,”

he says, hands framing my face with infinite gentleness.

“Really think about it. Not just tonight, not just while you’re recovering, but when you’re yourself again.”

“And if I decide I want you? Want us?”

“Then I’ll be here,”

he promises, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead.

“I’m not going anywhere, . I’m not disappearing, I’m not finding someone else, I’m not giving up on us. Take the time you need to be certain.”

The certainty in his voice, the patient devotion, should comfort me. Instead, the man makes the fire in me start raging again. All this time, he’s chased me and now he’s tell me no.

“Nash...”

“We need to do this right. And I love you enough to want you to choose me freely, completely, without reservations or doubts or gratitude clouding your judgment.”

“I love you too,”

I admit, the words scraping out of my throat.

The light that comes into his eyes at my admittance is blinding. He kisses my forehead again, then steps back before I can cling to him.

“Get some sleep. Take care of our daughter. Let your body heal. And when you’re ready—really ready—call me.”

“And you’ll come?”

“Try to stop me.”

After he leaves, the guest room feels too quiet despite Emma’s soft breathing from her crib. I lie on the narrow bed, staring at the ceiling, my body exhausted but my mind spinning with everything he said.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe I am making this decision from a place of vulnerability and gratitude rather than genuine certainty. Maybe I need time to separate what I want from what I think I should want.

But as I drift toward sleep, Nash’s scent still clinging to my clothes, Emma safe in her crib beside me, I can’t shake the feeling that I already know what I want.

I just need to be brave enough to claim it.