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Guarding.

Always guarding.

“I’m not trying to fight you,” he says finally.

His voice is rough from too many hours awake.

“I know,” I whisper.

Silence settles again.

Then he looks at our daughter.

“I’m trying to build a world where she’s safe.”

The words land softly but heavily.

“So am I,” I say.

Our hands meet on the edge of the crib rail.

Neither of us planned it.

Neither of us pulls away.

“We don’t get to break,” I tell him quietly. “Not you. Not me. Not like that.”

His thumb shifts slightly against mine.

A silent acknowledgment.

He nods slowly.

“Okay,” he says.

Then after a moment:

“Then we do this your way, too.”

His gaze softens just a fraction.

“Now get some sleep.”

It’s not a promise.

Not yet.

But it feels like the beginning of one.

75

Saint

The letter is waiting on the bar when I come downstairs.

Official envelope.

County seal.