Page 96 of Hush, Little Baby

Charlie sits bolt upright at my side, shoulders trembling. For a dizzy moment, I fear he’s hurt himself—until a sharp, acidic tang slaps me awake.

Vomit.

My gaze drops to the sheets where a dark, soupy stain pools, a miserable ruin of bile and chunks of presumably his dinner against the crisp white linens. His shoulders shake in another broken sob.

“Oh, baby,” I murmur, voice soft as down. His whole frame quivers.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps, voice cracking. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

I reach out, fingers brushing damp strands at the nape of his neck. His skin is coolish, clammy to the touch—no fever, but close enough to worry me. His eyes lift to mine, wide with self-loathing.

“I ruined everything,” he whispers, sounding absolutely devastated.

My chest physically hurts at the sight of him crumbling under guilt and humiliation, but I force a gentle smile. “You threw up, that’s all.” I brush a trembling hand over his cheek, feeling the slick remnants of sickness and salt-stung tears. “Let’s get you cleaned up first.”

Everything else—sheets, mattress, time—fades to insignificance. Charlie is all that matters.

I throw back the bedding and slide from the bed. “Can you stand?” I hold out an arm.

He nods, then sways. I catch him, his fingers clutching my forearm like a lifeline.

“Easy,” I say, sliding an arm around his waist and guiding him upright. His pajama sleeve is soiled, and I cringe at the sight of vomit matted into the fabric. His cheeks flush scarlet when he notices my gaze.

“Oh god,” he whispers. “I didn’t mean—”

“I know,” I say gently. I steer him toward the bathroom, the light coming in from the bedroom windows a pale halo around us. “What happened?”

Charlie’s shoulders hitch. When we enter the bathroom, I flip on a light switch as he slides onto the closed toilet lid, voice trembling. “I woke up with a migraine… I didn’t want to wake you.” He twists his hands together, knuckles white. “I tried to take a Tylenol, but the pill got stuck—like in my throat—and then I gagged, and… I couldn’t stop.” Tears pool in his eyes again.

“Accidents happen,” I murmur, turning the faucet to a cool trickle and fetching a washcloth. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

“But I made a mess,” he says, voice small.

“You could set the entire penthouse on fire,” I reply, pressing the cloth to his cheek, “and I’d still be more worried about you than the furniture.”

A tiny, rusty laugh escapes him—a single spark of relief.

Once his face is clean, I tug his soiled pajama top over his head and toss it aside. I soak a fresh cloth and wipe down his exposed skin—collarbone, shoulders, forearms, hands. With each gentle stroke, his shoulders drop a little lower, the world feeling safer beneath my hands. At last, his chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm.

I press a soft kiss to his damp hair. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

Charlie’s pupils dilate with alarm. “Niko—”

“I’m stripping the bed, not abandoning you,” I promise. Relief floods his features, and I can’t help but smile fondly.

Back in the bedroom, the destruction isn’t nearly as catastrophic as Charlie imagined. The mattress protector has done its job, and the sheets slide into a laundry bag with easy efficiency. I fire off a brief text to Marta telling her the bedding will need to be washed first thing in the morning.

Returning to the bathroom, I find Charlie still seated on the lid, shoulders drooped.

I hold out my hand. “Come on.”

He takes it without hesitation, leaning on me as I guide him out of the bedroom, down the hall to the nursery. Moonlight spills through the gauzy curtains as we enter, pooling silver on the floor.

Charlie’s pace slows, his head drooping with exhaustion. I pick up a footed sleeper from the drawer—soft cotton in a pale, comforting blue—and ease him into it, button by button. By the time I zip the front closed, his lashes are too heavy to lift.

“Sleepy?” I murmur.

He nods, blinking up at me with a trust so complete my chest aches.