Chapter 74 Laney
Laney
Saint doesn’t sleep that night.
Neither do I.
The argument from earlier hangs between us like smoke after a fire. Not burning anymore, but still there.
We don’t talk much.
But we sit in the same room.
Watching the baby breathe.
Like if either of us looks away, something might come for her.
The soft glow of the night-light paints the crib in warm gold.
Emmy sighs in her sleep, one tiny hand curled against her cheek.
Saint sits in the chair beside the crib, elbows on his knees.
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.