24. Blake
Chapter 24
Blake
I woke to Amelia's cries in the middle of the night. It wasn't her usual "I'm hungry" or "I need a diaper change" cry. This was something different—higher pitched, more urgent. I fumbled for the lamp on my nightstand and stumbled towards her crib.
"What's wrong, little one?" I whispered, reaching down to touch her forehead.
My heart lurched when I felt the heat radiating from her skin.
She was burning up.
"Xander!" I called out, louder than I'd intended. The cottage was small enough that my voice carried easily.
I heard his footsteps a moment later, quick and sure. He appeared in the doorway wearing only pajama pants, his hair disheveled from sleep, but his eyes instantly alert.
"She's burning up," I said, already lifting Amelia from her crib. She wailed louder at being disturbed, her little face flushed and distressed.
Xander was beside me in an instant, his hand replacing mine on her forehead. His touch was gentle but clinical, his eyes narrowing slightly as he assessed her.
"She definitely has a fever. Let me get the thermometer." He disappeared for a moment, returning with a digital thermometer and a medical kit.
"Here, let me," he said, reaching for Amelia.
I hesitated for just a fraction of a second before handing her over. It wasn't that I didn't trust him—I'd seen firsthand how careful and competent he was with her. But something instinctive in me wanted to keep her close, as if I could absorb her discomfort.
Xander cradled her with practiced ease, soothing her with a low murmur as he took her temperature. "101.3," he announced after the thermometer beeped. "Not dangerously high, but definitely a fever."
"We should give her something for it, right?" I asked.
"I'd like to hold off," he said, surprising me. "Her body temperature is elevated for a reason—it's fighting something off. Unless it goes above 102, I think we should let her immune system do its job."
I stared at him. "You want to just... let her suffer? She's clearly uncomfortable."
"I'm not suggesting we do nothing," he countered, his voice remaining calm. "We'll monitor her, keep her hydrated, and make her as comfortable as possible. But fever reducers can sometimes mask symptoms that we need to pay attention to."
I took Amelia back, bouncing her gently against my shoulder. "She's miserable, Xander. I can't just watch her cry like this when we have medicine that could help her."
"It's not that simple, Blake." He ran a hand through his hair, his doctor mode fully activated now. "Suppressing a fever can actually prolong illness. The elevated temperature helps kill the virus or bacteria."
"I know you're a doctor," I said, trying to keep my voice even for Amelia's sake, though frustration was building inside me. "But I'm the one who's been with her all day. She was fussy during dinner, and she barely touched her bedtime bottle. Something's definitely wrong, and if we can make her more comfortable—"
"That's exactly my point," Xander interrupted. "If something is wrong, we need to know what it is. Masking symptoms could delay proper treatment if it's something serious."
I turned away from him, focusing on Amelia. Her cries had settled into whimpers, but her little body felt like a furnace against mine. "I think we should give her Tylenol," I said firmly. "Just enough to take the edge off so she can sleep."
"Blake." There was a note of warning in his voice. "This isn't a decision to make based on what feels good in the moment. This is medical."
"And I'm supposed to just defer to you because you have an M.D.?" The words came out sharper than I'd intended. "This isn't a patient, Xander. This is Amelia."
His jaw tightened. "That's exactly why we need to be cautious. Because she matters too much to make decisions based on emotion rather than what's best for her health."
"What's best for her is not to be suffering!" My voice rose, and Amelia responded with a fresh wail. I immediately regretted it, resuming my gentle bouncing. "I'm sorry, little bug," I whispered against her hot cheek.
Xander's eyes softened slightly at my use of his nickname for her. He stepped closer, placing a hand on Amelia's back. "How about a compromise? Let's try a lukewarm bath to bring her temperature down naturally first. If that doesn't help, or if her fever climbs, we'll reassess."
I wanted to argue more, but Amelia's discomfort was my priority. "Fine. A bath first."
We moved to the bathroom together, our movements stiff with unresolved tension. While Xander ran the water, testing it carefully with his wrist, I undressed Amelia. Her skin was flushed and damp with sweat.
"Not too cool," I cautioned as he adjusted the faucet. "The book says the shock could make her worse."
He looked up at me, a flicker of irritation in his eyes. "I know how to give a baby a fever bath, Blake."
"Right," I said, immediately feeling defensive again. "Because medical school covered all the practical aspects of childcare."
"No," he replied evenly. "Because I have practical experience with this. With patients' who brought in their children. I'm not just spouting textbook theories here."
I bit back another retort as he tested the water again. Whatever was going on between us needed to wait. Amelia came first.
The bath seemed to help initially. Amelia's cries subsided as she adjusted to the water, her eyes growing heavy despite her discomfort. I supported her head while Xander gently poured water over her body, both of us watching for any sign of distress.
"See?" he said quietly. "Her color's already better."
I had to admit he was right. The angry flush in her cheeks had diminished, though she still felt warm to the touch. We worked in tense silence, lifting her out after a few minutes and wrapping her in a soft towel.
Back in the nursery, I dressed her in fresh pajamas while Xander changed the sweaty sheets in her crib. It should have felt like an example of perfect co-parenting—each of us intuitively handling different aspects of her care. Instead, it felt like we were performing a carefully choreographed dance to avoid another collision.
After settling Amelia back in her crib, I stood watching her for several long moments. Her breathing had evened out, but she still looked uncomfortable, her little brow furrowed even in sleep.
"I'll take the first watch," Xander said from behind me.
I turned to face him. "I can stay with her."
"You've been up with her all day. Get some rest, and I'll wake you in a couple of hours to switch. You can take my bed."
I wanted to argue, but exhaustion was starting to catch up with me. "Wake me if her fever goes up at all," I insisted.
He nodded. "Of course."
I hesitated at the doorway, looking back at him. He'd already pulled the rocking chair closer to the crib, his focus entirely on Amelia now. Something about the sight—his broad shoulders silhouetted in the dim nightlight, his posture alert yet gentle as he watched over her—made my chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with our disagreement.
"Xander," I said softly. "I know you're trying to do what's best for her. I just... I can't bear to see her hurting."
He looked up, his expression softening. "I know. That's what makes you such a good mother to her." He paused. "We both want what's best. We just see different paths to get there."
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak further. As I made my way back to my bedroom, I realized this was our first real test as co-parents—not the logistics of feeding schedules or diaper changes, but the fundamental question of how to approach raising her. If we couldn't agree on something as basic as how to treat a fever, how would we handle the bigger decisions that would inevitably come?
The thought kept me awake long after I should have been sleeping.
#
Morning brought a welcome surprise. I awoke with a start, realizing Xander had never woken me for my shift. Sunlight streamed through the curtains, and for a moment, I was disoriented. Had I slept through Amelia's cries? I threw off the covers and hurried to the room we shared, only to find it empty.
Following the sounds of quiet conversation, I found them in the kitchen. Xander was at the stove with Amelia balanced on his hip. She was pale but alert, watching with apparent fascination as he flipped a pancake one-handed.
"Look who's awake," he said to her, nodding in my direction. "Should we tell her the good news?"
Amelia turned to look at me, and when she saw me, her face lit up in a weak but genuine smile.
"Her fever broke around four this morning," Xander explained, his voice deliberately neutral. "She's been keeping down small amounts of formula, and she seems much more comfortable."
I crossed the kitchen to touch her forehead, relief washing over me when I felt her cool skin. "Thank goodness," I breathed, pressing a kiss to her temple. "You had us worried, little one."
Xander slid the pancake onto a waiting plate. "I've been monitoring her temperature every hour. It's been normal since dawn."
I looked up at him, noticing the dark circles under his eyes. "You didn't wake me."
He shrugged. "You needed the rest, and we were doing okay, weren't we, bug?" He bounced Amelia gently, earning a soft, quiet babble in response.
I should have been grateful. He'd stayed up all night to let me sleep, and Amelia was clearly on the mend. Instead, I felt a complicated mix of emotions: relief at her recovery, guilt that I hadn't been the one to comfort her through the night, and lingering frustration that he'd made unilateral decisions about her care.
"You should have woken me," I said, my voice stiffer than I'd intended. "We agreed to take shifts."
Xander sighed, transferring Amelia to my arms. "She was restless for a while after you went to bed. I didn't want to wake you until I was sure she was stable." He turned back to the stove, adding batter for another pancake. "Besides, I've worked plenty of overnight shifts. My body's used to it."
I snuggled Amelia close, breathing in her familiar baby scent, now free from the sour smell of sickness. "And the Tylenol?" I couldn't help asking. "Did you end up giving her any?"
He glanced over his shoulder. "No. The bath helped enough to get her comfortable, and then her body did the rest. Just like I said it would."
The hint of "I told you so" in his tone wasn't lost on me. "This time," I acknowledged, trying to keep the edge out of my voice. "But if it had gotten worse—"
"Then I would have given her the medicine," he finished for me. "I never said I wouldn't under any circumstances. I just wanted to try the conservative approach first."
I bounced Amelia gently, burying my face in her wispy hair to hide my expression. Part of me knew he was right, that his medical training gave him insights I didn't have. But another part—the part that had been solely responsible for Amelia these past weeks—bristled at having my instincts dismissed.
"We need to be on the same page with her care," I finally said, looking up to meet his eyes. "We can't afford to look like we don't know what we're doing with DCFS."
Xander flipped the second pancake before turning to face me fully. "I agree. But being on the same page doesn't mean you always defer to my judgment, or I to yours. It means we communicate and make decisions together."
"Like you communicated last night when you decided not to wake me?" I couldn't help the sarcasm that crept into my voice.
He set down the spatula with deliberate calm. "That wasn't about Amelia's care. That was about letting you rest."
"It was about control," I countered, then immediately regretted my words when I saw his expression harden.
"Is that what you think?" he asked quietly. "That I'm trying to control you and Amelia?"
Amelia squirmed in my arms, perhaps sensing the tension between us. I focused on adjusting her position, using the moment to gather my thoughts.
"No," I finally admitted. "I know you're not." I sighed, meeting his gaze again. "But this arrangement—it's complicated. We're still figuring out the boundaries."
His expression softened slightly. "We are. And we will." He gestured to Amelia. "Meanwhile, our patient seems to have made a full recovery while we were busy disagreeing about treatment protocols."
As if on cue, Amelia reached out toward the stove, making the insistent sound that had recently become her way of expressing interest in something.
Despite myself, I laughed. "Apparently she has opinions about pancakes."
"She's definitely feeling better," Xander agreed, the corner of his mouth quirking up. "Strong opinions about breakfast are a positive diagnostic sign."
The tension between us didn't exactly disappear, but it eased enough that we could move around the kitchen together, preparing breakfast with Amelia watching from her high chair. Every so often, our hands or arms would brush as we reached for the same utensil or plate, sending little sparks of awareness through me that had nothing to do with our disagreement.
Later, as we sat across from each other at the small kitchen table, Amelia happily gumming tiny bits of pancake between us, Xander broke the contemplative silence.
"You know, we're still going to disagree about things," he said, his tone casual but his eyes serious. "Probably a lot of things over the years."
The easy way he referenced a shared future made something flutter in my chest. "I know," I admitted. "We come from different backgrounds, different... philosophies."
He nodded, watching as Amelia smashed a piece of pancake with evident delight. "My parents disagreed about everything—from how to discipline us to what church to attend. But they never figured out how to disagree productively. It was always a power struggle."
I thought about my own childhood—my parents’ rigid expectations. "My parents didn't disagree much," I said. "Mostly because they believed their opinions were unquestionable."
Xander's eyes softened with understanding. "So you're afraid of not being heard, not being included."
The insight was so accurate it made my breath catch. "I guess I am."
He reached across the table, his fingers brushing mine. "For what it's worth, I think we did okay last night. But, I hear what you’re saying and I should have communicated with you better. It wasn't pretty, but we both put Amelia first. And she's fine this morning." He smiled. "Maybe better than fine, considering her enthusiasm for pancakes."
I looked at Amelia, her face now decorated with sticky maple syrup, her eyes bright and alert. No trace remained of the feverish, miserable baby from the night before. Then I looked at Xander—exhausted from his night watch but still steady, still here.
"You're right," I conceded. "We did okay, and I could have been better too." I turned my hand beneath his, linking our fingers. "But next time, wake me for my shift. Partnership means sharing the hard parts too, not just the pancake breakfast afterward."
His smile deepened as he squeezed my hand. "Deal."
As I looked at our linked hands on the table, with Amelia babbling happily between us, I realized something important. Last night hadn't just been our first real disagreement—it had been our first step toward being a genuine family, with all the complications and compromises that entailed. And despite the tension, despite the unresolved questions about how we would navigate future decisions, there was comfort in knowing we were figuring it out together.
The thought stayed with me as we cleaned up breakfast. Whatever came next with DCFS, whatever Susan might ask, whatever judgment she might pass on our unorthodox family, at least we could truthfully say we were committed to doing what was best for Amelia—even when we disagreed about exactly what that meant.