Chapter 12
TWELVE
Full Tit Shot
Claudia
I barely make it out of Paul’s apartment before Savannah starts fussing, little face scrunching, mouth rooting like she has not eaten in months, years. My chest responds instantly because my body is now dramatic like that, and now my boobs ache as if someone filled them with lava.
If I do not get her latched soon, we are entering Niagara Falls territory.
I stop in the hallway, close my eyes, and breathe. Inhale sanity, exhale panic.
“If you find breastfeeding in public offensive, please look away,” I mutter, already maneuvering my shirt and unsnapping my nursing bra one-handed like a mom-gician. “I am feeding a child, not starring in a scandal.”
Deacon’s voice is low and way too amused, “Are we talking full tit shot or…”
“Don’t be such a man.”
“Respectfully. I am just trying to manage expectations.”
Savannah latches, tiny sigh, little hand resting on my chest like she owns it. I swear, being a human buffet is humbling, heroic, and humiliating all at once.
I tuck the loose corner of her swaddle up, cover myself in one smooth motion, and lean against the wall. Layers are a superpower. Nursing tank, loose tee, light flannel that doubles as a baby privacy tent. Breastfeeding level: certified ninja. No one sees a thing unless I allow it.
“See.” I round the corner. “No National Geographic moment. You are safe.”
His eyes soften a little, all the teasing falling away. “You are good at this.”
“I’ve become good at taking orders,” I correct him. “My boobs run the operation. Savannah’s the boss. I am just the employee.”
He smirks. “And I thought hockey players had grit.”
Savannah’s sucking slows, her whole body relaxing as she fills up. My shoulders drop, the ache fading, milk hormones doing their weird Mother Earth thing.
“We’re staying down here, or should I carry the two of you up?”
I walk past him, “I can manage.”
“No doubt.”
We take the four flights slowly because multitasking is one thing I may be good at, but Savannah likes her mealtime quiet.
By the time we reach the top, Savannah finishes one side, heavy-eyed and doing that adorable goldfish-mouth thing, so I shift her up to burp.
Deacon hovers, as if he wants to help but also as if he is scared. So not sexy. Not that I am trying to be, but it feels so good to be looked at like he looks at me.
He clears his throat. “So… how do you know when to switch sides. Is there like… a timer.”
“Actually, research says… and yes, I mean legitimate science, not mom-fluencers who drink iced coffee, while explaining the benefits to the child. Research says she needs around ten minutes a side right now.”
He nods, very serious. “So, there’s data.”
“Oh, tons,” I say. “Milk production is a whole science. There is foremilk, hindmilk, let-down reflex, supply-demand regulation, latch quality…”
His eyes widen like I am giving a TED talk titled Boobs: The Truth You Didn’t Learn In Health Class.
“Based on the pediatric guidelines,” I continue after opening the door. “I should offer both sides per session to ensure adequate caloric intake and maintain supply for projected feeding intervals.”
He blinks. “I have never felt more ignorant in my life.”
I pat Savannah’s back. “It’s hard to hear when they are so sexualized. Breastfeeding basically makes us biological factories, nutritionists, and Prime. One-hour delivery. Sometimes thirty minutes. No truck required.”
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Reopens. “Do you… time it somehow.”
I nod solemnly. “I used to feel like a human stopwatch. Did the math, had a notebook, at one point I even started a spreadsheet. Which is how I know my left boob is dominant.”
He chokes. “Your left what?”
“Boob. The left one is the overachiever. The right one is the intern who shows up late and forgets her badge.”
He tries so hard not to laugh that he actually bites his lip. “Do people talk about this… normally?”
“Every mom does.” I sit on the new couch delivered today and continue burping her, “I used to talk about concerts and party themes. Now I talk about nipples and sleep cycles like I’m addressing the UN.”
Savannah lets out a tiny burp. “Good job, baby. Round two.”
She roots again. I drape the blanket across me, so I don’t flash him and readjust Savannah as I switch sides, resettle my shirt, and latch her quick and discreetly.
Deacon watches with awe and fear. “So, just to be clear, you are doing biology, logistics, tactical operations, starting a new chapter, a new job, and learned a new skill in like—”
“And lactation engineering,” I add. “Do not forget lactation engineering.”
He nods slowly. “Honestly, I think you could run the country and do a better job than most.”
“I’m good with running this baby’s digestive system,” I say. “Which is arguably harder.”
He rubs the back of his neck. “I feel like I need a textbook to keep up.”
“You do.” I grin. “It is called Boobs and Burps: A Strategic Guide to Not Drowning in Milk and Panic.”
He laughs, low and warm, and looks at me like… yeah. Like that.
Savannah sighs and settles in for her second course, and he shakes his head softly.
“You are terrifying,” he says.
“Never underestimate a woman who can produce dinner on command.”
He blinks again. “Never in my life did I think I would be impressed and scared of milk at the same time.”
I kiss the top of Savannah’s head. “Birth control.”
“Or exposure therapy.” He sits down in the oversized chair that matches the couch, like he didn’t just allude to the fact that this is something he wants… I mean, one day, with someone.
But that’s not true. He was very forthright about not settling down, ever, during our late-night app conversations.
“You’re looking at me like I’m —”
I cut him off, “You never wanted to complicate life with the responsibility of family. You were adamant.”
“To be fair, you and I were on the same page with that and so many other thi—”
“That statement pisses me off. I’m not easily angered. However, I’m hormonal, and everything is—”
He cuts me off, “Not my intention. Not in the slightest. My point is life changes on a dime. You have a child and are clearly a wonderful mother. I’m looking at a woman who I have,” I pause because Savannah may not be old enough to remember this conversation.
“Out of respect for Savannah, I won’t go into detail.
Still, clearly, we have some unfinished business to discuss. ”
My face catches fire, which makes zero sense. I am not a prude. “Business?”
“I’m trying to be—”
“We got off to each other. Never met up because you —”
“I’m aware. The truth is, when I saw you, I was back home.”
“You were in Italy?” I almost laugh, almost.
“I was supposed to be back in the States in a couple weeks. But I had a family emergency. I stayed longer than expected. When I did come back, I messaged you.”
I don’t know what to say, so I just say everything, “I can’t slam you and tell you that you should have been honest, because I wasn’t completely honest myself.” I shake my head. “That’s not true, I was, but now—”
“Things changed. My father is alive and feels better than he has in years. You have a daughter who is healthy, happy, and lucky to have you as a mother.”
“Your father…”
“My mother is our local family doctor. She knows everyone in our town. They listen to her. He,” he stops and chuckles, “He never complains. Thinks he’s invincible.”
“And he’s well.”
“He is.” He looks up, eyes meeting mine. “I would never have forgiven myself had I left them when they needed me, even though they insisted.”
I swallow back the emotions at how raw his statement is, at the love he has for his family.
He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “I’m real f’ing sorry we didn’t meet up back then, but sitting here right now, knowing my father is good, and seeing you as a mom?” he shakes his head and leans back into the chair. “Wouldn’t change a thing.”
As Savannah finishes, and I situate myself to burp her, I tell him, “I’m glad your father is healthy.” At the same time, he says, “You let me know when we can have a do-over.”
I can still feel his gaze on me, the weight of it, the warmth. I should look away, but I don’t.
He’s sitting there, hands braced on his knees, eyes soft in a way that makes me forget how to breathe. He’s the kind of man who carries gravity with him — not heavy, just inevitable.
My heart trips over itself, stupidly. I’m not supposed to feel like this. Not now. Not while I’ve got a baby asleep in my arms, drooling on my shirt, acting as the universe’s most effective chaperone.
I want him. God, I want him. But that want terrifies me.
Savannah sighs, a small, perfect sound that tugs me right back down to reality. I press her closer, bury my nose in her hair, and hold on tighter — to her, to this moment, to the reminder that I don’t get to lose myself in anyone anymore.
Deacon doesn’t look away, and that only makes it worse. His words from moments ago still echo in my head… unfinished business.
Yeah. No kidding.
Before I can spiral too deep, the front door bursts open. The smell hits first: garlic, tomato, and hot bread.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Dash declares like he’s addressing a Broadway audience, announcing a show, “your dinner has arrived! And before anyone asks, yes, I dropped Paul’s order off first because a legend’s gotta eat.”
Deacon chuckles, leaning back in his chair.
Dash drops the bags on the counter, breathless and proud. “Minus the chickens, he’s inspiring.”
I can’t help it — I laugh. The sound feels lighter than it should. Savannah stirs, then settles again against my shoulder, warm and safe.
“Give me Savannah and eat,” he says.
“I feel like I’m missing out on baby time,” Dash says, unpacking the bags.
“But also, I’m hungry. Anyway, I got the goods.
Chicken Marsala, parm, rigatoni vodka, eggplant, soup, knots, fries, and tiramisu for dessert.
The older woman at the desk says hi, by the way, and that you’re corrupting me, Deacon. ”
Deacon lifts an eyebrow. “She said that?”
“She said it with her eyes,” Dash says seriously. “Her very Italian, judgmental eyes.”
I hide a smile, pretending my pulse isn’t still thudding in my throat while trying not to brush hands with Deacon as I hand him Savannah.
“Thanks,” I say quietly, not to disrupt Dash, who’s talking too fast for anyone to think too hard, which might be the only thing saving me right now.
He’s a walking distraction, bless him.
“Alright,” he says, clapping once. “Let’s eat, because if I don’t get a breadstick into me, I may start chewing drywall.”
I glance at Deacon — and for just a second, before Dash starts another monologue about sauce portions, Deacon’s eyes find mine again.
There’s quiet there. Understanding.
“Let’s eat.” Dash rubs his hands together and begins a running commentary about which pasta looks sexier under the light.