Chapter 4 Cole
FOUR
Cole
I wasn’t even supposed to be here, but Rowan had arrived just after four a.m., and I’d drunk coffee and chatted with her in the office.
Then Harold Brinkman, my sharp-as-hell lawyer, showed up, and the small group of us was moved to the on-site family room to stay out of the way.
I was actually just leaving after reassuring Alex that I would cover any legal costs, but as soon as the guy with the baby came rushing out of nowhere, everything went sideways.
One moment, I was heading for the door. Next, I had an armful of flailing limbs and a weight slamming into me. I hit the floor hard enough to see stars.
For a moment, I lay there, winded, trying to figure out what had just happened. Then the baby started crying—loud, frantic, the kind of sound that went straight through me—and the man froze as if he’d been shot.
He was horrified. Not just startled—horrified. His whole body froze, his face turning pale, terror crashing over him like a wave. The urge to run, the conviction that he’d done something unforgivable, the fear of what might happen next.
I scrambled up and ended up dropping into a crouch in front of him without really thinking. “Hey,” I said gently, as I moved closer. “Morgan, right? I’m Cole Braxton.”
He blinked at me as though the words weren’t coming together, as if his mind was still scrambled from panic.
“I’m sorry,” he said with a sob, and my heart broke. The baby—Gabbi—was tucked against him, her crying turning into hiccups, enough to twist something in my chest.
“And this is Gabbi?” I kept my voice low, warm.
“You have a beautiful daughter, Morgan.” Saying it felt like stepping off a ledge, but it was true, and God, I hoped it helped.
His panic was still right there, rattling between us, but the second I said beautiful, something in him shifted.
Not much, but enough for me to breathe again.
It was the only thing I could think to say, but it landed.
The words cracked something open in him.
His panic didn’t disappear, but it shifted, softened around the edges.
He blinked at me, tears sliding down his cheeks, his breath stuttering as he tried to quiet the baby and apologize at the same time.
“She’s okay,” I said again, slower. “You’re okay. I promise.”
The man—Morgan—stared at me as if he wasn’t sure I was real. Wide hazel-ringed eyes, damp lashes, every emotion he’d been trying to hide written in his drawn expression.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated.
“It’s all good.” What did I say now? “Your daughter has beautiful eyes.”
He stared down at the baby. “Her eyes might change color,” he said, his voice raw. “Her mom… had hazel eyes.”
In that moment, everything else—the door, the exit, my plan to slip away—just vanished from my mind. I stayed exactly where I was, breathing slowly so he’d match me, waiting for him to find his footing again, feeling something settle between us that I couldn’t quite name.
No one stopped me. I knew Alex was nearby—I’d seen Marcus coming out of the medical room, and neither of them tried to stop me. No loud “Cole, leave it to the experts” or pointed looks showing they thought I’d already made things worse by being there at the wrong time.
Instead, it was quiet—just Morgan’s shaky breaths, Gabbi’s soft hiccups, and the strange, steady certainty growing in me.
As if stepping back would’ve been the wrong move.
Like, for once, staying—me, the guy who normally left others to fix things—was the right choice.
I looked up at Marcus. Was the baby okay?
Was she safe? Should I step back and let someone who actually knows what they’re doing handle this?
For a second, doubt crept in—because what the hell did I know about babies, panic attacks, or saying the right thing?
But Marcus met my gaze, steady and unreadable, and he didn’t move toward us. Didn’t gesture for me to get out of the way. If anything, there was the tiniest nod—permission, or trust, or maybe just him recognizing that right now Morgan wasn’t hearing anyone except me.
So, I stayed exactly where I was.
“I’ve got someone who can help you both,” I murmured, noticing Marcus retreat into his room and Alex slip back into his office—quiet exits leaving me right where I was, crouched in front of a man who looked as though his world had just come apart.
“He’s a bit of an old fuddy-duddy,” I added, trying for something that might ease Morgan’s tension. “But he’s the best lawyer I know. I promise you’re in good hands.”
The effect was immediate—and not at all what I expected.
Morgan’s eyes widened, a sudden spike of panic hitting him so fast it was almost visible. His grip on Gabbi must’ve been too tight, judging by the way she squawked in protest, her little face scrunching up as if she was about to cry again.
“Hey—hey, it’s okay,” I said, holding my hands out just a little, not touching either of them but ready to if he needed grounding. “You’re not in trouble. No one’s trying to take her away. Harold’s here to help, that’s all.”
Morgan swallowed hard as he adjusted his grip on Gabbi, murmuring apologies into her soft hair. His breathing had quickened, as if the word lawyer had triggered a fresh alarm.
A fierce protectiveness twisted in my chest. Not just for him, but for the tiny baby pressed to him. Whatever this man had endured, whatever he was fleeing from, the idea that he thought a lawyer signaled danger made me want to fix something.
Anything.
“You’re safe here,” I said, gentler now. “Both of you. I swear.”
Morgan’s caution was obvious—wary eyes, that instinctive flinch as though he expected the ground to give way beneath him at any moment. But then he exhaled, a small, shaky breath, and gave me the slightest nod. Not trust, not yet. Just… willingness. Or maybe exhaustion.
“Gabbi needs…” he started, voice cracking. “I need to get her—”
“A bottle?” I offered gently. He looked startled, like he hadn’t expected me to understand what he meant. “Yeah, I figured. She sounds hungry.” I glanced at my watch without thinking. “Have you had breakfast yourself?”
Morgan shook his head, eyes dropping in a way that hit me harder than it should. Christ, the guy looked like he hadn’t eaten or slept in a week.
I pushed to my feet and held out a hand to him. “Come on. Let’s get the princess a bottle and then grab something to eat before the hordes descend.”
He winced at that—probably imagining a stampede of people swarming the kitchen—but this place never had more than ten guests at a time, plus a handful of staff scattered through the halls.
“It’s quieter than you think,” I added. “You won’t have to fight anyone for toast.”
He huffed a small, disbelieving sound that wasn’t quite a laugh, but it was something. And when he slid his hand into mine, his grip was warm and trembling—and I helped him stand.
He let go of me immediately, but the warmth of his hand lingered, a ghost of contact across my palm I wasn’t prepared for. It was… comforting. Or maybe I just wanted it to be. God knows I wasn’t used to anyone reaching out to me unless they needed something or wanted a piece of me.
But Morgan hadn’t grabbed me for support. He’d taken my hand because he trusted, for one brief second, that I wouldn’t let him fall.
I headed into the kitchen without looking back, and he followed. Between us, we got it done—him making the bottle, me sorting drinks and toast. Simple, steady tasks that didn’t need talking.
Then I led him down the corridor to the family room. I knocked on the internal door and waited to be buzzed in. Security in this place was solid, and the room was completely private. Alex had said the team helping Morgan could use it until three.
I wasn’t part of that team. But I wasn’t walking away, either.
He hesitated as the door swung open and Harold appeared—friendly smile, chunky cardigan, the whole harmless granddad look. But I knew better. Beneath all that wool and warmth, Harold Brinkman was a shark of the best kind, given he was on my side.
He held out a hand. “Mr. Armitage,” he said, voice smooth and easy, and then, with zero hesitation, he cooed at Gabbi as if she were royalty.
Morgan reached out, still wary but polite.
“I’m your lawyer,” Harold said, giving his hand a firm shake.
“And this is Rowan.” He motioned toward my best friend, who nodded once and offered a half-smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
She was tough and the kind of person anyone would believe when she said she’d get things done, but she was also hyper-focused when on the job.
“Do you want to sit down?” Harold asked Morgan.
He sat, then Harold and Rowan on one sofa, Morgan beside me, Gabbi sucking on her bottle. Morgan ignored the toast and coffee I’d set in front of him, his whole focus pinned to whatever was coming next.
Rowan began to talk. No theatrics, no pressure—just quiet, careful tact as she laid out what she’d found through her contacts.
“Annie Calder—deceased,” she said. “I’m sorry for your loss.” She paused when Morgan closed his eyes for a moment, but he didn’t give any other reaction.
“Because the death was unexpected, the police are handling it as a mandatory investigation. The coroner has taken charge—autopsy, toxicology tests, and the formal time-of-death assessment are all in progress, but likely to take a while.”
Rowan kept her voice even, steady. “The apartment was sealed and processed. No signs of a struggle. Evidence consistent with accidental overdose was found nearby. Neighbors reported no shouting or disturbance beforehand, though Annie was seen earlier in the week with someone known to addiction services. They’re following up on that, but there’s nothing pointing to foul play at this stage. ”
“Initial forensic estimates, and this is not official, place the time of death at approximately five hours prior to the camera’s recording of Morgan entering the building; however, the coroner will provide the definitive determination.”
Rowan kept her tone steady and respectful.
“Law enforcement is aware that Mr. Armitage exited the premises with the infant,” she said.
“However, there is an administrative concern noted by the responding officers: the issue of Corporal Armitage not reporting what he found upon discovering the scene. My contact has emphasized that, given the circumstances and his immediate focus on the infant’s welfare, this is being treated as a procedural lapse rather than a criminal act.
” A flash of hope crossed Morgan’s face when he glanced at me.
“However, he may be asked for a formal statement in the coming days. Additionally, my contact has acknowledged that Corporal Armitage is the biological father and, as an experienced veteran, acted to remove the child from a potentially unsafe environment.”
“What if I’m not?” Morgan whispered. To me, not to Harold or Rowan.
“Not what?” I asked, confused.
“Not the biological father. She said I was, but what if I’m not? Her parents always hated me—and if Gabbi isn’t mine… even if she is… I don’t have anything to fight them with. And should I fight? What can I give her? I don’t have anything, I—”
“Hey,” I cut in gently, before he spiraled any further. “You’re not doing this alone. You’ve got people on your side—right now, today, in this room.”
“You don’t even know me,” he snapped, the words rough and fast, as if he regretted them the second they left his mouth.
He sank back into the sofa, curling around Gabbi as if someone might walk in and rip her out of his arms. His knuckles went white where he held her.
Her tiny fingers brushed his shirt, oblivious.
Harold didn’t take offense. He never did. The man could be insulted in three languages and still respond as if someone were asking him the time.
“Mr. Armitage,” he said matter-of-factly, adjusting his glasses, “the next step is straightforward. We will organize a paternity test—a simple blood test that the doctor here can do, along with a swab from the baby. It’s routine, not invasive, and it protects you as well as the child.”
Morgan swallowed hard. I could see the panic trying to claw its way back in.
Harold continued smoothly, “Once that’s in motion, I file a notice of representation. That prevents any outside party—family or otherwise—from making a legal move regarding custody without first going through me. As long as you are here at Guardian Hall, Gabbi remains with you.”
Rowan nodded. “We already have the paperwork prepped. And while the police complete their procedure, there’s no indication they intend to question your parental care or remove her. My contact made that clear.”
Morgan blinked at them both, listening.
I made sure I was within his field of vision. “You’re not losing her today, or tomorrow. And not without one hell of a fight—your fight or ours.”
“Annie’s parents didn’t want anything to do with their daughter,” he said, voice unsteady, “but… they might want to see Gabbi? I don’t know if that’s good or bad. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to hope for.”
Harold closed his notebook with a soft snap, the signal that the meeting was officially over. “Rowan, I’ll need you to follow up with your contact regarding the timeline for the coroner’s preliminary report. And get me the neighbor statements in writing if possible.”
Rowan nodded, already pulling out her phone to make notes.
Harold rose, smoothing his cardigan. “I’ll speak with Marcus on my way out. We’ll arrange the paternity test for later today and confirm the chain of custody for the samples. Morgan, you’ll be updated the moment anything changes.”
He gave Morgan a calm, steady look, offered his hand, which Morgan shook—and then he and Rowan left the room, the door clicking shut behind them.
Silence descended again. Morgan stared at the door for a long beat, still clutching Gabbi, then glanced at me. His voice was barely above a whisper.
“Now what?”
I wasn’t sure what surprised me more—the fact he was suddenly looking to me for answers, or the low tug in my chest at the idea of stepping up.
I wasn’t supposed to be part of any of this, but watching him curl around his daughter, terrified someone might take her…
yeah. Something inside me locked in. I wanted to protect this baby.
And him. The thought hit hard, unexpected, and a little disorienting, but there it was all the same.
But he was right.
Now what?
And should I even still be here?