Chapter Ten
Just Say Hi
I push the door open, slow and quiet, then just stand there for a second completely frozen.
The room’s dim, lit mostly by the soft blue-white light of a monitor in the corner and the late afternoon bleeding through the edges of closed blinds. There’s a chair, a couch too short to sleep on, and in the middle of it all, a small crib on wheels.
Another step. A slow breath. A shaky exhale.
The crib is small because Aurora…
Aurora is so fucking small.
It’s the only thought I have, and it circles through my fogged-up brain on a loop. Not the machines. Not the quiet beep of her pulse on the monitor. Not even the butterfly bandage on her cheek, where a faded bruise still lingers.
Just how small she is.
Barely takes up half the crib.
She’s curled up on stark white sheets, one chubby arm flung out to the side like she owns the place. Her cheeks are round and flushed, lips parted slightly in sleep—the top one fuller than the bottom.
Unlike Marlee’s golden tan, Aurora’s skin is pale—fair enough that the fading bruise stands out. Maybe it’s just the hospital lights. Or maybe it’s from everything she’s been through.
And her hair’s a wild, messy halo of soft brown curls that stick up like she’s fresh out of a wind tunnel. There’s a dried curl stuck to her forehead, and another twirling in the shell of her ear.
She looks like chaos. Like sweetness and strength, all knotted together in this tiny, impossible package.
Just say hi.
I take the last few steps till my thighs are bumping the crib. And then I stop, because my knees threaten to buckle.
“Fuck,” I choke out. My throat constricts. “ Holy shit .”
I’m not ready. I don’t know what to do with this—this precious baby. This human that has no idea who I am. No idea why I’m here. No idea that someone she’s never met just made a promise he’s scared to death he can’t keep when her world’s already been turned upside down.
My fingers twitch at my sides. I want to touch her, but I don’t. What if I wake her? What if she cries? I try to breathe deep, but it’s like my lungs are full of rocks.
God, I don’t know what I’m doing.
Suddenly, she stirs. Just a little. A shift of a tiny foot, covered by a tiny white onesie. A scrunch of her button nose. I hold my breath, my entire body tense as hell, waiting to see if she’ll fully wake up.
She settles for a second—no more than a single breath. Then her eyes flutter open.
Big, deep brown eyes rimmed with thick lashes, blink up at the ceiling like she sees something I don’t. I follow her gaze, stomach flipping.
Please don’t be a ghost of your mama.
Nothing. Of course, there’s nothing. My heart skips, stumbles, then slams. I look back down at the baby occupying the crib—flipping my world on its axis.
Aurora turns her head slowly—so slowly it feels like it takes a lifetime—and locks eyes with me.
And everything… just stops .
No sound. No panic. No spiraling. Just a weightless, breathless pause as this tiny girl stares up at me like I might matter . Like I’m not a stranger, or a mistake, or a man who’s already wrecked too much to be trusted with anything soft.
My knees give out.
I drop into the chair beside her crib as if I’ve been hit. Elbows on my thighs. Hands shaking like I’m back in the desert, waiting for something to blow.
Out of nowhere, a tear slips free. Then another.
I wipe my face with the back of my hand, jaw clenched tight—hard enough to crack bone. But the tears keep coming. Thick and fast and stupid. So fucking stupid.
Don’t even know why I’m crying.
I’ve seen worse. Lived through worse. Buried friends, dodged bullets, held men in my arms while they bled out and begged for their mamas.
But this?
This wrecks me.
She’s so damn small. So new.
Unbroken .
She doesn’t know what’s out there waiting. Doesn’t know about heartbreak or betrayal. Doesn’t know the way the world kicks you when you’re already down. Doesn’t know that sometimes, one bad second is all it takes to fuck everything to hell.
Aurora has no idea that someday, when she’s old enough, she’ll learn she lost everything before she even knew she had it.
Her eyes are wide, dark, and innocent. She trusts me. Without hesitation. Without question. She doesn’t know she’s been alone. Has no idea she’s not anymore.
I swallow hard, chest threatening to cave in under the weight of something I can’t name. She’s perfect. And I’m not. Not even close.
But in this moment—this one, impossible, breaking-open-my-ribs moment—I’d do anything to protect her from the kind of pain I’ve spent my whole life choking on.
The door opens softly behind me, and I sit up straight, trying to hide the worst of it, quickly wiping my face on my sleeve. Fuck, I haven’t had to hide tears since I was a boy.
An older nurse walks in, short and round and kind-eyed. Her scrubs are covered in sunflowers, and her face softens when she sees me. “You must be Mr. Archer.”
I nod, not trusting my voice, and shove to my feet.
She moves to the crib and checks the monitor, then the chart clipped to the side. “She’s doing well. The concussion’s resolved. The bruising’s fading. The cut on her cheek will scar, but it’s clean. No lasting damage.”
My throat tightens again, and my voice is rough as I speak. “How long’s she been here?”
I feel like Georgia’s told me, but everything’s been a whirlwind.
“Two weeks,” she says gently. “She’s a fighter.”
I look at Aurora. “Yeah. I can see that.”
“She’s awake now,” the nurse says, glancing at me. “Would you like to hold her?”
“I—uh—no.” I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans. “I mean—I don’t know if I should.”
“That’s alright. I’ll show you how.” She leans into the crib and scoops Aurora up with practiced ease, cradling her against her chest like it’s second nature as she quickly unhooks a tiny monitor from her foot.
“No, I know how, I’ve got nephews and little sisters. I’ve birthed calves and goats and puppies.” Shut up, Kade. I sound like Georgia, rambling like a fool. “That’s not the problem, I just—”
The nurse ignores me and circles the crib, stopping at my side.
“Here we go, sweetheart,” she coos. “Let’s get you settled.” Then she turns and looks up at me. “You ready?”
“Not even a little.”
I wipe my hands again, eyes flicking to Aurora where they stay.
“I feel like I should bathe in hand sanitizer or something,” I mutter, swallowing hard. “I mean, I showered—I’m clean, I just—”
She chuckles and steps forward, placing the squirming baby into my arms. My hands instinctively adjust, supporting her head, her back.
“Just sway with her a bit,” the nurse says, backing toward the door. “Walking helps. Talk to her, even if it feels silly. Your voice will comfort her.”
Eyes locked on Aurora’s face, I nod. The door clicks shut behind the nurse, and then, it’s just us.
I pace slowly, bouncing her a little, careful not to scare or hurt her. I’m not exactly sure where her injuries are or if she’s sore, and I sure as hell don’t want to make her cry.
It’s been a long damn time since I’ve held a baby this small.
Was in high school when Colby and Clem were born, and overseas when both my nephews arrived.
I’m out of practice. It feels clumsy and awkward at first, but she settles into me like she belongs there.
Her head tucks under my chin, and I exhale for the first time in what feels like hours.
Just say hi.
“Hey,” I whisper. “So uh… I’m Kade. You probably don’t care about that yet, but you’re gonna hear it a lot, so you might as well get used to it.”
Aurora blinks up at me, eyes wide, curious, and unbothered.
“I don’t know what the hell I’m doing,” I admit, voice hushed. “Shit—I mean, crap. Crap. Gotta start working on that. You’re a sponge, right? That’s what they say. Kids hear everything. My sister Gemma has these little ass—” I shake my head and groan. “Buttholes that repeat everything.”
I shift her in my arms, trying to get more comfortable.
“Anyway, I read some stuff online. About sippy cups and baby-proofing and formula. But I also read that babies your age eat like, little fruit puffs? Is that right? I don’t know. There was something about soft junk like mashed potatoes and stuff that’s chopped real small.”
My mind flies back to my shitty studio and the contents of my kitchen. Have absolutely none of those things.
“You’re probably too young for jerky and beer, huh?”
A little gurgle slips from her mouth, and I freeze.
Suddenly, she’s smiling, two little Tic Tacs halfway out of her gums on full display.
“You think I’m funny?” I whisper around a grin. “Shit, kid. You’re in for a real rude awakening. I’m blander than Mrs. Whittaker's sweet tea.”
I run a finger gently over the soft curve of her cheek.
It’s warm, chubby, and so pink, it reminds me of the hollyhock field at home in July.
She’s got a dimple starting to form when she smiles—just one.
I shift her a bit and smooth down her dark curls.
I’m surprised her hair is closer to my shade. Not Marlee’s.
That thought does something weird to my chest.
I circle the room again, pacing, bouncing, talking. Tell her all about the dog I found, and then show her the pictures Mom sent me a few days ago.
“She said the little bast—” Groaning, I shake my head. “I mean cute little beast—wasn’t hers, but look at him all clean and curled up in her lap like he belongs there.”
Aurora’s chubby fingers bat at my phone as she makes this bubbly, gurgling squeal that’s too fucking cute to be human.
“That’s what I said,” I murmur, pocketing my phone with a smile. “You know what I think, sweetheart? I think my mama is a D-A-M-N liar.”
She turns her wide eyes on me, her hands stilling like she knows how to spell, before giggling so loud, my ears pop. I take it as a sign she wants me to keep going, so I do. I don’t stop walking, or talking. Telling stories about her mama, about Heart Springs, and about Honey Bea Farm.