Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Starting to Stay
Emma
Iwoke to the softest morning in ages. Birdsong drifted through the open window, and a faint breeze carried the scent of damp earth and sun-warmed grass.
The cotton sheet tangled around my legs felt like a gentle embrace.
The other side of the bed was empty but still warm, holding the last traces of Easton’s presence—the comfort of sleep and the echoes of last night.
A clatter from the kitchen broke the calm, making me push myself up on my elbows. Just then, he appeared in the doorway—barefoot, hair a complete disaster, holding a frying pan like it had personally offended him.
“Morning,” he said when he realized I was awake.
His voice was low and rough with sleep, and for a fleeting moment, I forgot how to swallow.
I sat up, hair wild, eyes still heavy. “Are you…cooking?”
“If that’s what we’re calling it,” he replied, lifting the pan to reveal a pancake that was clearly auditioning for modern art. “Thought I’d make breakfast.”
“Thought,” I echoed, sliding to the edge of the bed. “Keyword.”
He laughed, the sound easing a tension that had settled in my chest for days. “I made coffee too,” he added. “It’s the one thing other than grilled cheese I’m proficient at.”
“Smells good,” I said, and warmth spread through me. I’d never felt more at home, and I wasn’t even in my own house.
As I stood, the oversized robe he’d given me brushed against my shins. It was soft flannel, sleeves too long, faintly scented with his cologne. I tightened it around me, taking a moment to breathe in the familiarity.
“Breakfast might be terrible,” he warned as I padded toward him.
“That’s okay,” I said, smiling. “I’m here for the effort.”
His eyes softened as he watched me, and I felt a rush of warmth bloom in my chest. “So… you still good with the plan? Moving a few things in today?”
“Yes,” I said before he even finished the sentence. “I want to.”
He searched my face for a moment, as if checking for regret and finding none. Relief danced in his eyes. “Okay then.”
We ate a lopsided breakfast at his tiny kitchen table—burnt pancake edges and all. Each bite was filled with warmth and an unspoken promise. My hunger wasn’t really for the food; it was for connection.
Once we finished, I stood to clear the table, rinsing our plates while he muttered something under his breath and deposited the battered frying pan into the sink like it was a fallen soldier.
His hand brushed the small of my back as he passed behind me—a soft, absent-minded touch that sent a warm ripple through my whole body.
It made me want to lean into him, to stay wrapped in that feeling forever.
I dried my hands on a dish towel, trying to steady the swirl inside me. And then it came out—quiet, unplanned, honest.
“I want to meet the baby first,” I said. “Before we go to pick up some of my stuff.”
The words surprised even me, as if they’d been waiting at the back of my throat, hoping I’d be brave enough to say them.
Easton froze—not dramatically, just a subtle stillness that told me he’d been caught off guard.
His head tipped, his expression softening in a way I hadn’t seen before…
something careful, protective, and a little like awe.
“You sure?” he asked gently, not doubting me—just giving me room to decide.
I nodded. “Yeah. I think I need to.”
Something in his shoulders relaxed, as if my answer meant more to him than he’d expected. “Okay,” he said quietly. “We’ll go.”
His voice held a warmth that traveled down my spine. Just like that, the day took shape—grounded, tender, and bigger than both of us.
We pulled into the hospital parking lot just after nine, the sun warming the pavement and casting long shadows from the trees lining the drive.
The air was crisp and fresh, a perfect contrast to the bustling activity around us as nurses wheeled carts and families gathered at the entrance, their faces lit with anticipation.
I hadn’t been inside a hospital in months, but stepping through the sliding doors now, my pulse quickened—not with fear, but with something softer, something a little like awe.
We weren’t allowed inside the NICU, of course.
Visitors were restricted to medical personnel only.
But Easton led me to the small viewing window lined with four isolettes.
Only one was occupied. A tiny baby, smaller than my forearm, rested inside the glowing arc of a warming lamp.
Tubes. Wires. A knitted blue hat barely clinging to his head.
My breath caught.
“He’s so small,” I whispered, the gravity of it settling deep in my chest.
Easton’s voice was quiet beside me. “Yeah.”
A nurse walked past and paused when she saw us. Recognition flickered across her face. “Morning, Easton.”
He nodded, leaning closer. “How’s he doing today?”
“Stable,” she said gently. “But critical care is still in play. He’s just very premature.”
I nodded like I understood. I didn’t—not fully—but I felt the pull in my heart. My gaze drifted to the name card taped to the isolette.
Jacob.
Seeing it written out made my eyes sting.
Easton had named him. I already knew that. But standing here—watching that impossibly small body fight for each breath under a tangle of wires and soft blue light—the name felt heavier, realer. Like something chosen with hope instead of obligation.
A name meant for someone wanted.
“I wish I could hold him,” I whispered before I had time to second-guess the words.
Easton looked at me sharply—not startled, but softened, as if he’d never heard anything so honest. He lifted his hand and pressed his fingertips gently to the glass right above the isolette.
Without thinking, I raised my own and aligned them with his—our hands close but not touching, separated by a sheet of hospital glass and a world of caution.
For a breath or two, it felt like the world held still. No Helena. No failed grant. No fear about the future.
Just Jacob… and two people who couldn’t look away.
A nurse approached us quietly, her voice warm but professional. “He’s stable for now,” she said. “He’s a tough little guy.”
“Do you know how long he’ll be here?” I asked, not sure why I needed the answer so badly. Maybe because “temporary” felt too uncertain for something this fragile.
“A while,” she said gently. “Premature babies his size often stay weeks… sometimes months. We take it one day at a time.”
Weeks. Months.
The words hit deeper than I expected. I nodded, even though my throat was tight.
“And after that?” I asked softly. “What happens then?”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there,” she replied. “Right now our job is to help him grow strong enough to breathe on his own.”
Easton’s jaw worked once—like he wanted to ask a thousand questions but didn’t trust his voice.
He just murmured, “Thank you.”
The nurse gave a small, understanding smile and stepped away, leaving us alone again.
My palm stayed on the glass, right above Jacob’s tiny chest.
This wasn’t my child. He wasn’t ours. And yet…I felt tethered.
Drawn in.
Protective.
“Ready?” Easton asked eventually, his voice soft, like he already knew the answer.
No. God, no.
“Yes,” I whispered, even though every part of me wanted to stay rooted here, even though a piece of my heart felt like it was staying behind the glass with him.
We drove from the hospital to my house on Pine Street in silence. Not tense silence—just the kind where the air is filled with thoughts too big for words.
Mom’s car was in the driveway, and the place under the carport where I usually parked was empty. When we walked in, she was standing at the kitchen counter, surrounded by fabric swatches and half-packed bins for her upcoming craft fair. She looked up and smiled instantly.
“Emma! Oh, honey—you’re back!” She hurried around the table and hugged me tight. Then she noticed Easton and waved. “Morning, Easton.”
“Morning, Marla.”
“You here to help her pack?” she asked, too cheerfully.
I shot her a wide-eyed warning look. She pretended she didn’t see it.
“Yes,” I said, cheeks warming. “I’m…uh…going to stay with Easton for a little while.”
“Wonderful,” she said, as if she’d been waiting for this announcement since childhood. “Now Hank doesn’t have to stay at the Lovelace Lodge every time he visits. You know how he hates their mattresses.”
Easton tried—and failed—not to grin.
“Mom,” I muttered.
“What? It’s true.” Then she lowered her voice conspiratorially to me. “And good heavens, sweetie, you look happier than when you left. Helena must’ve agreed with you.”
I bit back a grimace. “Parts of it.”
She patted my shoulder and moved on as if we hadn’t just knocked over an emotional domino chain. “Oh!” she added, “Everyone in town is buzzing about the baby. People are already asking CPS how fostering works. Some have even asked about adoption policies.”
I blinked. “Already? The baby isn’t even a week old yet.”
“That’s Lovelace,” she said, shrugging. “We collect strays. Human and otherwise.”
“And still no one knows who the mother is?”
“No. No one has come to the ER for treatment. No reports. It’s as if she vanished.”
A faint ache tugged at my ribs. “I don’t understand how anyone could leave their baby like that,” I whispered.
Mom’s face softened. “You’ve never been that desperate, sweetheart. Some women are. Some women have no one. No money. No support. No choices.”
The words sat heavy in my chest.
Then Mom looked at me—long and curious. “Has this changed your mind about having children someday?”
The question caught me off guard. Three weeks ago, I would’ve said a flat no. But now… “Maybe,” I said softly, surprising even myself. “I think…maybe someday.”
Mom didn’t react with shock or joy. She just nodded like she’d already known. “Love changes people. That’s all.”
My eyes flicked to Easton, who stood by the door carrying one of my old book boxes. He wasn’t pretending not to hear. He was pretending to give me space. And something about that made me want to go to him more.
Packing didn’t take long. Most of my life fit into four boxes, a backpack, and a canvas tote filled with books I refused to live without.
Easton carried the heavy things without being asked.
Mom folded sweaters I forgot I owned. I kept staring at my bedroom—the room I’d slept in since college—trying to decide what parts of it mattered now.
Somewhere between loading the second box and grabbing my toiletries, I realized the weight in my chest wasn’t fear anymore. It was relief. Finally, letting something happen instead of holding it at arm’s length.
Mom walked me out to the porch while Easton loaded the last bag. “You’ll be okay,” she said when we reached the steps. “And the celebration? We’ll figure it out. It’ll be beautiful, grant or no grant.”
“I know,” I whispered. “I just…wish it hadn’t fallen apart.”
“Maybe it didn’t,” Mom said. “Maybe you’re just building it a different way.”
I leaned into her shoulder for a second. She kissed my cheek, like she always did before the first day of school.
“You call me tonight,” she said. “Unless you’re busy.”
“Mom,” I groaned.
“What? I’m modern.”
“No, you’re not.” She waved me off, still grinning. “Drive safe. And kiss that man for me. Not too seriously. Just enough.”
“MOM.”
Laughing, she disappeared back inside, humming under her breath. I walked toward the truck where Easton waited in the driver’s seat. He leaned across and opened the passenger door for me. “You good?” he asked when I climbed in.
I took one last look at the house—at the porch light, at the flowerbeds Mom tended, at the life I’d built in the safety of four familiar walls. “I’m good,” I said. And for the first time in days, I meant it.
Easton’s fingers slid through mine as he pulled onto the road, his thumb tracing slow, reassuring circles across my knuckles. Nothing flashy. Nothing dramatic. Just a touch that told me he knew exactly where I was—emotionally and otherwise.
He glanced over, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Feels like a new start, doesn’t it?”
A breath slipped out of me, soft and steady, like something inside finally unclenched. “Yeah,” I whispered. “It really does.”
We headed to the ranch as the afternoon sun warmed the windshield, with my belongings in the backseat and his hand clasped around mine. Today, I was just… starting, starting something real. Something quiet and steady and fierce in its own way. Something I wasn’t afraid of anymore.