Page 55 of Beautiful When He Breaks

When Dr. Peters comes back, I’m halfway through the diaper change while Jules stands there holding a balled-up contaminated onesie at arm’s length.

The doctor takes one look at us and says, “Looks like she picked a good moment.”

I laugh so hard I nearly drop the wipes.

“It’s not funny,” I say, which would carry more weight if I weren’t laughing while Julian calls me useless and asks for a clean sleeper.

We get Mila back into a fresh sleeper, and the doctor goes over the final instructions. Feeding on demand, extra cuddles if she wants them, fever guidance after the shots, call if anything feels off, and yes, it’s normal for her to be sleepier or fussier after vaccines.

“That feels targeted,” I say.

Julian is smiling openly again now, and I’d be annoyed if I didn’t know he’s enjoying this because it’s me, not because he wants Mila stressed. He stands close and rubs my back while the doctor flips through Mila’s file and asks if we have any last questions.

I look at Mila. Then at Julian. Then back at the doctor. “How do you know if you’re doing enough?”

She closes the file and leans one hip against the counter. “You probably won’t most days,” she says truthfully. “At least not at first. You’ll keep wondering if you missed something, should’ve done more, or are somehow one step behind where you should be. That’s incredibly normal. The fact that you’re worried about doing enough usually means you care enough to keep trying until you figure it out.”

I nod once because my throat doesn’t feel steady enough for more.

Dr. Peters smiles softly. “She looks well loved. That matters.”

Julian’s hand brushes the small of my back while I settle Mila more securely against my chest. The contact is brief and probably meaningless in the grand scheme of his life. It does not feel meaningless in mine.

We finally make it to the checkout desk, where I’m still mentally replaying Mila’s scream, when Dr. Peters steps out of the hall behind us to add one last thing. “Just make sure you and your partner keep an eye on her temperature today. Call if either of you notices anything that feels off.”

My whole body goes still for one tiny second.

Your partner.

She means Julian.

Julian, at my side, with one hand on the car seat and the other holding the little packet of aftercare instructions. Julian, who somehow looks completely unbothered by that assumption. Julian, who answers with an easy “We will,” as if it were the most natural sentence in the world.

I should correct her. He’s my best friend, not my partner. He’s helping me. He’s part of Mila’s life in all these complicated, vital ways, but not in the way that word means to most people. Correcting her would be the normal thing. The respectful thing. The clarifying thing.

I don’t do it. I just stand there with Mila against my chest and let the word settle over us while something strange and hot moves low in my stomach.

I adjust the strap of the diaper bag on my shoulder and say, a little too casually, “We should probably go before she has another emotional breakdown and gets us banned.”

His mouth curves slowly, and there’s something in his eyes I absolutely cannot afford to examine in the middle of a pediatrician’s office.

“Yeah,” he says, and his voice is low enough that I feel it more than hear it. “Probably.”

We walk out together, and I try to stifle a smile at how right that feels.

17

Julian

Mila’s still running the house from a bassinet and a swing and whatever new yellow-themed piece of plastic Ryan keeps buying her “by accident”.

That’s the first thing I think when I jog out onto the practice field, squinting as the late afternoon sun hits my face.

Two months. Mila’s only been in our lives for two months, and the whole shape of the Sin Bin has changed around her so completely that I can barely remember what it looked like before baby bottles on the drying rack and tiny socks in the laundry. It’s insane how fast a baby can make a mansion full of overgrown athletes feel domestic. It’s even more insane how quickly I let that become one of the best parts of my day.

It’s also been a month and a half since I sat in Luca’s room and told him everything. Or enough of everything that the rest became obvious. I still don’t know exactly what Killian is doing with the information, and that’s by design. He’s made that very clear in the cold, terrifyingly calm way he gets when he’s already three moves ahead of everybody else in the room.

He knows. Luca knows. Sage definitely knows because there is absolutely no universe in which Luca kept that from him. Honestly, I’m glad for it because Sage is smarter than the rest of us combined and twice as ruthless when he thinks someone deserves it. But every time I’ve tried to ask a question bigger than, “What do I need to do right now?” Killian’s looked at me with those dead, level eyes and said, “Handle what’s in front of you. I’ll handle the rest.”