Page 107 of The Endless Want

He nods slowly, the muscles in his jaw tightening like he’s fighting some emotion back. “I can try that,” he says. “If you’ll let me.”

The phrase if you’ll let me does something to me—something sudden and tender and frightening. It feels like being handed a fragile gift neither of us knows how to hold. I take a breath. “You asked about the baby… do you want to see a picture? I had an ultrasound again. It’s bigger now.”

Something in him softens so sharply it’s almost painful to witness. “Yes.”

I pull out my wallet, sliding a small ultrasound photo from the pocket. It’s slightly bent, worn from how many times I’ve held it. I place it in his hand carefully.

He stares at it like he’s never seen anything more precious. Like it might burn him. Like it might save him.

“She’s small,” he murmurs.

“She,” I echo, smiling faintly. “That’s what I’ve been thinking. Ut I don’t want to know. I want everyone surprised.”

His thumb brushes the image with impossible care. “She looks… strong.”

I laugh, quiet and shaky. “She looks like a blob, Declan.”

“Yeah,” he says softly. “But she’s our blob.”

He hands the photo back, fingers lingering on mine just long enough to feel like a question. I answer it. “Declan,” I murmur, stepping closer, “come inside.”

Inside the safehouse, the air is dim and warm. I close the door behind us slowly. Declan stands in the center of the room, looking at me with a mixture of hunger and hesitation.

I reach for him.

He meets me halfway.

When his mouth finds mine, the world tilts—gentle and overwhelming and fiercely familiar. Relief breaks through me like a wave. His hands slide to my waist, careful, reverent, and I press my forehead to his.

For today—We let ourselves be a family. And maybe that’s what we’ll eventually be.

CHAPTER 33

Declan

Morning comes slowly, like it’s afraid to disturb the balance Ailish and I carved out of the night. Light leaks through the blinds in thin silver stripes, cutting across the floorboards and the low table where two empty mugs from yesterday’s truce sit like evidence. I’m awake before she is. I’ve been awake for a while, actually—lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling, replaying everything she said to me, everything I let myself say back.

I keep thinking she’ll wake up and decide it was all a mistake—letting me stay, letting me touch her, letting me see the part of her that’s terrified and strong in the same breath. But when I push myself up and stretch the stiffness out of my shoulders, I hear her shift in the bedroom. Not startled. Not tense. Just turning over.

It does something to me, the quiet trust of that sound.

I wash my face in the kitchen sink, then towel off with the edge of my shirt. I’m halfway through making coffee when she steps out into the doorway—hair messy from sleep, wrapped in one of my spare shirts she must’ve pulled from the basket near the closet. It drowns her a little, the hem brushing against her thighs, and my heartbeat kicks up like it’s trying to escape.

She blinks at me, then down at the shirt, then back at me. “Morning.”

Her voice is soft, still scratched with dreams. I’ve heard her command men twice her size. I’ve heard her snap an order so sharp it could slice bone. But this—this tired honesty—is something else entirely.

“Morning,” I answer, keeping my tone steady, controlled. If I’m too gentle, she’ll tense. If I’m too hard, she’ll retreat.

Her eyes drift to the coffee pot. “You want some?” I ask, lifting the mug.

She hesitates, then nods. “Decaf.”

I raise a brow. “Right. I’ve got some.” I switch out the pods and let the machine hum. She sinks into the chair at the small table like her bones are made of warm sand, soft and loose for once.

While the machine brews, she watches me. Really watches me. She studies me the way a person studies a map—trying to learn the terrain so she can stop getting lost in it.

“You look tired,” she says quietly.