Page 105 of Filthy Rich Daddies
Tic’s never been the type to ramble, and I’ve never needed noise to fill a room. We’ve always communicated best in fragments. Glances. Shared beats. Muted sarcasm. But this silence is heavier than most.
So I say the thing I didn’t say in the hospital. “The birth scared the shit out of me.”
He doesn’t respond, but his jaw tightens.
“I’ve seen heart surgeries. Code red systems going down mid-launch. The kind of tech disasters that end careers. But nothing—not one damn thing—compared to watching her go through that.”
His hands clench slightly.
“I didn’t breathe until both girls screamed,” I add. “Not properly.”
Tic nods once. “I know.” Of course he does.
“I keep checking on her,” I admit. “Like if I take my eyes off her, she’ll disappear. I know it’s irrational. I know she’s fine. But?—”
“It’s not irrational,” he says, voice clipped. “It’s memory.”
I nod. He doesn’t have to say more.
I’m not sure how he survived it, honestly. Loving Serena, losing her, having to face all of this again with someone new. Thalassais nothing like her, but still—the fear lingers. Maybe more so for him than any of us. He knew what was at stake from the beginning.
“I get it now,” I say. “As best I can.”
Tic raises an eyebrow. “Get what?”
“What it cost you. What itcostsyou to let yourself love again.”
That pulls him up short. He looks at me for the first time. Really looks. Then he nods slowly. “It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”
“And you’re still doing it.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Because she’s worth it.”
“She is,” I agree. “But so are you.”
Tic goes still.
I press on. “You can’t watch over everyone all the time. You’ll burn out. And we need you too much for that.”
He exhales, the sound heavy with exhaustion. “I know.”
“Then sleep,” I say. “I’ll take the next shift. Dean’s out cold, Thalassa’s finally resting. You can get a few hours.”
He looks like he wants to argue. But he’s too tired to do it convincingly. Finally, he nods. But then he hesitates. “There’s something else,” he says, reaching into the pocket of his hoodie.
I frown. “You hiding snacks in there again?”
He pulls out a small, square box.
Black velvet. Familiar. My pulse kicks. “This isn’t what I think it is, is it?”
“I’m not proposing,” he answers dryly. “Not yet.”
“Yet,” I echo, but I open the box anyway. Inside is a ring. Simple. Unpolished. Matte steel, engraved with a date. Our date. The day the twins were born.
“You want us to wear rings?” I ask, stunned.
“Symbolically,” he says. “A kind of vow. For all of us. We can’t get married legally, not all four of us. But we can wear something. A promise.”
