Page 67 of Filthy Rich Daddies
But because I walked into this room, and everything in me settled. Like my body recognized something my mind’s been fighting. That this…whatever this is…is home.
I don’t say that out loud, obviously. I don’t even know how I’d phrase it if I wanted to. I just sit there, watching the rise and fall of Colin’s chest, the way Dean’s thumb circles idly against his coffee cup, the way Tic keeps scanning the hallway like he’s daring someone to try something.
This is my family.
And they don’t even know it yet.
“You staying tonight?” Dean asks eventually, voice low.
I shrug. “Depends on if they kick me out.”
“They won’t,” Tic says, still watching the door. “We’ll make sure of it.”
Dean smiles at that—small, real. “You can crash at the house. If you want. After.”
I nod. “I might.”
There’s a comfort in this quiet. In being allowed to stay. No one’s asked me for anything. No one’s pressured me to define what we are or what I want or whether I’m keeping the babies.
They’ve just made space. And the longer I sit in it, the more it scares me. Because I think I want that space to always be there. But what if it’s not? What if I ruin it?
What if I say the wrong thing or need too much or don’t want enough?
Dean glances at me again, brow furrowing like he can sense the spiral building. “You okay?”
“Just tired.”
He nods, but I know he doesn’t buy it. Still—he doesn’t push.
“I was really scared,” I say eventually.
“I know.”
“Didn’t think it would hit me like that,” I add. “Like…this hard.”
“You care about him.”
I shrug. “Okay, fine. Yeah. I care.”
Tic smirks. “More than a little?”
I shove a fry in my mouth. “Shut up.”
He softly chuckles, and we finish the fries. Dean and Tic have moved the chairs closer to the bed, and they’re talking in low voices about nothing in particular—weather, stock reports, the café down the block with the good almond croissants.
I sit near the edge of the bed, just watching Colin sleep. I could do this for the rest of my life and be happy.
I’m not sure they’ll let me.
26
ATTICUS
The hospital is tooquiet this morning.
Not quiet in the restful sense. Not the kind of quiet that suggests healing or peace. This is the strained, artificial stillness of fluorescent lights and low voices, punctuated by distant coughs and the occasional squeak of rubber soles on polished tile.
Colin is still asleep when I arrive. He’s curled on his side, one arm under the pillow, the other tangled loosely in the blanket. There’s color in his face again, and not just the gray smudges under his eyes. That’s good. The IV drip is almost empty, and the heart monitor is steady—slow and strong. For all his recklessness, he’s durable.
