Page 111 of Shootout Daddies
“Seriously?” I mutter, stepping into the room.
Hunter doesn’t look away. He just huffs, jaw tight, eyes bloodshot.
I head for the kitchen, grab a glass, fill it with cold water. The faucet hisses, the only other sound besides the staccato gunfire from the game. I tilt my head back, drinking slow.
The floor creaks behind me. When I glance over, Hunter’s standing there now, sweating, jittery, like the game wasn’t cutting it anymore.
“Why the hell are you up?” I ask.
“Checking on Chloe. But I couldn’t go back to sleep, so I thought I’d run a couple of rounds.”
Hunter’s gaze flicks down, embarrassed. He scratches the back of his neck.
“Yeah. I couldn’t sleep either.”
Up close, I can see it—his shirt clinging damp to his skin, his restless shifting. His whole body screams unsettled.
Another dream.
I set the glass down. “It’s back, isn’t it?”
His shoulders stiffen. He nods, jaw tightening like he’s ashamed of the admission.
“I thought…” I trail off, studying him. “It’d been months. I thought it was over.”
“So did I.” His voice is flat, sharp with self-loathing. “This is the first time since then.”
I pour him another glass, push it into his hands. He drinks deep, throat working, but his eyes are far away.
“You’ll get through it,” I tell him. “You always do.”
But he doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he lowers the glass, his hand trembling slightly.
“You unhappy about the babies?” he blurts suddenly.
That stuns me. My head jerks up. “What?”
He avoids my eyes, staring at the floor. “You seem… I don’t know. Off. Distressed. Like you can’t stand it.”
I blink, floored by the question. “Hunter, no. God, no. I’m so happy.” I step closer, force him to look at me. “Why would you even ask that?”
His expression is tight, wounded, but he doesn’t push it. He just shrugs like he’d rather sink through the floor than have this conversation.
I rub my jaw, exhaling. “I’m a little distressed, yeah. But not for the reason you think.”
That makes him glance up finally, brows furrowed. “Then why?”
I lean against the counter, folding my arms. The truth tastes heavy but I let it out anyway. “Three babies, Hunt. Newborns. That’s not just life changing—it’s sleep-shattering. And you”—I point at him—“already fight enough with your head when you’re rested. Add months of no sleep? I don’t want to picture what that does to you.”
It hits him like a slap. I can see it in the way his face freezes, his hand still holding the glass mid-air. He hadn’t even considered it.
His voice comes out low. “I’ll be okay.”
I arch a brow. “Will you?”
“If I need to check into a sleep clinic again, I’ll do it.” He sets the glass down firmly, as if that makes it true. Then he swallows, staring at the floor. “But I also want to be here. Present. For her.”
The way he says it—raw, stripped down—makes my chest tighten. But it’s what comes next that shatters the quiet.
