Page 45 of Shootout Daddies
“Please never say that again,” Rhett mutters.
“I mean it,” Ivy says, pulling the blanket over Chloe’s legs. “You’re both doing good. We’ll figure this out.”
Rhett pulls out his phone. “I’m going to order breakfast. What do you want?”
“Anything that isn’t powdered formula or mashed carrots,” I say.
Ivy stands, brushing off her hands. “While you do that, I’m going to teach you how to swaddle.”
I blink. “There’s more?”
She smiles. “This is just the beginning.”
And even though I’m exhausted and my shirt has formula stains and there’s a possibility I might be a father, I don’t hate this.
As long as Ivy is here to guide us.
In fact, there’s a strange part of me that really doesn’t want her to leave tonight.
We park just outside the building, the Range’s engine ticking softly as it cools beneath the morning sun. Rhett kills the ignition, but neither of us move.
The radio’s off. Windows up. Just the hum of air conditioning and the soft, rhythmic hiccups of silence we don’t know how to fill.
I’m gripping my thigh harder than necessary. Not out of fear, exactly. Just tension.
The tight, bracing kind that sits deep in your gut when your life has just split into a before and an after.
“She looked okay,” Rhett says finally, breaking the silence. “The baby.”
“Yeah.” I nod. “Healthy. Calm. Didn’t cry once when I left.”
I don’t tell him I miss her already. I don’t tell him that the apartment felt a little too quiet when I handed Chloe off to Ivy and walked out.
And I sure as hell don’t tell him that Ivy looked like she belonged there with her—like some beautiful, accidental snapshot of a life I didn’t even know I wanted.
I pull out my phone. “I’ll check in.”
He glances over as I tap into our group chat, the one Ivy renamed “Storm Troopers.” I smile despite myself. She’s already texted.
One new photo.
Chloe’s lying on her back on the rug, wearing a onesie that says “I’m the boss now.” Her curls are a mess of soft golden fuzz, eyes wide and blinking up at the camera like she knows exactly how cute she is.
Storm is flopped out beside her, undoubtedly snoring through his nose like a lawnmower.
Under the pic, Ivy’s typed:Still in charge. Don’t worry. We’re good.
I show Rhett. His face softens instantly.
“She’s a natural,” he says.
“Yeah,” I answer. “She really is.”
We sit with that for a moment. The comfort. The guilt.
“You think we’re actually gonna be able to do this?” I ask him.
Rhett takes a breath. Rolls his neck like the question landed right between his shoulders. Then he shrugs, gaze forward, voice steady.
