The room smelled of warmth—of skin and clean cotton and the faintest trace of baby powder. The world had gone quiet in the hours after the storm of labor passed, leaving behind only soft breaths, hushed footsteps, and the fragile wonder of new life.

You lay propped against pillows, eyes heavy with exhaustion, limbs trembling from the weight of what you’d just survived. Your body ached in ways language couldn’t touch—deep, bone-tired hurt that curled around your spine and stitched itself behind your ribs. But in your arms, swaddled tight and sleeping soundly, was the only thing that mattered.

Rose.

Zade sat beside you on the edge of the bed, dark hair damp at the edges from the sink, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He hadn't left your side—not for a single second. Through the hours of agony, the panic, the screaming—he was there, silent and steady, his hand gripping yours like it was the only thing keeping him sane.

Now, he reached for your water, lifting the straw to your lips without a word. You drank, and his eyes never left your face—watching every tiny movement like he was memorizing you all over again.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured, setting the cup down and brushing your damp hair back with slow fingers. “You need to eat something. I’ll make you toast.”

You didn’t answer, too tired to do anything but blink. But he didn’t need a response. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your temple, then another to Rose’s tiny forehead before standing.

When he returned, it wasn’t just with toast. He brought a warm compress for your back, the nipple cream the nurse mentioned, and a quiet fierceness in his eyes that dared the world to touch either of you.

“You don’t have to do anything except heal,” Zade said, kneeling beside the bed again. “I’ve got the rest.”

He helped you adjust your hold on Rose, making sure the stitches weren’t pulling, guiding your arms gently until the weight of your daughter no longer felt like it would undo you. When she stirred, he was already reaching for a fresh blanket, already ready to lift her if you needed a break.

“You’re incredible,” he whispered, almost more to himself than you. “You gave her life. And you gave me something I never thought I’d have.”

His thumb brushed across your knee under the blanket. You saw it in his eyes—how close he’d come to breaking when he thought he might lose you. But he never let it show then. Not when you needed him strong. He’d swallowed it down, pushed it deep, and become your anchor instead.

Now that it was over, the weight was catching up to him.

“She’s so fucking tiny,” he breathed, eyes flicking to Rose, now resting against your chest again. “And perfect.”

You saw the awe in him, the way he reached out like she was something holy. When you let him take her, his arms folded around her with a reverence you’d never seen. The man who killed without blinking, who bathed in blood and vengeance, now rocked your daughter with the gentlest hands.

“She already has your lips,” he said quietly, voice thick. “And your strength.”

You watched him for a long time, the exhaustion in your body giving way to something else—something full. Despite the pain, the rawness, the weight of healing still ahead… you were whole.

Zade met your eyes, then crossed the room and lowered himself beside you again, Rose cradled against his chest now, her little hand curled against his shirt.

“Sleep,” he said softly, shifting so your head could rest against his shoulder. “I’ll hold her. I’ll hold both of you.”

And he did.