The nursery was quiet, bathed in a soft golden hue from the setting sun spilling through sheer curtains. You stood over the crib, watching the baby sleep—her little fists curled, her breaths shallow and soft. She looked like him. She looked like you, too, even if she wasn’t.

You heard Rob’s footsteps before you saw him, slow and hesitant. You didn’t turn around. Not yet.

“She looks peaceful,” he said quietly, his voice almost a whisper. “Like she doesn’t know the world’s already complicated.”

You nodded once. “She doesn’t. And she won’t—if we’re careful.”

There was a long pause. You felt him behind you, the air shifting, heavy with things unsaid. Guilt, mostly. Grief, maybe.

“I still don’t know how to thank you,” he said finally. “For taking her in. For… loving her. Like she was ours.”

You closed your eyes. “She is ours.”

Silence again. You could feel the weight of him—years of love, betrayal, forgiveness all wrapped in one breath.

“I think about it every day,” Rob admitted. “How I ruined everything good. How I broke the one person who never gave up on me.”