Page 69 of Breakaway Daddies

My stomach knots tightly, not from the baby, but from an unrelenting tension coiling within me. Words hang unspoken in the air, their absence as heavy as a stack of thick blankets pressing down on my chest.

As the car rolls to a stop in front of my apartment, I don’t wait for the engine to cut off before unbuckling my seatbelt.

“Make yourselves at home,” I say, my voice clipped and devoid of warmth, the syllables tumbling out like stones. “I’m going to lie down.”

Thomas opens his mouth, concern flickering in his eyes. “Do you need—?” he begins, but I silence him with a curt shake of my head.

“Nope. Just tired.” I climb out, my feet hitting the pavement with a dull thud, and head purposefully toward the front door.

The keys jingle softly in my hand as I slide them into the lock, the familiar scent of snake bedding mingling with lavender diffuser oil rushing to greet me. It’s a comforting embrace, a reminder of who I am.

I kick off my boots, leaving them haphazardly by the door, and ignore the boys as they shuffle in behind me. My feet carry me straight to the sanctuary of my bedroom, where I collapse face-first onto the unmade bed.

The mattress groans slightly under my weight, echoing the fatigue that fills my bones. My body aches, my heart clenches with an unnameable sorrow, and a guilt begins to unfurl behind my ribs like a dark bloom.

But I shove it down, refusing to let it take root. I don’t want to dwell on the reasons behind the heaviness in my chest.

I just want the sweet escape of sleep to sweep me away.

And for a little while, it does.

CHAPTERTWENTY-TWO

Rowan

It’s beena couple of days since the hospital visit, and Jinx is gradually improving.

The bruise on her wrist, once a dark, angry blue, has faded into a mottled purplish-yellow mess, reminiscent of a watercolor gone wrong. Her headaches, which used to pound like thunder, have mostly subsided to a gentle throb.

We’ve been staying at her small, cluttered apartment, every square inch of it occupied by our presence—trying to make it work even though her lumpy couch feels like it’s gnawing at my spine, and Thomas keeps accidentally toppling the quirky snake-shaped lamp that wobbles precariously by the corner.

Tonight, however, the atmosphere seems a bit lighter, almost buoyant. Bruno, with his infectious enthusiasm, has somehow convinced Jinx to rewatchSay Anything.

I’ve been subjected to it three times now, courtesy of Bruno’s relentless love for what he calls the “Bruno Canon of Romance.”

Jinx snorts in mock exasperation as she sinks into the couch, curling up against a soft, worn-out throw pillow with a large bowl of buttery popcorn precariously balanced on her belly.

“Okay, okay,” she mutters, her voice laced with playful warning, “but if this guy plays that boombox thing, I swear to God?—”

Laughter erupts around the room. Thomas, with a mischievous grin, tosses a handful of popcorn in her direction, the kernels scattering like confetti.

The room is enveloped in darkness, save for the flickering glow of the TV. We’re all huddled together, a tangle of long limbs, cozy blankets, and the quiet warmth of companionship.

As the credits begin to roll, a serene pause settles over us—a slow, lingering moment where no one dares to move, savoring the shared silence.

Bruno shifts first, twisting slightly toward her on the couch with a subtle creak of the worn leather beneath them.

“Well?” he asks, raising an eyebrow that arches like a questioning hawk. “Did it melt your little black punk-rock heart?” His voice is teasing, a lilt of challenge in the air.

Jinx scoffs, a dismissive sound that matches the roll of her eyes, as she licks the last grains of salt from her fingers. The remnants of popcorn glisten under the dim light.

“It was fine,” she says, dragging the word out like a lazy drawl. “A silly romance, but it wasn’t the worst thing ever.” Her voice is nonchalant, but the slight curl at the corner of her lips betrays a hint of amusement.

Bruno grins. “You say that like you’ve ever experienced real romance.” His eyes twinkle with mischief as he leans in closer, his elbow brushing against hers.

She arches a brow, the challenge mirrored in her gaze. “Excuse me?” Her tone is sharp, yet curious.

“I mean,” he continues, his voice dropping to a hushed murmur as he leans in a little more, his breath warm against her skin, “have you ever actually been romanced? Like… shown affection the way you deserve?”

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