Page 130 of If Love Had A Manual

Rosie spots me and lights up like a damn Christmas tree. She waddles faster, balloon bobbing wildly as she makes a beeline for me. I drop into a crouch, arms open.

“Dada!” she squeals, barreling into me with the kind of enthusiasm that knocks me flat every time.

She says something that sounds like, “Wawa day.”

She’s getting there.

I catch her and lift her easily. Her curls press into my neck as she leans in for a kiss that lands somewhere between my cheek and my ear.

“Wove you,” she babbles, clutching the balloon like it’s solid gold.

And yeah, that’s it. Game over.

When I look up, Lena’s watching us. It’s a relief to see her smiling. Not the fake kind she’s been pulling on like armor lately. No, this one’s soft, but real.

“These are the errands you had to run?” I manage,voice rough.

“You’re a good dad, Wes. Someone needed to remind you.”

Jesus.

She’s going to be the end of me.

I blink hard, trying to keep it together. Ryan’s already snickering from across the shop, but I don’t give a shit. Not even a little.

I shift Rosie onto one hip and kill the distance between me and Lena before I wrap my free arm around her waist. When she doesn’t flinch away and just folds right into me, I kiss her. Right there, in front of everyone.

She lets out a quiet sound in the back of her throat. Rosie giggles between us, squishing her balloon between our chests.

Milo barks like he’s trying to be included.

When I finally pull back, I rest my forehead against hers. “Thank you.”

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, that soft smile still in place. “You don’t have to be everything to everyone, you know. But you’re something special to her.” She kisses me again and says quietly against my mouth, “To both of us.”

Forty-Nine

It’s late by the time I finally get home. Later than I promised, later than I meant. The garage had one last emergency job to attend to. Still, regret gnaws at me as I push open the front door. I hate the thought of Lena waiting up.

The house is dark, except for the soft glow of the baby monitor on the coffee table. Its screen flickers, showing a grainy picture of Rosie fast asleep.

Lena’s curled up on the couch, one arm tucked under her cheek as a makeshift pillow. Milo is sprawled across her ankles. He’s been protective of her since Frank died. I think he senses her grief.

I give him a scratch behind his ear. “Thanks, buddy. I can take over.”

He bounds off the couch.

His shift is over.

A wave of guilt churns in my chest at the sight of her. She looks exhausted, worn down, and now she’s dozed off here instead of in bed.

I step closer, careful not to jostle anything, but shedoesn’t stir when I crouch down and brush a few strands of hair off her forehead. She’s out cold, lips parted in a soft exhale. Christ, I know she’s been trying to put on a strong front, but I see the toll in the dark smudges under her eyes.

Exhaling, I press the back of my hand gently to her cheek in a half-formed apology for being late.

Sliding one arm under her knees and the other around her shoulders, I lift her into my arms. Even with all the times I’ve held her, there’s a softness in this moment that jolts through me. She must be fully asleep not to stir at my touch; usually, she half-wakes, murmuring my name or leaning into my chest. Tonight, there’s nothing but the steady sound of her breathing.

It’s crazy to think I might be carrying something fragile when I know firsthand how resilient she is.

---