He didn't stop crying for a while.
Dominic sat there in the chair beside the hospital bed, holding Aurora so carefully it almost hurt to watch. His shoulders were shaking, jaw clenched as he tried to rein it in — but the emotion was too much. And maybe, finally, it was supposed to be.
I had never seen him like this.
Not during our fights. Not when I left. Not even when I signed away everything and disappeared.
This version of him was broken open. Human.
He wasn't the cold empire-builder I had married. He wasn't even the angry man I'd left behind.
He was a father.
And despite everything… I couldn't stop watching him.
Aurora stirred in his arms, and instinctively, he adjusted his hold. Gentle. Secure.
It was like his hands knew something his heart was only just catching up to.
"She's perfect," he whispered after a long stretch of silence, his voice raw. "I can't believe I missed it. I missed all of it."
My throat tightened. I didn't want to speak—not yet. The pain was still too fresh. The gap between us too wide.
"You didn't just miss the birth," I said finally, my voice low. "You missed the fear. The nights I threw up and cried on the floor. The doctor's appointments. The ultrasounds. The first time I heard her heartbeat."
He didn't respond. He just nodded slowly, like each word was a weight he deserved to carry.
"I deserved that," he said. "All of it."
I blinked at him, unsure what to say next. I hadn't expected him to agree. I'd braced for excuses. Justifications. Cold logic.
But he was just… there. Sitting in it. Letting it swallow him.
"I didn't leave because I stopped loving you," I murmured. "I left because you made me feel like I didn't matter. Like everything that made me me—my parents, their store, my voice—none of it meant anything."
He looked up, eyes red-rimmed, glistening.
"I was trying to protect you," he whispered. "In the worst, most f***ed up way. I thought if I took control of everything, I could keep you safe. I didn't know how to love without… hurting things."
"And I didn't know how to love someone who didn't see me," I said. "Not really."
He nodded, swallowing hard.
Another stretch of silence.
Aurora shifted again, and he stood, carefully walking her back to the bassinet beside my bed. When he laid her down, he lingered for a long moment, his hand resting on the edge like he wasn't ready to let go.
When he turned back to me, he looked like a man on the edge of something terrifying and beautiful all at once.
"I'm not here to beg," he said. "I'm not here to guilt you into anything. But I had to be here. I had to see her. To see you."
He hesitated.
"And I'll stay if you let me. Not because I deserve it. But because I can't walk away from you two again. Ever."
The ache in my chest grew sharp. Familiar.
Because I still loved him.
Even after everything.
But love wasn't enough—not without trust.
"I don't know what happens next," I said softly. "I'm not ready to forgive. Not yet."
"I'll wait," he said, stepping back beside me. "As long as it takes."
He didn't reach for my hand. He didn't push.
He just sat down again.
Close.
Still.
Waiting.
And for the first time since I left him, I didn't feel like I was drowning anymore.