Forgiveness, Trust & Forever

Emily

The baby cried all night.
Of course she did.
Ava's final message sat in my head like a curse, and by midnight, I was almost angry enough to believe she had somehow made it happen.
Eleanora cried at ten.
Then eleven.
Then half past twelve.
Then again at two.
Each time, Hero woke before I fully understood the sound. He moved with the kind of exhausted instinct that made me ache and resent him in equal measure. One second he was asleep on the rug beside the travel cot with a bag of frozen peas melting against his ribs, and the next he was upright, reaching for her, voice already low and soft.
"I know, baby. I know. Daddy's here."
Daddy's here.
Every time, something in me folded in on itself.
I stayed on my side of the bed, staring into the dark, pretending to be asleep while he changed her nappy, offered water, checked her temperature, rocked her against his chest, whispered nonsense into her hair.
The first time, I let him do it because he knew how.
The second time, because she reached for him.
The third time, because I was afraid.
By the fourth, I hated myself so much that sleep was impossible anyway.
The whole flat was quiet around us except for Eleanora's crying and Hero's murmuring. Outside, Winchester had gone still in a way I had never heard before. No late-night traffic. No music from passing cars. No drunk laughter on the pavement outside Clara-Bellas. No dancers staying late in the studio, no garage door rolling shut after classes, no ordinary life.
Just lockdown silence.
And a baby who refused to settle.
At half past three, Hero's pain broke through.
Not dramatically.
Not in a way he meant me to hear.
He stood from the chair by the cot with Eleanora against his shoulder and sucked in a breath through his teeth, one hand pressing to his ribs before he could stop himself.
That was what got me out of bed.
Not bravery.
Not motherhood.
Anger.
At him for hurting.
At Hayden for causing it.
At myself for letting Hero do everything while I performed sleep like cowardice could be hidden under a duvet.
"Sit down," I said.
Hero froze.
Eleanora hiccuped against his neck, tiny fingers twisted in his T-shirt.
The room was lit only by the small lamp on the dresser, gold and dim. It softened his bruises and made him look worse somehow. Younger. Breakable. Not the polished man the world screamed at through gates and screens. Just Hero. Barefoot, injured, exhausted, holding our daughter like pain was irrelevant if she needed him.
"I've got her," he whispered.
"I didn't say you didn't."
His eyes moved over my face, cautious in the sleepy dark.
"You should sleep."
I laughed quietly.
"Don't be stupid."
His mouth twitched, then he winced.
"Still charming."
"Sit down before you collapse."
"I'm not going to collapse."
"Hero."
That did it.
Maybe because my voice sounded too much like the old me. The one who could make him eat after three coffees and half a packet of crisps. The one who could drag him into bed after he'd fallen asleep reading scripts. The one who had once known exactly how to take care of him before we turned every tenderness into a weapon.
He sat carefully on the edge of the bed.
Eleanora grumbled at the change in movement.
I stood there.
He looked up at me.
I looked at the baby.
The baby looked at nothing, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open in a tired, furious cry that seemed too big for her little body.
My arms stayed at my sides.
Hero didn't say anything.
That somehow made it worse.
"I can't if you're staring," I snapped.
His eyes dropped immediately.
Sorry.
He didn't say it.
Good.
I hated when he looked sorry. It made me want to forgive things I wasn't finished being angry about.
I stepped closer.
Then stopped.
My hands had no idea where to go.
Hero must have sensed it because he lifted Eleanora slightly, turning her towards me but not forcing the handover.
"One arm under her bum," he said quietly. "Other hand behind her back. She's half asleep, just fighting it."
"I know how arms work."
"Noted."
His voice was too gentle for the sarcasm to land properly.
I slid one arm beneath Eleanora and the other around her back. Hero kept his hands there until he was sure I had her.
For one second, all three of us were holding on.
Then he let go.
Eleanora's weight settled fully into my arms.
Warm.
Heavy.
Angry.
Mine.
No.
Yes.
I didn't know.
She cried against my shoulder immediately, her little face turning into my neck with a complaint that sounded personal.
"I know," I whispered, because apparently that was the only thing I knew how to say to her. "I know, Nora."
Hero went still.
I heard him.
Felt him.
But he didn't make it a thing.
Thank God.
I shifted Eleanora the way he had shown me. Pressure, but not tight. Head supported. Small rock from side to side.
She kept crying.
My panic rose.
Hero's hand twitched on his knee like he wanted to reach for her.
I glared at him.
"Don't."
"I didn't."
"You thought about it."
"She's crying."
"I noticed."
His jaw tightened.
Not with anger.
With restraint.
Good.
Let him feel it.
Let him sit there and watch me do it badly instead of saving everyone before I had the chance to learn.
Eleanora cried harder.
My confidence lasted another four seconds.
"I'm making it worse."
"You're not."
"She wants you."
"She wants to sleep."
"She hates me."
"She's one."
"She can still have taste."
Hero almost laughed.
Almost.
I gave him a look.
He wisely swallowed it.
Eleanora's cry broke into hiccups, then wound up again. Her tiny hands pushed against my chest like she couldn't decide whether to cling or shove away.
The movement hurt more than it should have.
"Okay," I whispered, my voice cracking. "Okay, sweetheart. I'm sorry."
Hero's eyes lifted.
I ignored him and kept rocking.
Side to side.
Side to side.
The way he had shown me.
The way I had done earlier when the world was exploding and I'd had no choice.
Maybe that was the trick.
Not waiting until I felt ready.
Just moving because she needed something and my fear was irrelevant to her need.
Eleanora's cries softened after a minute.
Not stopped.
But softened.
Hero leaned forward slightly, then caught himself and sat back.
I saw it.
So did he.
We said nothing.
"You're exhausted," I whispered to Eleanora. "I know. Same, honestly. But you can't keep yelling at us like this. Your dad looks like he's been run over, and I am deeply underqualified."
Hero made a sound.
I looked at him.
His eyes were wet.
"Oh, don't," I warned.
He shook his head.
"Not saying anything."
"You're saying plenty with your face."
"I'm proud of you."
The words landed hard.
Too hard.
My throat tightened instantly.
"No."
"Emily-"
"No. Don't be proud because I held her when you're hurt and I had no choice."
"You had a choice."
"I didn't."
"Yes, you did."
I closed my eyes.
Eleanora's cheek was damp against my skin.
Hero's voice softened.
"You always have a choice. That's why staying matters."
I opened my eyes again.
He was watching me like the whole world had narrowed to this tiny patch of carpet and our daughter's cries.
I wanted to tell him to stop.
I wanted to tell him I hated him.
I wanted to tell him that if he kept looking at me like I was becoming something instead of failing at it, I might believe him, and that was far more dangerous than Ava or Hayden or any headline.
Instead, I looked down at Eleanora.
Her cries had become tired little grumbles.
Her lashes fluttered.
The rocking continued.
Side to side.
Side to side.
Her fist caught in my hair.
I winced.
Hero's mouth twitched.
"Don't laugh."
"I'm not."
"You are."
"She likes hair."
"She's vicious."
"She gets that from you."
"She gets the dramatic crying from you."
Hero smiled properly this time.
The split in his lip pulled.
He winced.
I rolled my eyes.
"Idiot."
"Worth it."
The room quieted slowly.
Eleanora's breathing evened.
Her hand loosened in my hair but stayed there, tangled and warm.
I didn't move.
I was afraid if I did, the spell would break.
Hero whispered, "She's asleep."
"I know."
"You can put her down."
"I know."
But I didn't.
Not yet.
Because she was asleep in my arms.
Because the worst thing Ava had said had happened - the baby had cried all night - and I had not run.
Because Hero was sitting two feet away, injured and exhausted, watching me hold our daughter like maybe this was what the beginning of a miracle looked like.
It wasn't.
Miracles were instant.
This was slow.
Messy.
Uncomfortable.
My arms ached. My back hurt. My hair was trapped. I was terrified of waking her.
But she was asleep.
With me.
"Emily," Hero whispered.
"What?"
"You're allowed to want this moment."
My eyes burned.
I shook my head.
"I don't know what I want."
"Okay."
"I hate when you say that."
"I know."
A laugh came out of me.
Quiet.
Wet.
I looked at him over Eleanora's curls.
"I want to not be scared of her."
His face softened.
"That's a start."
"She deserves more than a start."
"She has time."
"She has you."
"And you."
I looked away.
The automatic rejection rose.
No, she doesn't.
But the words didn't come out.
Maybe because Eleanora's hand was still tangled in my hair.
Maybe because she had finally stopped crying.
Maybe because saying she didn't have me while I was holding her felt less like truth and more like cowardice.
Hero stood slowly, careful of his ribs.
"Let's put her down."
This time, I didn't argue.
Together, we lowered her into the travel cot. Hero guided my hands without taking over. Eleanora stirred once, mouth trembling, and both of us froze like idiots.
She settled.
The relief almost made me laugh.
Hero straightened first.
I followed.
Our shoulders brushed.
Neither of us moved away immediately.
The room was too quiet.
Too intimate.
Too full of every rule we had made and every reason we might break them.
Hero's voice was barely above a whisper.
"You should sleep."
"So should you."
"I'll stay on the floor."
I looked at the rug beside the cot.
Then at his bruised ribs.
"Don't be ridiculous."
His eyes lifted to mine.
"No."
"No what?"
"I know what you're about to say."
"You don't."
"You're about to tell me to sleep in the bed."
"I was about to tell you to stop bleeding on my rug."
His mouth twitched.
"Right."
"But yes. Sleep in the bed."
His expression changed.
"Emily."
"Don't make it a thing."
"That seems to be our most-used sentence."
"Because you keep making things things."
He looked at the bed.
Then at Eleanora.
Then at me.
"I can't sleep in your bed."
"You did last night."
His eyes snapped back to mine.
Heat flashed through the room.
Immediate.
Dangerous.
My own words betrayed me before I could catch them.
"That was different," I said.
"Yes."
His voice was rough now.
I swallowed.
"That can't happen again."
"You said."
"And I meant it."
"I know."
"Stop agreeing if you don't agree."
"I respect it."
"That's not the same."
"No," he said softly. "It isn't."
My pulse moved everywhere it shouldn't.
The memories came without permission.
His hands on my waist.
My mouth on his.
The hotel room door.
The bed.
The way he had looked at me like every year apart had been a punishment and touching me again was both sin and salvation.
I wrapped my arms around myself.
"Sleep in the bed," I said, sharper this time. "On top of the duvet if it makes you feel morally superior."
He laughed under his breath.
Then winced.
"Stop laughing."
"Stop being funny."
"I'm not funny. I'm tired."
"You're both."
He moved towards the bed slowly, like he expected me to change my mind.
Maybe I did.
Maybe I didn't.
But he was hurt, and I could not watch him fold himself onto the floor beside the cot just to protect me from a tension we both knew was already in the room.
He sat on the edge of the bed.
I went around to the other side.
For a moment, we stood there like strangers at the border of a country we had once ruled badly.
Eleanora slept between the bed and the wall in her travel cot.
The nursery across the hall remained open.
Winchester outside stayed silent.
I climbed into bed first, fully clothed, keeping to my side like distance was a virtue I still believed in.
Hero lay down on top of the duvet, exactly as instructed, one arm over his ribs, face turned towards the ceiling.
For five minutes, neither of us spoke.
I stared at the ceiling too.
There was a crack near the light fixture I had been meaning to paint over for months.
Hero had made that crack years ago trying to hang a ridiculous pendant lamp he insisted would look "romantic and industrial." It had looked like a fire hazard. I had told him so. He had kissed me on the ladder and nearly fallen off.
I wondered if he remembered.
"I remember the lamp," he said.
My head turned.
He was still staring at the ceiling.
I hated him.
"I didn't say anything."
"You didn't have to."
"That was a terrible lamp."
"It had character."
"It had exposed wiring."
"Character."
I smiled before I could stop myself.
The dark made it feel safer.
Hero turned his head then.
I felt his gaze more than saw it.
"What?" I asked.
"I missed your smile."
My chest tightened.
"Don't."
"Okay."
But the words stayed.
They always did.
A few minutes passed.
Eleanora sighed.
Hero's breathing started to slow, then hitched when he moved wrong.
I rolled onto my side, facing him.
"You need painkillers."
"I took some."
"When?"
"Earlier."
"That could mean anything with you."
He smiled faintly.
"Kitchen. Police were still here."
"Fine."
Silence again.
Then I heard myself ask, "Did Ava really lose a baby?"
Hero's breathing changed.
I regretted asking instantly.
But I needed to know.
Not because I was jealous.
Not because Ava was another woman.
Because motherhood, loss, fear, guilt - all of it had become a language people kept weaponising around me, and I needed to know which parts were real.
"I don't know," he said.
The same answer as before.
This time, in the dark, it sounded more painful.
"She told you she did."
"Yes."
"And you never found out?"
"No."
"Why?"
He was quiet for so long I thought he might not answer.
Then he said, "Because part of me was afraid she was telling the truth, and part of me was afraid she wasn't."
I understood that more than I wanted to.
"What did Brandon say?"
Hero turned his face towards me.
The room changed at his name.
It always did.
"He told me grief doesn't excuse cowardice."
A laugh caught in my throat and broke.
"That sounds like him."
"He also told me if I ever managed to get you to forgive me again, I should stop collecting secrets like souvenirs."
My eyes filled.
"Also sounds like him."
Hero stared at me in the dim light.
"Do you think he'd hate me?"
"For what?"
"Court. Eleanora. You."
I rolled onto my back again.
The question hurt too much face-to-face.
"No."
"You sure?"
"Brandon didn't hate people easily."
"He hated injustice."
"He loved complicated people more."
The silence that followed was full of him.
Brandon.
Our best friend.
The boy whose name lived in our daughter's.
The boy who had known me pregnant, terrified, calling the baby Boo because anything else felt too real.
The boy Hero and I had both loved in different ways.
The boy neither of us had been able to save.
"He would have adored her," Hero said.
I closed my eyes.
"Yes."
"He would have called her Boo forever just to annoy her."
I laughed softly, tears slipping into my hairline.
"He would have taught her swear words."
"Absolutely."
"And blamed me."
"Obviously."
My chest hurt.
Not like grief usually hurt.
Less sharp.
More open.
"I miss him," I whispered.
"Me too."
For once, it didn't feel like we were on opposite sides of that loss.
For once, Brandon's name did not sit between us like accusation.
It lay there with Eleanora's sleeping breaths.
Brandon Boo.
Love and grief stitched into one impossible little name.
I turned onto my side again.
Hero was watching me.
Not hungrily now.
Softly.
Sadly.
"I should have told you about Ava," he said.
"Yes."
"I was ashamed."
"I know."
"I didn't want to lose you."
"You still did."
His face tightened.
I reached across the space without thinking and touched the back of his hand.
Just once.
Enough.
He went still.
So did I.
It was not sex.
Not forgiveness.
Not permission.
Just contact.
A quiet acknowledgement that we had both lost things before we understood how to keep them.
"I'm not forgiving it tonight," I whispered.
"I know."
"But I'm not leaving the room over it."
His fingers turned slightly beneath mine.
Not holding.
Just there.
"Okay."
This time, I didn't hate the word.
Eleanora stirred, then settled again.
My eyes grew heavy.
Exhaustion finally came for me properly, dragging at every muscle, every thought, every defence.
Hero's voice came through the dark.
"Sleep, Emily Dean."
My throat tightened at my name.
"You sleep, Hero Fiennes Tiffin."
"I'm trying."
"Mum would say trying is-"
"What people say when they want credit for almost doing it," he finished.
A laugh breathed out of me.
Then quiet.
Then darkness.
I don't know how long I slept.
Maybe twenty minutes.
Maybe two hours.
But when Eleanora cried again, I woke first.
Not Hero.
Me.
The sound cut through sleep, and my body moved before fear could stop it.
I sat up.
Hero stirred beside me, confused and pained.
"I've got her," he mumbled.
But I was already out of bed.
Eleanora's face was scrunched, little legs kicking, rabbit shoved to the side.
I leaned over the cot, heart racing.
"Hi," I whispered.
She cried harder.
Of course.
Still, I reached down.
Not smoothly.
Not confidently.
But without waiting for Hero to tell me how.
I picked her up.
She wailed against my chest, furious and tired and alive.
I rocked her.
Side to side.
Side to side.
Hero sat up slowly behind me.
I could feel him watching.
This time, I didn't tell him not to.
"I know," I whispered into Eleanora's hair. "I know, Nora. I'm here."
Her crying softened by a fraction.
Hero's breath caught.
I looked over my shoulder at him.
"Don't make it a thing."
He shook his head, eyes shining in the dark.
"I won't."
Liar.
But for once, I let him have it.
I turned back to our daughter and kept rocking.
Outside, the city stayed locked down.
Inside, the baby cried.
And I stayed.