Staying

Dominic

I didn't leave.

Not when the nurse came in to check on Lila's vitals. Not when visiting hours technically ended. Not when her parents peeked in again and asked if they should stay the night instead.

She didn't tell me to go.

She didn't tell me to stay either.

But that silence—her not pushing me away—was more than I deserved. And it was enough.

The hospital room dimmed into quiet over time, soft beeping monitors becoming the background music of the night. Aurora slept in the clear bassinet beside Lila's bed, swaddled like a little burrito, one hand peeking out near her cheek.

I couldn't stop watching her.

Every rise and fall of her chest. Every little sound she made in her sleep. I memorized it all like a man starving.

I'd missed the beginning of her life. But I wasn't going to miss another second.

Lila shifted slightly in bed, grimacing from the soreness. I stood without thinking, pouring her a cup of water and adjusting the blanket near her legs.

She looked at me. Quiet. Tired. Those deep brown eyes didn't hold anger anymore—just layers. Wounds that weren't healed, but open and breathing.

"I'll sleep in the chair," I said, nodding toward the one across from her bed.

"It reclines," she murmured. "Sort of."

"That's luxury compared to most of my nights lately," I said, trying to smile. It came out a little crooked.

She didn't laugh. But she didn't look away either.

I settled into the chair, arms crossed, eyes on both of them—my girls.

"Why'd you name her Aurora?" I asked after a few minutes of silence, my voice barely above a whisper.

Lila turned her head toward the bassinet, her expression softening in the low light.

"It means dawn," she said. "New beginning. Light after darkness."

I swallowed hard. "That's perfect."

"I needed something that didn't feel tied to the past," she added. "Something that was hers. Ours, I guess. But mostly… hers."

I nodded.

"I never stopped loving you," I said before I could stop myself.

She didn't move. Didn't speak.

I stared at the ceiling for a moment, biting the inside of my cheek.

"But I didn't know how to love you the right way," I continued. "I controlled everything, trying to protect what I didn't want to lose. But I ended up becoming the reason you ran."

The silence stretched. Thick. Heavy.

Then, after what felt like forever, she whispered, "I didn't want to run. I wanted to be chased."

I sat up straighter, something sharp breaking behind my ribs.

"You were worth chasing," I said. "And I will spend the rest of my life proving that I know that now."

Her breathing was slow. Tired.

She didn't answer.

But she didn't tell me to stop.

That night, I didn't sleep much. I dozed here and there, waking every time Aurora shifted or Lila sighed in her sleep. I checked on the baby every few minutes like my heart had attached itself to her every sound.

Around three in the morning, Lila stirred.

She opened her eyes, finding me still in the chair, watching over them both.

"You're still here," she said, voice raspy.

"Always," I replied without hesitation.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, she didn't flinch at that word.

Dominic

I didn't leave.

Not when the nurse came in to check on Lila's vitals. Not when visiting hours technically ended. Not when her parents peeked in again and asked if they should stay the night instead.

She didn't tell me to go.

She didn't tell me to stay either.

But that silence—her not pushing me away—was more than I deserved. And it was enough.

The hospital room dimmed into quiet over time, soft beeping monitors becoming the background music of the night. Aurora slept in the clear bassinet beside Lila's bed, swaddled like a little burrito, one hand peeking out near her cheek.

I couldn't stop watching her.

Every rise and fall of her chest. Every little sound she made in her sleep. I memorized it all like a man starving.

I'd missed the beginning of her life. But I wasn't going to miss another second.

Lila shifted slightly in bed, grimacing from the soreness. I stood without thinking, pouring her a cup of water and adjusting the blanket near her legs.

She looked at me. Quiet. Tired. Those deep brown eyes didn't hold anger anymore—just layers. Wounds that weren't healed, but open and breathing.

"I'll sleep in the chair," I said, nodding toward the one across from her bed.

"It reclines," she murmured. "Sort of."

"That's luxury compared to most of my nights lately," I said, trying to smile. It came out a little crooked.

She didn't laugh. But she didn't look away either.

I settled into the chair, arms crossed, eyes on both of them—my girls.

"Why'd you name her Aurora?" I asked after a few minutes of silence, my voice barely above a whisper.

Lila turned her head toward the bassinet, her expression softening in the low light.

"It means dawn," she said. "New beginning. Light after darkness."

I swallowed hard. "That's perfect."

"I needed something that didn't feel tied to the past," she added. "Something that was hers. Ours, I guess. But mostly… hers."

I nodded.

"I never stopped loving you," I said before I could stop myself.

She didn't move. Didn't speak.

I stared at the ceiling for a moment, biting the inside of my cheek.

"But I didn't know how to love you the right way," I continued. "I controlled everything, trying to protect what I didn't want to lose. But I ended up becoming the reason you ran."

The silence stretched. Thick. Heavy.

Then, after what felt like forever, she whispered, "I didn't want to run. I wanted to be chased."

I sat up straighter, something sharp breaking behind my ribs.

"You were worth chasing," I said. "And I will spend the rest of my life proving that I know that now."

Her breathing was slow. Tired.

She didn't answer.

But she didn't tell me to stop.

That night, I didn't sleep much. I dozed here and there, waking every time Aurora shifted or Lila sighed in her sleep. I checked on the baby every few minutes like my heart had attached itself to her every sound.

Around three in the morning, Lila stirred.

She opened her eyes, finding me still in the chair, watching over them both.

"You're still here," she said, voice raspy.

"Always," I replied without hesitation.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, she didn't flinch at that word.