Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 78329 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78329 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
And on the side table beside it is Nanny’s photo.
The same one I just put on the mantle. My breath catches.
“Miles,” I whisper, because my heart doesn’t know what else to do. He leans against the doorframe, watching me watch the room.
“Figured he’d want his own space,” he tells me quietly. “But close enough you can check on him any moment you feel you want to.”
A tear slips out before I can stop it. He pushes off the door frame and steps behind me, arms wrapping around my waist. “You okay?” he asks again, softer this time.
“I don’t understand you,” I admit, voice cracking. “I don’t understand how you just make things happen.”
Miles presses a kiss to the side of my head. “That’s what I do.”
“But why?” I whisper.
His arms tighten slightly. “Because I love you.”
My chest aches. “And because,” he continues, voice low, “you’ve been carrying too much for too long.”
I close my eyes, leaning back into him. I’ve spent years making things work with scraps—scraping together care plans and budgets and grocery lists and overtime hours and prayers. I’ve spent years believing smooth was for other people.
I turn in his arms and look up at him.
His eyes are warm, steady. He looks proud. Not of himself. Of me being here.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” I whisper.
He cups my face. “Yeah,” he says. “I did.”
A laugh bubbles out of me through tears.
Miles wipes my cheeks with his thumbs. “You keep looking at me like I’m gonna ask for something back.”
Because I am. Because that’s how life has always worked for me.
I swallow hard. “I’m waiting for the catch.”
His eyes soften. “No catch,” he says.
I stare at him, searching. He doesn’t flinch. “There’s just you,” he adds. “And him.” He nods toward the recliner. “And us.”
The simple way he says it nearly breaks me. I take a shaky breath. “Miles,” I say slowly, “I don’t know how you’re affording all this. I can pay for things you know. I have a good job. I will be taking boards to get licensed here and go back to work.”
He chuckles. “Baby.” He guides me back toward the living room, still holding my hand, like he knows my legs are a little unsteady under all these emotions. “I’m a man who wants to provide, protect, and be your partner. I have funds. I lived alone with no real bills, my money got stock piled away. You wanna work, you work. You wanna stay home and take care of Papa, you do that. The bills are paid either way. You do what you want, Danae, no pressure for anything.”
“I don’t know what to say,” I tell him the truth.
“So say nothing and let’s unpack.”
And just like that he’s making it all so easy again. We stop near a pile of boxes labeled PAPA—MEDICAL.
Miles crouches and starts cutting tape. “Let me,” I say automatically, but he shakes his head.
“You’re unpacking your books and your clothes. I’ll handle his equipment.”
“That’s my job,” I say without thinking.
He looks up at me, eyes steady. “Not alone, not anymore.”
The words hit deep.
Miles pulls out a folder from the box—medical records, insurance forms, caregiver schedules, a list of local providers.
He taps the top page. “I got home health set up. Same kind you had there, but better coverage. There’s a nurse who’ll come by twice a week to evaluate the caregivers and give his body a once over for sores so we don’t miss anything and it doesn’t fall on you all the time, therapist once a week if he wants it, and an aide at all times through a rotating schedule.”
My mouth falls open.
“You already did all that?”
He shrugs again. “Phone calls. Paperwork. Some cash where insurance didn’t quite cover.”
My throat tightens.
“And you didn’t tell me?”
He stands, dusting his hands off. “Didn’t want you worrying about it,” he says. “You had enough.”
I stare at him, stunned. All my life, the logistics have been my burden. My responsibility. My mental load. My endless list of tasks that never stop.
And now there’s a man who wants to carry it with me, no carry it for me. Not because I asked. Because he saw it and decided I shouldn’t have to.
I sink onto the couch like my legs give out. Miles watches me with a faint smile. “You overwhelmed?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say honestly. “And I don’t know what to do with it.”
He walks over and leans down, bracing his hands on the couch on either side of me.
“Do with it whatever you want,” he murmurs. “Cry. Laugh. Yell at me. But don’t push it away.”
My eyes sting again. “You told me,” I say softly, “that you had money. But I thought you meant I don’t know, enough to be comfortable.”
Miles’ smile turns wry. “I am comfortable.”
“How?” I ask, still confused.