Chapter 21 Not So Simple Anymore
Darcy's POV
The first morning back at the penthouse feels quieter than it should.
Not empty never that, not with Hazel here but softer, as though the walls themselves have learned something from the hospital and are holding it close. Even the light that filters through the wide glass windows seems gentler, stretching across the marble floors without its usual sharp brightness.
I stand in the kitchen, warming a bottle, watching the way the steam curls faintly in the air. It’s a simple task. One I’ve done countless times before. But everything feels slightly different now, like the rhythm we had before has shifted into something slower, more deliberate.
Behind me, I hear movement.
Not rushed.
Not heavy.
Just steady.
“You’ve been awake for a while.”
Adrian’s voice carries into the space before I turn. There’s a roughness to it, not from sleep, but from the lack of it.
“I didn’t want her to wake up hungry,” I replied, glancing over my shoulder.
He’s leaning lightly against the doorway, sleeves rolled, tie gone, the sharp lines of his usual appearance softened into something more… human. There’s still exhaustion in his eyes, but it doesn’t sit as heavily as before.
“She’s been sleeping longer,” he says.
“The doctor said she might,” I reminded him. “Her body’s recovering.”
He nods, pushing himself off the frame and walking in, slower than usual, as though he’s still adjusting to being here again instead of in a hospital corridor.
For a moment, neither of us says anything.
The quiet isn’t uncomfortable.
It just… lingers.
I turn back to the bottle, checking the temperature against my wrist before setting it aside.
“You should eat something,” I say, more out of habit than intention.
A faint breath of something almost like a laugh leaves him.
“You sound like you’ve taken over more than just her schedule.”
I shrug lightly. “Someone has to make sure you don’t forget basic things.”
“I won't forget.”
I glance at him then, one eyebrow lifting slightly.
He holds my gaze for a second longer than necessary before looking away.
“Not often,” he corrects.
That almost-smile lingers between us again, softer this time.
Hazel’s faint stirring breaks the moment.
Both of us turn instinctively toward the sound.
“I’ll get her,” I say, already moving.
“I’ll come with you.”
It isn’t necessary.
But I don’t question it.
We walk side by side down the hallway, the space between us close enough to feel but not enough to touch. There’s something different in the way we move now, less guarded, less formal, though neither of us has acknowledged it out loud.
Hazel’s room is just as we left it, soft light filtering through the curtains, her small form shifting beneath the blankets.
She makes a quiet sound when she sees us, her arms lifting weakly but with intention.
“Hey, you,” I murmur, moving closer.
I pick her up carefully, supporting her as she leans into me, her warmth still there but no longer alarming. Her head rests briefly against my shoulder, and I feel the way she settles, as though she recognizes something familiar.
“She looks better,” Adrian says quietly from beside me.
“She is.”
I adjust slightly, reaching for the bottle, but before I can fully turn, his hand brushes mine.
It’s not deliberate.
Just a small miscalculation of space.
But neither of us pulls away immediately.
For a second, our fingers remain there warm, steady, aware.
Then I shift, handing him the bottle instead.
“You can feed her,” I say, my voice softer than I intended.
He hesitates.
Just briefly.
Then he takes it.
Hazel’s small hands curl around his shirt as he holds her, the movement instinctive, trusting. He settles into the chair by the window, adjusting her carefully before guiding the bottle to her lips.
I watched for a moment.
The way his posture changes when he’s holding her.
The way his focus narrows completely, like nothing else exists outside of that small space between them.
“You’ve done this before,” I say.
He glances up slightly. “A few times.”
“That’s more than it was before.”
He exhales quietly. “I’m learning.”
There’s something in that something unpolished, unguarded that makes me look away before I realize I’m staring.
I move to straighten a few things that don’t need straightening, giving myself something to do.
“She needs consistency,” I add. “It helps her feel safe.”
“She already feels safe with you.”
The words are simple.
But they land heavier than expected.
I pause, my hand resting against the edge of the crib.
“She feels safe with you too,” I say.
He doesn’t respond immediately.
When I glance back at him, he’s watching Hazel again, but there’s something else in his expression now, something quieter, harder to read.
“I’m trying to be someone she can depend on,” he says after a moment.
“You already are.”
It comes out before I can stop it.
Honest.
Certain.
He looks at me then.
Really looks.
And for a second, the room feels smaller than it is.
I clear my throat softly, breaking the moment before it settles too deeply.
“She’ll need her medication soon,” I say, stepping back.
He nods once, though his gaze lingers for a fraction longer before returning to Hazel.
The rest of the morning unfolds slowly.
Small things.
Routine.
I prepare her medication while he finishes feeding her. He watches carefully as I measure it, asking quiet questions, committing each step to memory in a way that feels deliberate.
“Twice a day?” he asks.
“Yes. And if her temperature rises again, we monitor it immediately.”
He nods. “I’ll remember.”
“I know you will.”
The words come easily.
Too easily.
Later, when Hazel falls asleep again, we move back into the main living space.
The distance between us returns.
Not cold.
Just… safer.
He picks up his phone, scanning through missed calls and messages, his expression shifting back into something more controlled, more familiar.
Work.
Reality.
His world.
I move toward the kitchen again, giving him that space.
But even from across the room, I feel it.
The awareness.
The unspoken thread that didn’t exist before.
Or maybe it did.
Maybe we just ignored it.
“You don’t have to stay out there.”
His voice pulls me from my thoughts.
I glance back.
He’s still looking at his phone, but his attention isn’t fully on it.
“I’m fine,” I reply.
“You’ve been standing for ten minutes without doing anything.”
I blink slightly.
“I was thinking.”
“About leaving?”
The question is casual.
Too casual.
I turn full this time, studying him.
“Why would you think that?”
He sets his phone down slowly.
“Because this isn’t simple anymore.”
There it is.
Not everything.
But enough.
I cross my arms lightly, not defensive, just… steady.
“It was never simple,” I say.
“No,” he agrees. “But it was contained.”
“And now?”
His gaze meets mine.
“It isn’t.”
The words hang between us.
Not heavy.
Not dramatic.
Just true.
I look away first.
Because I don’t know what to do with that truth.
Neither of us speaks again.
Not for a while.
The silence stretches, filled with everything we’re both choosing not to say.
Until
Hazel lets out a soft cry from down the hall.
And just like that, the moment shifts.
We move at the same time.
Back into something safe.
Something defined.
Something we understand.