You don't have to stay." My voice was barely above a whisper, but in the quiet hospital room, it carried.
Jaxon didn't even glance at me. He was sitting on the opposite side of Hazel's bed, his fingers gently stroking her tiny hand. His thumb moved in slow, rhythmic circles, like he was grounding himself in her presence.
"I know," he whispered, still staring at our daughter. "But I'm not leaving."
I sighed and shifted in the chair I'd hardly moved from in the last several hours. The doctors reassured me Hazel was stable now, but that weight in my chest wouldn't lift. It was the thought of her laboured breathing and the panic in her big brown eyes that just wouldn't clear my mind.
He had been silent, steadfast, and unshakeable through the whole thing.
I had expected him to explode in a
