Chapter 277: Chapter Two Hundred and Seventy-Four — Bites and Breakfast

Zane does not sleep deeply that night. He rests in fragments, drifting in and out while listening to Willow’s breathing like it is the only metronome that matters. He has learned her rhythms over the years. He knows the difference between discomfort and danger, between exhaustion and collapse. He knows the small changes that signal trouble before trouble announces itself loudly enough for anyone else to notice.

Tonight she is exhausted, but steady. That steadiness is the only reason he lets his eyes close at all.

He turns onto his side and studies her profile in the dim light. Her face is calm in sleep, but her body still carries the discipline of recovery, the stiffness that never fully disappears even when she rests. He watches her for a long moment and admits what he resisted earlier in the day. She is not racing away from the hospital in blind panic. She is rebuilding control, piece by piece, and control is the language she trusts most.

That makes him proud, and it makes him wary.

Because control reclaimed too quickly can become overextension, and overextension is where everything breaks again.

He wakes before she does and checks the calendar on his phone out of habit, even though he already knows it. Today is the day before the wedding. Tomorrow is ceremony, vows, cameras, eyes, the kind of attention that turns a room into pressure.

He scrolls through the schedule he has already rewritten twice.

Morning: limited activity window.

Midday: final venue check without her.

Afternoon: rehearsal adjustments.

Evening: quiet. Mandatory quiet.

He sets the phone down and listens again. Willow’s breathing stays even. He tracks the pauses between inhales and the subtle depth of each breath. He does not want to wake her. He wants her to have every ounce of rest she can steal from a week that refuses to slow.

He slips out of bed carefully, dressing without turning on the lights. He moves through the room with the quiet of a man who knows exactly how much sound matters. He checks her medication schedule on the bedside table. He checks the water level in her glass. He checks the position of the cane near the bed so she will not have to reach for it blindly.

Control, in his world, is never abstract. It is always practical. 𝗳𝚛𝗲𝕖𝕨𝕖𝗯𝚗𝚘𝕧𝕖𝗹.𝗰𝗼𝕞

He moves down the hallway instead of going straight to the office.

Zana’s door is slightly open. Light from the early morning filters in through sheer curtains, soft and pale against the pastel walls. He pauses at the threshold before stepping inside, the way he always does, as if entering a room that belongs to something sacred rather than owned.

She is awake.

She is not calling for anyone. She is not crying. She is sitting upright in her crib, legs tucked beneath her, hands lifted in front of her face as if she has just discovered them for the first time. She turns them slowly, studying her fingers with deep concentration. She flexes them, spreads them apart, then brings them together again as if marveling at the fact that they obey her command.

Her brow is furrowed with serious curiosity.

Zane stands there longer than necessary.

All the containment in him loosens slightly.

He steps closer. The floor does not creak. She does not notice him yet. She is too absorbed in the miracle of her own hands, whispering something to herself in soft, indistinct syllables.

"Good morning," he says softly.

Her head snaps up.

Her entire face transforms in an instant. Her eyes widen. Her mouth opens in immediate, delighted recognition. She lets out a sharp sound that is somewhere between a gasp and a squeal and lunges forward, arms outstretched, balance questionable, joy absolute.

He reaches her in two steps and lifts her easily before she can tip forward.

The moment she is in his arms, she attacks.

There is no warning and no hesitation.

She opens her mouth wide and clamps down on the tip of his nose in what can only be described as a baby bite. It is toothless, enthusiastic, and absolutely unrestrained. Saliva follows immediately, warm and unapologetic, spreading across his upper lip and cheek.

Zane freezes for half a second in surprise.

Then he laughs.

Not the controlled exhale he uses in boardrooms. Not the restrained amusement he allows in public spaces.

He laughs fully, shoulders loosening as the sound escapes him.

"All right," he says, voice rough with amusement as he gently pries her away from his nose. "I know. I know. You’re hungry."

Zana makes a delighted sound, half giggle and half triumphant growl, as if she has conquered him through tactical assault. She pats his face with both hands now, smearing the evidence of her victory without remorse.

He wipes his nose with the side of his hand and inspects the dampness with mock seriousness. "This is your opening move every morning. Aggressive negotiation."

She grabs at his collar and tugs, her small fingers determined and strong. He adjusts her higher against his chest, one arm firm beneath her, the other supporting her back.

"Let’s go make breakfast," he says. "For you and Mommy. Yes?"

Her head bobs, enthusiastic and uncoordinated. She leans forward again, clearly considering another attempt at his nose.

He turns his head just enough to avoid a second strike.

"Not twice," he says calmly. "One attack per morning."

She laughs again, bright and unfiltered, the sound filling the room and softening something in him that strategy cannot touch.

He carries her out into the hallway. She presses her forehead against his jaw for a moment, then settles, one small hand fisted in his shirt as if anchoring herself.

As they walk toward the kitchen, Zane feels the tension in his shoulders ease in a way nothing else manages. There are still variables. There is still tomorrow. There is still the pressure of rooms and cameras and expectations.

But in his arms is a small human being who thinks his nose is edible and his chest is home.

In the kitchen, he sets her into the high chair and secures the straps with careful precision. She watches him with absolute trust, kicking her feet lightly against the base. He moves efficiently, pulling ingredients from the refrigerator, keeping one eye on her the entire time.

"You are supervising," he tells her.

She responds by banging her hands on the tray.

"I see that," he says.

He prepares something simple and quick, nothing elaborate. He spoons it into a small bowl and tests the temperature before bringing it to her. She opens her mouth wide before he even reaches her, impatient and unapologetic.

"Yes," he says softly. "You win."

He feeds her slowly, wiping her chin between bites. She reaches for the spoon repeatedly, determined to take control of the process. He lets her hold it, guiding her hand gently so it does not end up in her hair.

"Today," he says quietly while she chews, "we take care of Mommy."

Zana babbles in agreement, a string of sounds that make no sense but carry enthusiasm. She smacks the tray again, then attempts to lean forward in another attempt at his face.

He leans back slightly. "No more face attacks."

She laughs, unrepentant.

After a few minutes, he lifts her from the chair and settles her against his hip. He carries her toward the staircase slowly, careful with each step. She rests her head briefly against his shoulder, suddenly calmer now that the urgency of hunger has been satisfied.

Halfway up the stairs, she pats his cheek with a sticky hand and studies him the way she studied her own fingers earlier, as if he too is a marvel that belongs to her.

He presses a brief kiss to her temple.

"For now," he murmurs, more to himself than to her, "containment can wait."

Tomorrow will demand precision.

This morning belongs to bites and breakfast.