(LIAM'S POV)
Dylan stood frozen in the doorway, water dripping from his clothes onto the floor. His chest was heaving, his hands trembling at his sides. He looked like he had just run through a hurricane to get here—and maybe he had. His boots were caked in mud, his shirt plastered to his skin, his dark hair hanging in wet strands across his forehead.
For a long, breathless moment, neither of us spoke.
The only sounds were the rain pounding against the windows, the ragged gasps of my own breathing, and the soft, pitiful crying of the child in my arms.
Dylan's eyes were locked on mine, wide and disbelieving, like he was staring at a ghost. Like he was afraid that if he blinked, I would vanish again.
Then his brain seemed to unfreeze.
"Dylan—" I started, but I never got to finish.
