Rebirth: Love me Again

[COLE]

Eve's eyes shimmered. "I'm sorry too," she whispered. "I should've told you sooner. I was just . . . overwhelmed. I didn't even know how to process my own emotions, let alone share them with you."

Cole shook his head. "It's okay. I'm here now. That's all that matters. And I'm never leaving again. Even if you push me away a hundred more times, I'll still come back. I'll fight for you. For both of you."

Eve looked at him—really looked at him—for the first time in a long while. He was no longer the cold, ruthless heir of the Fay name.

There was vulnerability in his eyes. A sincerity that wasn't there before. A man stripped of pride, of ego—just a father, just a man who loved her still.

She blinked, and a laugh escaped her lips.

"What?" Cole asked, slightly alarmed.

"You're a mess," she said, grinning through her own tears. "You're crying all over Bean's hair."

He sniffled. "It's manly crying. Besides, he needs to know he has a dad here."

Bean sneezed, and they both burst out laughing.

For the first time in what felt like forever, they shared a moment—simple, pure, imperfect. But real.

====

[EVE]

Ever since Cole came to Frizkiel, it was like watching a lion walk into a den of very territorial wolves.

My brothers?

Let's just say they didn't roll out the welcome mat. In fact, I'm pretty sure one of them threatened to roll him up in a mat and toss him into the river.

Dean glared at him like he was deciding which pressure point to strike first, Dante kept muttering "accident-prone things happen to people like you", and Damien? He had that quiet, cold stare that could freeze fire.

Frizkiel was loud with opinions—and my family? The loudest of all.

Cole, however, had the tenacity of a bull and the patience of a monk. Despite the harsh welcomes, cold shoulders, and side-eyes that could pierce armor, he persisted. Day after day.

The man was immune. Like, scientifically.

No amount of intimidation or growled threats made him flinch. He simply showed up every day with his stupidly charming smile and those thoughtful gifts.

Sometimes flowers, sometimes snacks, sometimes a toy for Bean. Once, he brought a handmade mobile for Bean's crib—carved stars and moons with tiny glittery clouds. He carved them himself. He had splinters on every finger. Every. Finger.

"Are you okay?" I had asked.

He had grinned, showing me his bandaged hands. "Perfect. Just took a little war with the wood. I think I lost a finger but—" he wiggled it, "—oh, never mind, still attached."

It was ridiculous, but it made me laugh.

Despite my brothers' disapproving growls, Cole made it his mission to turn Frizkiel into his home. He moved into the guest room right next to my room—nothing could deter him.

And honestly? I liked having him close. Bean did too—I could feel it. He adored his uncles and grandparents, sure, but it was different with Cole. Like some kind of invisible string tied the two of them together.

Bean's whole face would light up when Cole walked in, like his personal sun just rose in the living room. It wasn't just love. It was familiarity. A bond that didn't need words—just diapers, silly faces, and clumsy lullabies.

The only person in my family who liked him from the start was my mother. She said he reminded her of my father when they were young—stubborn, hopelessly in love, and just a little clueless.

She always set an extra plate for him during meals, made him chamomile tea when he looked tired, and once scolded Damien for giving Cole "that look."

Being a mother changed everything.

Suddenly, I wasn't just a daughter or a sister anymore—I was Eve, the mom. And Cole? He wasn't just a sharp-tongued heir with a distant attitude anymore. He was a man trying desperately to be a good father. Watching him try was both heartwarming and absolutely hilarious.

Cole didn't know how to change a diaper.

The first time he tried, Bean peed on him.

Right in the face.

He stared at the baby like he'd been betrayed by a teammate. "No one told me he came with built-in pressure hoses! This isn't a baby—it's a biohazard in footie pajamas!"

Bean just laughed. So did I. So did my mom.

My brothers didn't. They smirked and muttered, "serve him right."

Bath time was next.

Cole approached it with the confidence of someone who'd seen one too many peaceful parent commercials.

Big mistake.

Bean splashed like a whirlpool demon. Cole slipped on a rubber duck, flailed, and slammed his elbow on the tub edge. I'm pretty sure I saw him ascend to the spirit realm for a solid three seconds.

"I survived military training," he said from the wet floor, blinking. "But this? This is next-level warfare."

He still came back the next day.

With better shoes. And an army of rubber ducks.

Cooking? Oh, that was a whole different brand of chaos.

He wanted to make "healthy meals" for Bean and me. I don't know what cookbook he used, but one dish came out looking like mashed carrots, smelling like damp laundry, and . . . moving? Slightly?

"Ta-da!" he said proudly. "Protein-rich and all organic!"

"Organic what, though?" I asked, poking it like it might bite back.

"Don't be picky. Babies in Norway eat this!"

"And I'm in Frizkiel, not Oslo," I muttered.

But he was trying. Toasts were burned. Rice was . . . crunchy? And he mistook salt for sugar. Twice.

Still, he didn't quit. Two weeks in, he made a vegetable soup that didn't taste like regret. Progress.

He treated me like royalty. The pampered, "I-can't-carry-my-own-pillow" kind. He fetched groceries, picked up toys, cleaned without asking, and once—even cleaned my toenails while I was asleep.

He was doing everything to make up for lost time. For the nights he missed. The months he wasn't around. He didn't talk much about the guilt. He just showed up—every day—with diapers, stories, food, and this strange determination that said, I'm here now. I want you back.