I looked at his face in the soft light of the nursery lamp.

I searched his eyes for any sign of hesitation, resentment, or reluctance.

There was none.

The tiredness on his face was real, but it was the clean fatigue of a man who had chosen to carry his own weight.

“She would like that,” I said quietly.

“She hates asking for help.”

“I know,” Ethan said.

“So do you.”