This is a tiny little OS I wrote as a challenge piece during my summer program in Scotland. The course is over so I thought I'd let ya'll read it. It was inspired by my flight to Scotland (which didn't have any crying babies on it but inspiration is inspiration!).
I own nothing. I did buy a really excellent tote bag recently though.
"I know, baby, I know," I crooned, wishing I could scream along with my daughter. I tucked her pacifier back into her mouth, praying she'd keep it this time.
I rocked and jiggled her, hoping my fellow passengers understood that flying with a baby is awful at the best of times.
"Let me," a gentle voice said. "I've been told I have 'the touch.'"
I looked up and met the soft green gaze of the man next to me.
"I'm sorry," I said, flushing a little. "Her ears are popping. She wouldn't be so miserable if she'd go to sleep, but …"
My voice trailed off. Sophie spat out her pacifier and let loose a fresh round of wails.
I gathered her up and moved her to the other shoulder.
"Please, you look like you need the break," Green Eyes insisted.
I sighed and slipped my daughter into the stranger's outstretched hands. He cuddled her to his shoulder.
And she quieted.
Completely.
I stared, flabbergasted.
He looked good holding her. A warmth spread through me, seeing a man cuddling my baby, calming her in a way her father never would.
"That's it, sweetheart," he was murmuring to her as he rubbed her back. "I think she's out … Edward, by the way." He twisted to hold out a hand for me to shake. I took it.
"Bella." I hesitated. "Do you want me to—" I started to reach for her.
"Don't worry about it," he shook his head. "She's happy and sleeping. I don't mind. You can have the break."
I blew out a breath. It was so natural, this man rocking my daughter, helping me.
He adjusted Sophie in his arms and looked down at her, smiling, before speaking quiet, wistful words I could barely hear:
"I could get used to this."
This is currently complete. If there's interest, I have some notes that could become a longer story.
