Sandra reached out, taking his hand—the same steady hand that had gripped hers through every contraction.
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“You are that man, Jake,” she said firmly, pulling him closer. “You’re the man who runs into fires. I just didn’t know how literally you meant it.”
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She placed the baby in his arms. Jake held his daughter, his chin resting on her tiny head, and for the first time in twenty years, the shadow of Blackwood was gone. He wasn’t a secret anymore; he was a father, and he was home.
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