Grayson Gilbert noticed things.
It was part of being a doctor—reading body language, catching the small hesitations people didn't realize they displayed. He noticed when someone held their breath too long. When their eyes lingered where they shouldn't. When curiosity crossed the line into calculation.
That was why the look John gave Rose unsettled him.
It wasn't affection. It wasn't even concern.
It was assessment.
Grayson stood near the kitchen doorway, watching John from the corner of his eye as the party wound down. Balloons drooped. Plates were stacked. Jenna was unloading gifts from her car while Miranda settled the twins in the living room.
John lingered.
His gaze kept returning to Rose.
Rose sat quietly in Miranda's lap, dark red hair curling against her crown, hazel eyes half-lidded but alert. She tracked movement the way Grayson tracked vital signs—with focus, with intent. And every time John's attention settled on her, Rose's small body stiffened almost imperceptibly.
Grayson's jaw tightened.
He'd seen the look on his brother's face before.
In labs.
In case studies.
In men who forgot that subjects were people.
"John."
The name cut cleanly through the room.
John turned, mild surprise flickering across his face. "Yeah?"
Grayson stepped closer, lowering his voice. "We need to talk."
John glanced toward Miranda, then back. "Now?"
"Yes. Now."
They moved into the hallway, out of earshot.
Grayson didn't bother easing into it.
"You keep looking at Rose like she's a problem you haven't solved yet," he said flatly.
John scoffed lightly. "She's a baby, Grayson."
"No," Grayson said, eyes sharp. "She's my baby. And you don't look at her the way you look at Elena. You look at her like she's…data."
John's expression cooled. "You're projecting."
Grayson shook his head. "I've worked in research. I know that look. I know what it leads to."
Silence stretched between them.
John straightened his cuffs. "You're overreacting."
"Am I?" Grayson countered. "Because I watched you hesitate when she looked at you. I watched you flinch when she focused on you. And I watched you lose interest the moment she turned away."
John's eyes flickered, just once.
Grayson saw it.
"That look," Grayson continued quietly, "is the same look men get when they start asking what they can learn from someone instead of how to protect them."
John's jaw tightened. "You think I'd hurt your children?"
"I think," Grayson said evenly, "that you don't always remember where the line is."
The words landed hard.
John stepped closer, voice low. "Be careful, Grayson."
Grayson didn't move. "That goes both ways."
For a moment, they stared at one another—two men who shared blood but no longer shared trust.
Finally, John exhaled, smoothing his expression back into something palatable. "You're tired. Being a new father does that. You start seeing threats everywhere."
Grayson's voice did not waver. "Not everywhere. Just in you."
---
When John left later that night, Grayson watched from the window until his car disappeared down the street.
Only then did he turn back to the living room.
Miranda sat on the couch, Rose asleep against her chest. Elena dozed beside her, her head in Miranda's lap, her fingers curled around a blanket.
Grayson knelt, brushing a finger over Rose's tiny hand.
She shifted, brow furrowing briefly, then relaxed.
Whatever John saw in her—whatever he thought she might become—Grayson knew one thing with absolute certainty:
No one would ever treat his daughter like a specimen.
Not his brother.
Not the world.
And not the future.
He pressed a kiss to Miranda's temple and whispered, "I won't let anyone hurt them. I promise."
Rose slept on, unaware of the line that had just been drawn for her.