Prologe: Before the world fell apart, there was a house on a quiet Texas street.
A tired cop came home late.
His wife was washing dishes.
Two boys slept down the hall, their dreams still safe from the noise outside.
He thought the hardest choices in life were behind him.
But sometimes, the smallest ones — the quiet, personal ones —
are the ones that echo the loudest when everything else is gone.
This isn’t a story about the end of the world.
It’s about what was worth saving before it ended.
Javier Miller eased the front door shut with the kind of care you only used when kids were asleep. The lock clicked soft, like a mouse cough. He stood there a second with his hand on the knob, letting his shoulders fall out of uniform posture. Belt off. Radio clipped down. Boots heavy as bricks. He listened: the house breathed in the ordinary way—air vent hum, fridge buzz, the light rattle of the old ceiling fan in the living room. No cartoons, no squabbling, no soccer ball thumping the hall.
Somewhere down the hallway, a small boy snored with his mouth wide open. Tommy. Javier could pick it out of a crowd. In the other room, a quieter exhale—Joel, who took sleep like a challenge and tried to win it.
In the kitchen, the sink ran. Plates chimed. Soap smell got there before he did.
“Hey,” he said, stepping into the light.
His wife—hair up, sleeves shoved to the elbows—looked over her shoulder with a grin. “Hey, cop man. You’re late.”
“Traffic,” he said, dropping a tired smile onto a chair. “Paperwork. Guy who thinks the blinker is a suggestion.”
“Sit,” she said, turning back to rinse a pan. “There’s roast in the oven. And two rolls I didn’t burn. Be amazed.”
“I’m amazed you’re awake,” he said, setting the belt atop the chair back and scrubbing a hand over his jaw. “Tommy crash?”
“Like a sack of flour,” she said. “And Joel too. Finally. I swear, he negotiates bedtime like it’s a hostage situation.”
“That’s my boy,” Javier said. “Talks like a lawyer, sleeps like a brick.” He opened the oven, reached for a towel, and slid out the dish. The roast was sliced. Steam puffed up carrying salt and thyme and that onion-sweet roast smell that reached inside his chest and loosened the last knot there. He forked a chunk into his mouth. “Oh man. You kill this cow yourself?”
“Don’t be gross,” she said, but she was smiling. “How was your day?”
“Long.” He chewed, swallowed, leaned against the counter. “Same folks arguing at the same grocery lot. Guy left his dog in a hot car; I left him a lecture he’s gonna feel in his bones. Your tax dollars at work.”
She turned the faucet off and shook her hands over the sink, soap bubbles popping like tiny fireworks. “You good? Feet?”
“Feet are sixty years old,” he said.
“You’re not sixty,” she said automatically.
“Feet are,” he said, toeing the heel of one boot off, then the other. He stood in his socks and felt ten pounds lighter. “Feet have seen some things.”
She snorted. “Sit down. Eat.”
He obeyed, because he knew which orders mattered. He sat. He ate. He watched her dry a plate, then set it on the rack, then wipe down the counter with that mindless efficient loop he loved.
“Boys give you trouble?” he asked.
“Just the usual.” She leaned hip-first against the opposite counter. “Tommy wanted to wear his cowboy boots to bed. Joel did his math with crayon. You know. Life.”
“Cowboy boots in bed,” Javier said, pointing with his fork. “That’s commitment.”
“Mm-hmm,” she said. “Maybe he’ll grow out of it.”
“He won’t,” Javier said. “He’s a Miller.”
She smiled at that—small and warm. “How was the new patrol car?”
“Smells like plastic,” he said. “I like ours better.”
“You like ours because it smells like coffee and french fries and your old jacket.”
She fussed with a drawer and pulled out a clean towel, dried her hands, then folded the towel in half. Then in half again. The fold stayed precise. It was a stalling tactic and he clocked it without calling it out. He took another bite. Another. The kitchen clock ticked; the house settled. Outside, a train blew its lonely horn.
He wiped his mouth. “Yeah?”
She didn’t look up right away. “Can we… talk? Not about the electric bill or Tommy’s boots. A different thing.”
He leaned back in the chair, one hand on the warm plate edge. “Sure. I didn’t forget an anniversary or something, did I?”
She laughed, quick. “No. But remember you said we could talk after your next set of nights? And it’s after.”
“Oh,” he said, and squinted like the calendar would form out of the air and label the topic. “This the… thing?”
“The thing,” she said, tucking a wet strand behind her ear. “I’ve been sitting on it for a week, and the longer I sit on it the more my brain makes it a monster.”
He looked at her, at the usefulness of her hands and the stubborn line of her mouth and the pretty tired eyes that always did him in. “Okay. Let’s de-monster it.”
She came around the table and sat opposite him, pulling her chair in so her knees almost bumped his. She rested her forearms on the table, palms up, like she was open to whatever came back. “I want to have another baby.”
He blinked. He could have pretended he didn’t hear, but that wasn’t their way. “Another?”
She nodded. “I want to try.”
Silence made itself a seat at the table. He took a sip of water that didn’t help much. “Babe, I’m—”
“Old,” she said, gentle, like it was an inside joke. “I know. You say it every time you get out of the car.”
“I was gonna say tired,” he said, then added, because honesty was part of their deal, “and old.”
She reached across, curled her fingers over his knuckles. “You’re both. But you’re also good. With them. With me.”
He snorted. “I’m good at telling Joel to turn the TV off and Tommy to quit licking the dog. That’s not the same as diapers in the dead of night and… and starting over.”
“Starting over,” she echoed, and smiled. “Or adding to the chaos we already know.”
He stared past her at the kitchen wall, at the faded height marks where they’d measured Joel last summer. “We just got out of diapers. I swear I still hear them crinkle when I walk past the laundry room.”
She laughed. “There aren’t any in there.”
“It’s a ghost diaper,” he said. “Haunts me.”
She squeezed his hand. “Javier. Listen. I know it’s a lot. I know it is. But I—” She paused, like she was checking the depth, making sure she wasn’t stepping into something too deep. “I keep thinking… we’re good. I mean, we’re okay. The boys are healthy. This house—” she glanced around— “leaks on windy days, but it’s ours. We’ve got hand-me-downs for days. And I’m forty percent sure the crib is still in the attic.”
“It is,” he said, then couldn’t help it: “And it’s missing a screw I still can’t find.”
“We’ll steal a screw from the dining chair.” She was in that tone—practical, cheery, and stubborn under it. “We can make room. Joel can share his room with Tommy for another year. He’ll complain, but he’ll get over it. And if it’s a girl—”
“Everything is blue, Babe,” he said. “You prepared to pink-ify this house?”
“I’ll paint a bow on the dog if I have to,” she said. “I just… I miss it. Not the sleep deprivation—okay, a little that too, weirdly—but the firsts. New firsts. Tiny socks. Joel’s first word. Tommy trying to say ‘spaghetti’ and inventing a new language. I’ve got this—” she made a vague circle in front of her chest, searching— “this thing in me that says our family isn’t done yet.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “And the thing in me says my knees aren’t done complaining.”
“Your knees complain when you tie your shoes,” she said. “They’ll complain no matter what. Might as well give them something to complain about.”
He gave her a look. It was half warning, half fond. “A baby’s not ‘something.’ It’s everything.”
“I know,” she said, quieter. “Jav, I know. I’m not saying it’d be easy. I’m not… I’m not trying to sell you a dream. I’m saying I want it. And I want you in it with me.”
He pushed the plate away and folded his arms on the table like a man preparing to build a case. “Okay. Let’s try the numbers. We got Joel heading to first grade. Tommy still thinks crayons are soup. I’m working doubles when Jenkins calls in ‘sick’—which he will. You’re doing shifts at the diner when your sister can take the boys. We got one bathroom toilet that hates us. The roof—”
“Leaks,” she said. “Only when it storms sideways.”
“Only then,” he said. “We got one beater truck and one Ford with a transmission I don’t trust past fifty. We got my dad’s old tools and your mom’s casserole pan. We got three holiday boxes and a fake tree. We got… we got a family that fits in this house like a puzzle. Another piece—”
“Makes the picture prettier,” she said.
“—could make it crowded,” he finished.
She tilted her head. “We were a one-bedroom apartment once.”
“And I was a younger man,” he said. “I could pick up Joel and walk up two flights while holding a bag of groceries and humming.”
“You still hum,” she said. “You hum when you think I’m not listening.”
He rubbed his jaw again, rough stubble catching the light. “I don’t want to say no because I’m a coward. Or because I like things in neat lines. And I don’t want to say yes just because you’re… you.” He gestured at her, all of her—tired and lovely and determined. “I love you. I love our boys. I love… the life. Even when the dog licks the dishes in the dishwasher and I pretend I didn’t see it.”
“We don’t have a dog,” she said, deadpan.
“I’m future-proofing the story,” he said.
She blew out a breath that wasn’t a sigh. “Okay. Try it like this: tell me the worst parts. Not deep. Just… the list.”
He did the face of a man who liked lists more than he would admit. He held up a finger. “Money. Hospital bills, diapers, formula, stuff. I’m a cop, honey, not a banker.”
“We make a budget,” she said. “I cut a shift for the first few weeks and then add them back. Your mom will help. My sister will bring groceries and complain about my cooking. We keep cash in envelopes like those weird tips in the magazine say. We don’t buy a new TV. We don’t fix the fence until the baby is walking.”
“Fence falls over when the wind looks at it,” he said, but okay, point.
He lifted a second finger. “Sleep. You know how I get on nights. You know how the morning shift hits me. I’m a bear. A bad one.”
“I buy earplugs,” she said. “I nap with the baby. You take Tommy to the park for an hour and I sleep like the dead. We trade. We tag-team.”
Third finger. “Age. I chase down a guy and my lungs write me a letter of complaint. I don’t want to be the old dad in the bleachers.”
“You’ll be the cool dad in the bleachers,” she said, and wagged her eyebrows. “With a badge.”
“I am not wearing my uniform to Little League.”
“You’re gonna be the dad who can fix a wobbly helmet with a pocketknife,” she said. “The dad who drives slow in the parking lot and glares at everyone else. That’s a service.”
He tried not to smile. Failed. “Fourth: space. Where does a baby go? In the junk drawer with the batteries and rubber bands?”
“In the crib we stole a screw for,” she said. “In our room for the first months. Then we move the dresser to the hallway and the crib fits in the boys’ room. Or we move Joel to the den—we put up that curtain rod you hate and pretend it’s a wall. It’s not pretty, but it works.”
“Okay,” he said slowly. “Fifth: me. I’m set in my ways. I am. I like my coffee exactly…” He squinted at his cup. “This.”
“I will write it down,” she promised solemnly. “And when I bring you a baby, I will also bring you coffee.”
He stared at the table, then back at her. “You’re really not gonna let this go.”
“Nope,” she said, cheerful and bright like a walk sign.
He rubbed both eyes with his knuckles and leaned back, chair creaking. “Why now? Not five years ago. Not five years from now.”
“Because now,” she said simply. “Because I can see it. Because I’m not scared the way I was when Joel was tiny and I thought he was made of glass. Because I’m not as tired as I was when Tommy came and Joel decided sleep was for losers. Because I feel it.” She pressed a hand to her sternum. “Here. I want one more. I want to see you hold another kid and pretend you’re not crying when they sneeze.”
“I didn’t cry when Joel sneezed,” he protested.
“You did,” she said. “A little. Your eyes got… watery.”
“The kid looked like he saw the sun for the first time and forgot what to do with his face,” he muttered, embarrassed by the memory that warmed him anyway.
“And Tommy,” she said. “He latched onto your finger like he’d made it himself. You sat on the edge of that awful hospital chair and didn’t move for three hours.”
“My butt went numb,” he said.
“You didn’t move,” she repeated, softer. “Because you were afraid you’d break the world if you did.”
He looked down, because some memories were too clean to stare at. “You said no deep,” he mumbled.
“It’s not deep,” she said. “It’s just what happened.”
He blew out a breath, then tipped his head back so he could look at the stained ceiling. “I love my life,” he said to the ceiling. “I love it. I am… Huh.” He blinked at the little crack near the light fixture like it had an opinion. “Happy.”
“Yeah,” he said. “And happy makes me… careful.”
“I get it,” she said. “Me too.”
He looked back at her, at the stubborn, hopeful, ridiculously persuasive woman who had set up shop in his life and rearranged the furniture so the sunlight hit the couch right in the evenings. “So. If I say yes, what changes?”
“We get an extra high chair,” she said. “We wash more tiny clothes. We don’t sleep a lot for a while, and then one day we sleep too much and miss it. We tell Joel he’s not in charge of naming the baby ‘Dinosaur.’ We tell Tommy he can help, and then teach him that ‘help’ doesn’t mean dumping flour on the dog.”
“Again,” Javier said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We don’t own a dog.”
“We will when you say yes,” she said with a smirk.
“Two boys and a baby and a dog?” he asked. “You trying to kill me?”
“Slowly,” she said. “With love.”
He held her gaze. Fear wasn’t the biggest feeling in him—he realized that. It was a strong second, sure. But there was this other thing, older than his knees, older than his badge: a tug toward the loud table, toward the messy breakfast, toward the crowded couch on a Sunday morning where cartoons got way too many reruns. He’d always been pulled toward that noise. Even when his own old man was more silence than anything, Javier had wanted to fill rooms with sound.
“Okay,” he said, almost to himself. Then firmer. “Okay.”
Her brows shot up. “Okay?”
He nodded once, like a man swearing in on something no courtroom could hold. “On conditions.”
She laughed, giddy relief spilling out of her before she reeled it back in. “Name them.”
“One,” he said, ticking it off. “We save first. A cushion. A real one. I’ll take the extra Friday shifts for a month. You… don’t you dare overdo it.”
“I’ll make a spreadsheet,” she said, already mentally color-coding. “Green for diapers. Blue for coffee.”
“Two,” he said. “We see the doctor. You do the vitamins. I want you healthy, babe. I want this to be… easy as it can be.”
“Deal,” she said. “I’ll call first thing Monday.”
“Three,” he said, pointing, “we fix the roof.”
“Fine,” she said, rolling her eyes. “You and your roof.”
“Four,” he added, “we tell the boys together. Not as a surprise. Joel will make a plan. Tommy will… start naming everything in the house ‘Baby.’ I want to be there to redirect.”
“Deal,” she said, eyes bright.
“Five,” he said, and the corner of his mouth turned. “If it’s a girl, you can pink-ify whatever you want except my fishing hat.”
“Hat is sacred,” she agreed solemnly.
“Six,” he said, and softened, because this one was the real one. “If I ever… if I ever get too grumpy. If I start being the guy who snaps because the bottle leaked or the car seat buckle is satan’s puzzle, you tell me. You don’t… you don’t let me become that guy. I don’t want to get old and brittle. I want to be old and funny.”
“You’re already both,” she teased, then sobered. “I’ll tell you. And you tell me if I start hoarding baby socks like a raccoon.”
“You will,” he said. “And I’ll build you a drawer.”
They sat there smiling like fools for a second, the kind of dopey grin that made the cheap kitchen light look like a chandelier.
“So… yes?” she said, needing to hear it plain.
“Yes,” he said. “Let’s try for one more Miller.”
She slapped the table softly and then shoved her chair back and came around the table and kissed him the way you kiss a man you chose. He kissed her back with the contented relief of a man who’d found the right decision by walking around it three times.
“Okay, Mr. ‘I’m too old,’” she said against his cheek. “You’re gonna be up at 3 a.m. warming a bottle.”
“I’m gonna be up at 3 a.m. anyway,” he said. “Might as well have a purpose.”
“You’ll hum,” she said. “You always hum.”
“I deny everything,” he said.
They pulled apart so she could laugh properly, and he stood to rinse his plate. He touched her waist as he passed the sink—habit, home, hello—and she leaned into it for a half-second, just enough that it said thank you in a language without verbs.
“Wanna go check the boys?” she asked. “Make sure Tommy isn’t smuggling boots into bed again.”
“I’ll take Joel,” Javier said. “You take Boot Bandit.”
They padded down the hall, the house grateful for the quiet. Javier paused in Joel’s doorway. The kid had kicked off his blanket and sprawled like a starfish, mouth open, hair stuck in a little cowlick that never quit. Javier tucked the blanket over him, snagged the stray Lego from where it waited like a trap on the rug, and set it on the dresser. He stood there, watching the steady rise and fall, and felt his jaw go watery again like he would deny later.
In the next room, Tommy had indeed wedged one small boot at the bottom of his sheets. She gently extracted it and set it beside the other on the floor. Tommy kept snoring, unbothered, the well of drool darkening the pillowcase. She brushed his cheek with the back of her fingers. “Bandit,” she whispered, smiling.
They met in the hall. He nodded toward the living room and they detoured, because you never turned in before one last 60-second lounge on the couch. He dropped into his spot. She sat close, tucking her feet up, and he draped an arm over her shoulders. The TV’s dark screen reflected the two of them, soft and smudged.
“You know,” she said, voice low so it wouldn’t ping off the hall, “we should probably find that missing crib screw before we need it.”
“I’ll get one from the hardware store,” he said. “Cliff’ll ask what it’s for. I’ll tell him it’s for a future I got talked into.”
“You didn’t get talked into it,” she said, mock-offended. “You made a considered decision.”
“I got lovingly railroaded,” he said.
“You love my railroads,” she said.
“I love your everything,” he countered, and meant it in that easy, unabashed way of a man who had stopped caring if sincerity looked corny.
She rested her head on his shoulder. “You know what else we’ll need?”
“More towels,” she said. “Tiny towels. And those little washcloths that disappear in the dryer.”
“I’ll stake out the dryer with a notepad,” he said. “Catch the thief.”
“We’ll need more coffee,” she added.
“I’ll buy the big can,” he said. “The one that looks like a paint bucket.”
“We’ll need help sometimes,” she said.
“I’ll swallow my pride and call your sister,” he said, grimace-fond. “She’ll bring casseroles and opinions.”
They sat quiet a bit, his thumb drawing slow lines on her upper arm. Out on the street, a car rolled by with the radio low, some country song about a truck that had loved a small town and a girl. Javier thought about his cruiser, about downtown’s neon, about the front porch where Tommy liked to sit and announce every passing thing. He thought about a crib in the corner of their room, about getting the 3 a.m. diaper wrong and the kid peeing on his shirt, about laughing before cursing, about being too old and doing it anyway.
“Hey,” she said, as if reading his churn and skimming the froth. “Remember when Joel was born and you put the car seat in the truck three times because you didn’t trust the click?”
“I still don’t trust the click,” he said. “It’s smug.”
“You’re gonna click it six times with the next one,” she said.
They chuckled. The couch breathed under them. The house settled deeper into night.
“C’mon,” he said, finally. “Bed. Before my feet unionize.”
“Your feet already have a union,” she said, standing. “They go on strike every time it rains.”
“They’re wise,” he said, flipping off the living room lamp. The sudden dark folded over them like a gentle blanket.
They walked down the hall on muscle memory, past baseball caps, a crayon drawing of a dinosaur with Joel’s name spelled J-O-L in proud block letters, a scuffed sneaker abandoned mid-run. She flicked off the kitchen light on the way, and the window threw the last rectangle of streetlight across the clean sink.
In their room, he pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it in the hamper, grunting when his shoulder cracked. She crawled onto her side of the bed and watched him with that amused affection that made him feel less like an old dog and more like a well-worn favorite sweater.
“Hey, Jav?” she said, as he slid under the sheet.
“What would you name a girl?”
He stared at the ceiling, replayed a dozen possibilities, scratched one eyebrow. “Something simple,” he said. “Nothing that sounds like a perfume.”
“What about you?” he asked.
She offered two names, both classic. He said them out loud. They tried them on like hats. They liked one more than the other. They stored it away in the sleepy place where good plans live.
“And if it’s a boy?” she asked into the pillow.
“Then he better come out loving barbecue,” Javier said. “Or he’s grounded.”
She elbowed him. He laughed. Silence settled again, lighter than before.
He reached for her hand under the sheet and found it. They laced fingers, a simple house habit.
“Thanks for asking me,” he said into the dark.
“Thanks for saying yes,” she whispered.
“Thanks for making it feel like not a cliff,” he said.
“It’s a hill,” she said. “We have good shoes.”
“My feet disagree,” he said.
“They can file a complaint in the morning,” she said, and he heard the smile in it.
He lay there, listening to their house breathe, to the faint highway rush far off, to Tommy’s snore do a little hitch, to Joel roll once and the bed spring squeak. He imagined a new set of small sounds—soft hiccups, little sighs, the half-cry that wasn’t really a cry. He imagined a bottle warming on the stove by the glow of the oven light. He imagined humming, even though he’d deny it tomorrow.
He didn’t think about his badge. Not right now. He didn’t think about the way the city grew teeth after midnight. Not right now. He thought about a crib with a replaced screw and a dog they didn’t own and a fence that would have to wait another season. He thought about being too old and being old enough.
“Night, Mrs. Miller,” he said.
“Good night, Officer Miller,” she said, squeezing his hand once before sleep took the squeeze and made it a promise.
And when the house settled again—after the last car had passed and the train had done its distant sigh—Javier lay with his eyes closed and a smile he’d never confess to, listening to the world be ordinary and theirs, already making space in his head for one more set of tiny socks and one more click he didn’t trust and would check seven times anyway.
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So folks, here's my second story.
I think there are simply too few stories about Javier Miller. I love Tony Dalton and I find the role very interesting.
I hope you enjoy the story. 🫶🏻
