Susie 🐨

The Robinavitch cabin appeared between the trees at the end of a narrow gravel road, exactly as you remembered it.

Small. Weathered. Slightly crooked.

The dark green shutters needed repainting, one corner of the screened porch sagged lower than the other, and the wooden steps leading to the front door had faded silver beneath years of sun and lake water.

Beyond the cabin, the lake flashed between the trees.

You leaned closer to the passenger-side window as Robby slowed the car.

“Home sweet structural hazard,” Robby announced.

You glanced toward him.

His dark hair had grown long enough to fall across his forehead, and the beard he had cultivated during the semester made him look older, right up until he opened his mouth.

“You say that like you haven’t been talking about this summer for months,” you said.

Robby kept his attention on the gravel road.

“I was talking about the lake,” he clarified. “The cabin remains a death trap.”

You looked into the back seat.

Two suitcases, a duffel bag, several grocery sacks, and an unreasonable number of Robby’s textbooks had been wedged together with no recognizable system.

“You packed your entire pre-med program,” you observed.

Robby pulled into the clearing beside the cabin.

“I’m trying not to forget everything before fall,” Robby explained. 

“You brought three anatomy books,” you said.

Robby shifted the car into park.

“One is physiology,” he corrected.

“That does not improve the situation,” you replied.

Robby removed the keys from the ignition and looked toward you.

“You mocked me when I failed my first organic chemistry exam,” he reminded you.

You unfastened your seat belt.

“I mocked you because you said carbon had a personal vendetta against you,” you corrected.

“It did,” Robby insisted.

You opened your door and stepped into the warm afternoon air.

The smell reached you first.

Sun-warmed pine. Damp earth. Lake water. The faint, familiar trace of old wood baking beneath the summer heat.

For the first time since finishing your final exams, something inside you loosened.

You closed the car door and looked past the cabin toward the narrow dock.

The aluminum fishing boat was still tied beside it, knocking gently against one of the posts.

“You think the boat runs?” you asked.

Robby climbed out on the other side of the car.

“It barely ran last summer,” he answered.

“So no,” you concluded.

Robby opened the back door.

“I didn’t say that,” he argued.

“You didn’t have to,” you replied.

Robby pulled one of the grocery boxes toward him. The bottom immediately bowed. He tightened his grip around it.

“You could help,” he suggested.

You walked around the car and reached for your suitcase.

“I’m emotionally supporting you,” you told him.

“The pasta sauce is about to fall through the bottom,” Robby warned.

“You should have packed better,” you replied.

Robby stared at you over the roof of the car.

“You’ve been here thirty seconds,” he said.

“And I’ve already identified the problem,” you pointed out.

Robby adjusted the box against his chest.

“I’m going to make you sleep outside,” he threatened.

You pulled your suitcase free.

“You need me,” you reminded him.

Robby started toward the porch.

“For what?” he asked.

You dragged your suitcase over the gravel behind him.

“Someone has to make sure you eat something besides bar peanuts and whatever the kitchen sends back,” you explained.

Robby glanced over his shoulder.

“I survived an entire school year without you,” he argued.

“You called me because you forgot how long chicken lasts in the refrigerator,” you reminded him.

Robby stopped at the bottom step and turned toward you.

“It smelled fine,” he defended.

“It was gray,” you said.

“That doesn’t automatically mean bad,” Robby replied.

“It was chicken, Michael,” you emphasized.

Robby pointed one finger at you.

“Do not use my government name before we’ve even unpacked,” he warned.

You smiled and pulled the suitcase toward the porch.

The front screen door stood open behind him.

You stopped.

It had always scraped against the porch floor, usually requiring one hard pull and a carefully placed shoulder to open. Now it hung straight in the frame.

“You fixed the door?” you asked.

Robby glanced back at it.

“No,” he answered.

You looked along the porch.

Several of the loose boards had been replaced. The steps no longer tilted beneath Robby’s weight, and the path leading around the side of the cabin had been cleared of the branches that had fallen during the spring.

“The railing too?” you asked.

Robby climbed the first step.

“Jack’s been here since Monday,” he explained.

Your hand tightened around the suitcase handle.

You tried to make the reaction invisible.

Robby looked back at you.

It had not been invisible.

“Don’t,” he warned.

You frowned at him.

“Don’t what?” you asked.

Robby shifted the grocery box against his chest.

“Whatever your face just did,” he answered.

“My face didn’t do anything,” you argued.

Robby stared at you.

“You’re nineteen now,” he said. “This has to stop eventually.”

You pulled the suitcase toward the porch.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you replied.

“You’ve known exactly what I’m talking about since you were sixteen,” Robby said.

“I don’t have a crush on Jack,” you said, passing him on the steps. 

Robby followed you onto the porch.

“You asked whether he was coming before you agreed to spend the summer here,” he reminded you.

“I asked who was staying at the cabin,” you argued.

“You asked about Jack specifically,” Robby countered.

“Because you two are attached at the hip,” you said.

“We are not,” Robby replied, pushing the screen door open with his shoulder.

“You study together even though he isn’t in school yet,” you reminded him.

“He wants to be prepared,” Robby said.

“He wants free tutoring,” you corrected.

Robby stepped into the cabin.

“Same difference,” he replied.

You followed him inside as he placed the grocery box on the small kitchen table.

The cabin had not changed much.

The kitchen still occupied one corner of the main room, its cabinets painted the same dull cream they had been for years. The living room held an old plaid couch and two mismatched chairs facing the wall of windows overlooking the lake.

Sunlight spilled across the worn wooden floor.

A hallway beside the kitchen led to the two small bedrooms and the bathroom. Through the living room, the screened porch stretched across the back of the cabin, its door propped open to let in the breeze.

A dark duffel bag sat beside the porch futon.

A pair of work boots had been lined neatly beneath the small table beside it.

Jack’s paperback lay facedown on one of the cushions.

You looked toward the porch.

“He’s sleeping out there?” you asked.

Robby began unloading cans from the grocery box.

“When the weather’s good,” he answered.

“And when it isn’t?” you asked.

Robby nodded toward the faded couch.

“That pulls out,” he explained.

You looked at the cushions.

“That thing has a mattress?” you asked.

“Technically,” Robby replied.

“You invited someone to sleep on that?” you questioned.

“He volunteered,” Robby said.

“Why?” you asked.

Robby set a jar of pasta sauce on the counter.

“He likes the porch,” he answered.

You looked through the screens toward the water.

The futon faced the lake. A standing fan occupied one corner, and several clean work shirts hung over the back of a chair beside the screen door.

It already looked like Jack’s space.

Not temporary. Not as though he had come up for a weekend.

He was living here.

With you.

For the entire summer.

Robby opened another grocery sack.

“You’re doing it again,” he said.

You turned toward him. “Doing what?” 

“Thinking too loudly,” Robby answered.

You picked up a box of cereal.

“I’m wondering why you bought this,” you said.

Robby looked at the brightly colored cartoon printed across the front.

“It was on sale,” he explained.

“You’re twenty-four,” you pointed out.

“I’m saving for medical school,” Robby replied.

“That is not a nutritional defense,” you said.

Before Robby could answer, the sharp strike of a hammer sounded from behind the cabin.

You looked toward the open porch door.

Another strike followed. Then came the scrape of wood against wood.

Robby continued unpacking.

“He’s fixing the railing by the dock,” he explained.

“Jack?” you asked.

Robby looked toward you.

“No, the other man living on our porch,” he replied.

You ignored him and crossed the living room.

The screened porch was several degrees cooler than the rest of the cabin. Lake air moved through the mesh walls, carrying the sound of water against the shore.

You pushed through the outer door and stepped onto the narrow deck.

The hammering stopped. Footsteps sounded below. 

Then Jack came around the side of the cabin.

He was shirtless.

Faded work pants sat low on his hips, one knee streaked with dirt. His dark curls were damp from the heat and flattened slightly where he had pushed his hand through them. A hammer hung loosely from one hand, and his discarded gray T-shirt had been tucked through the back of his waistband.

The summer had already begun settling into his skin, darkening his shoulders and the bridge of his nose.

You had spent most of your first year of college convincing yourself that your crush on Jack Abbot had been a teenage affliction.

It returned before he reached the porch.

Jack looked up.

His steps slowed.

For one quiet second, he simply stared at you. 

Not through you. Not past you toward Robby.

At you.

His eyes moved over your face before dipping briefly toward the rest of you. The look was quick enough to remain polite, but not quick enough to miss.

Something shifted low in your stomach.

Jack stopped at the bottom of the steps. His mouth curved.

“Hey, Robinavitch,” he greeted.

You tightened your fingers around the porch railing.

“Hey, Abbot,” you replied.

Jack rested the hammer against his shoulder.

“When did you get here?” he asked.

“About five minutes ago,” you answered.

Jack glanced toward the open door behind you.

“And Robby already made you unload the car?” he asked.

“He’s very committed to traditional gender roles when boxes are heavy,” you explained.

Robby’s voice carried from inside the cabin.

“I can hear you,” he called.

Jack looked past you.

“That sounds like a personal problem,” he called back.

Robby appeared in the porch doorway.

His gaze moved from you to Jack. Then down to Jack’s bare chest. Then back to you.

Robby closed his eyes.

“No,” he said.

Jack frowned at him. “No what?”

Robby opened his eyes and pointed toward him.

“Put a shirt on,” he ordered.

Jack looked down at himself.

“It’s ninety degrees,” he replied.

“I don’t care,” Robby said.

You folded your arms.

“He’s working outside,” you pointed out.

Robby turned toward you.

“You stay out of this,” he told you.

Jack’s eyebrows lifted.

“She’s been here five minutes,” he observed.

Robby looked between the two of you.

“That is already five minutes too long,” he replied.

You stared at your brother.

“You are being incredibly weird,” you said.

Robby stepped onto the porch.

“I’m preventing an incident,” he explained.

Jack lowered the hammer.

“What incident?” Jack asked.

Robby looked toward you.

“She once walked into a door because you took your shirt off,” Robby answered.

You pointed toward him.

“I was sixteen,” you argued.

Robby folded his arms.

“And the door was visible,” he replied.

Jack’s mouth twitched.

You looked toward him.

“Don’t encourage him,” you warned.

“I haven’t said anything,” Jack replied.

“You’re smiling,” you accused.

Jack held your gaze.

“I’m happy to see you,” he said.

The words came easily. Too easily.

Your pulse stumbled.

Robby looked toward the ceiling of the porch as though requesting patience from a higher power.

Jack glanced toward your suitcase near the front door.

“You need help bringing things in?” he asked.

“I can carry my own bags,” you replied.

Jack stepped onto the first stair.

“I know,” he said.

He passed close enough that his shoulder nearly brushed yours. You caught the faint scent of lake water, cut wood, and sweat. Jack reached the porch and looked down at you. Up close, he seemed broader than you remembered.

Or maybe you had simply never allowed yourself to notice before.

He nodded toward the cabin.

“Show me which bags are yours,” he said.

Robby made a strangled sound behind you.

Jack looked toward him.

“What?” he asked.

Robby pointed toward Jack’s discarded shirt.

“Put that on before you say another sentence,” he ordered.

Jack pulled it from his waistband.

“You’ve gotten strange,” he observed.

“You’ve gotten shirtless,” Robby replied.

“It’s summer,” Jack pointed out.

“It’s my sister,” Robby countered.

You covered your face with one hand.

Jack stared at Robby. Then his gaze shifted toward you again. His smile returned, quieter this time.

“Glad you’re here, Robinavitch,” he said. 

You lowered your hand.

The lake glittered behind him. The porch screens hummed faintly in the breeze. Somewhere inside, Robby muttered under his breath about regretting the entire arrangement.

You looked at Jack.

“Thanks,” you replied.

You had been there less than ten minutes.

You were already in trouble.

By the end of the afternoon, your clothes had been folded into the narrow dresser in your childhood bedroom, Robby’s textbooks had consumed half the kitchen table, and Jack had repaired another two boards along the dock.

He had also remained shirtless.

Robby had complained three more times.

Jack had ignored him three more times.

Dinner came from a pot of pasta balanced between Robby’s flashcards and a stack of unopened mail their father had left on the counter.

Jack sat across from you, one arm resting along the back of his chair. He had finally put on a faded T-shirt, although the sleeves had been cut away so thoroughly that Robby’s efforts felt largely symbolic.

Robby stabbed his fork into his pasta.

“Grounds starts at five tomorrow,” Robby told Jack.

Jack reached for the parmesan.

“Four-thirty,” Jack corrected. “We’re finishing the back nine before the members come in this weekend.”

You looked toward him.

“You start work at four-thirty in the morning?” you asked.

Jack shook parmesan over his plate.

“I start regretting my choices at four-thirty,” Jack clarified. “Work starts at five.”

Robby pushed one of his textbooks aside to make room for his glass.

“He volunteered for it,” Robby told you.

Jack looked toward him.

“I volunteered for a paycheck,” Jack corrected.

You rested your forearms against the table.

“How long have you been working there?” you asked.

Jack set the parmesan between you.

“Since Monday,” Jack answered. “They bring grounds in early to get everything ready.”

Robby gestured vaguely toward the lake with his fork.

“He’s been coming back here and fixing this place after every shift,” Robby explained.

Jack glanced toward the loose cabinet hinge beside the sink.

“Someone had to,” Jack replied.

Robby pointed his fork toward him.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” Robby reminded him.

Jack looked at the anatomy book beside Robby’s elbow.

“You brought homework on vacation,” Jack pointed out.

Robby straightened in his chair.

“I’m not on vacation,” Robby argued. “I’m working.”

Jack leaned back.

“You make drinks beside a lake,” Jack said.

Robby narrowed his eyes.

“You cut grass beside the same lake,” Robby countered.

Jack lifted one shoulder.

“I also fix things,” Jack replied.

You smiled into your glass.

“Is this what the last three days have been like?” you asked.

Jack turned his attention toward you.

“Quiet, mostly,” Jack answered.

Robby leaned back in his chair.

“And now she’s here,” Robby added.

You pointed your fork at him.

“You invited me,” you reminded him.

Robby looked toward Jack.

“I’m beginning to question several of my decisions,” Robby said.

Jack’s mouth curved.

You caught the expression before he lowered his gaze to his plate.

The three of you ate for another moment while the last sunlight stretched across the kitchen floor.

You looked at Jack again.

“What are you doing after summer?” you asked.

Jack’s fork paused against his plate.

Robby’s attention shifted toward him.

Jack set the fork down.

“I leave for basic training in August,” Jack answered.

You stared at him.

“You enlisted?” you asked.

Jack nodded once.

“A few months ago,” Jack replied.

The answer should not have surprised you. Jack had been working since high school, taking whatever jobs he could find while trying to decide how to afford the future he wanted.

Still, the thought of him leaving settled heavily in your chest.

“For how long?” you asked.

Jack leaned back in his chair.

“Basic is a few months,” Jack explained. “After that, it depends where they send me.”

You looked down at your plate.

“And then medical school?” you asked.

Jack rubbed his thumb along the edge of his fork.

“That’s the plan,” Jack answered.

Robby reached for his glass.

“The Army will help pay for it,” Robby explained.

Jack glanced toward him.

“If I survive basic without punching anyone,” Jack added.

Robby took a drink.

“That remains a significant concern,” Robby replied.

You looked back at Jack.

“When were you going to tell me?” you asked.

Jack held your gaze.

“I just did,” Jack answered.

You frowned at him.

“You know what I mean,” you said.

Jack’s expression softened.

“I haven’t seen you since Christmas, Robinavitch,” Jack reminded you.

The quiet way he said your name made it difficult to stay irritated.

You lowered your eyes to your plate.

“Well, now you’re stuck with me all summer,” you said.

Jack watched you for one long beat.

“There are worse things,” Jack replied.

Robby dropped his fork against his plate.

The metal struck the ceramic with a sharp clatter.

You looked toward him.

“What?” you asked.

Robby reached for the fallen fork.

“Nothing,” Robby muttered. “I’m just realizing how long summer is.”

By ten the next morning, you had learned three things about being the country club’s newest beverage-cart girl.

The cart pulled sharply to the left.

The club polo trapped heat like punishment.

And the little white tennis skirt earned significantly better tips than the khaki shorts folded inside your locker.

You had just finished restocking the cooler when the beverage manager handed you a cash box and pointed toward the course.

“Follow the paved path, stay clear of the greens, and check in after the ninth hole,” she instructed. “The grounds crew is still finishing a few areas, so listen if they tell you not to drive somewhere.”

You slid your sunglasses onto your face.

“Understood,” you replied.

Ten minutes later, you turned onto the path beside the fourth fairway and found Jack waiting near a maintenance cart.

His work shirt was already damp at the collar. Dirt marked his forearms, and a shovel rested against one shoulder.

Jack’s gaze found you first.

Then it dropped to the tennis skirt.

The beverage cart veered toward the grass.

You corrected the wheel sharply.

Jack’s mouth curved.

You stopped beside him and folded your arms over the steering wheel.

“Not one word,” you warned.

Jack rested one hand against the roof of the cart.

“I didn’t say anything,” Jack replied.

“You were about to,” you accused.

Jack looked down at the tires.

“You’re driving crooked,” Jack observed.

You tightened your hands around the steering wheel.

“It pulls to the left,” you insisted.

Jack lifted his eyes to yours.

“Maybe you got distracted,” Jack suggested.

You stared at him.

Jack’s smile deepened.

The summer had officially begun.

You reached into the cooler and pulled out a bottle of water.

“Do you want one?” you asked.

Jack shifted the shovel against his shoulder.

“Are you offering?” Jack asked.

You held the bottle against your chest.

“You have money,” you pointed out.

Jack rested one forearm against the roof of the cart.

“You’re charging the grounds crew?” Jack asked.

You looked toward the maintenance cart behind him.

“Do I get free rides?” you asked.

Jack glanced at the empty passenger seat.

“Maybe,” Jack replied.

You extended the bottle toward him.

“Then maybe this is free,” you said.

Jack reached for it. His fingers closed around yours instead.

The contact lasted only a second.

It still sent a warm jolt up your arm.

Jack felt it too.

You knew because his eyes lifted sharply to yours.

Neither of you moved.

A groundskeeper shouted Jack’s name from farther down the fairway. Jack released your hand.

“Coming,” Jack called over his shoulder.

You pulled your arm back into the cart. Jack twisted the cap from the bottle.

“Thanks, Robinavitch,” Jack said.

You reached for the steering wheel.

“You owe me,” you told him.

Jack took a drink.

“I’ll think of something,” Jack promised.

You drove away before he could see the effect that had on you.

The cart still pulled to the left.

That was the only reason you nearly clipped the edge of the path.

It had nothing to do with Jack watching you leave.

At least, that was what you told yourself.

By the end of your first week, you had learned the route well enough to drive it without thinking.

You had also learned exactly where Jack’s crew would be working each morning.

He was usually somewhere between the fourth and seventh holes when you made your first round. By the second, he had dirt on his shirt and sweat at his temples. By the third, he was hungry enough to accept whatever sandwich you had managed to steal from the clubhouse kitchen.

You never admitted that you began packing an extra one.

Jack never asked why you always had his favorite.

On Friday afternoon, you found him kneeling beside a sprinkler head near the sixth green.

His sleeves were rolled above his forearms, and the back of his work shirt had darkened beneath the afternoon sun.

You slowed beside him.

Jack looked up at the sound of the engine.

His gaze moved over you slowly enough to make the heat feel worse.

“You’re late,” Jack said.

You stopped the cart beside him.

“You’re not on my schedule,” you reminded him.

Jack sat back on his heels.

“You came through here at one-fifteen yesterday,” Jack said.

You checked the small watch on your wrist.

“It’s one-twenty,” you pointed out.

Jack looked at you.

“Late,” Jack repeated.

You opened the cooler.

“I could keep driving,” you warned.

Jack stood. Water darkened the knees of his work pants, and a smear of soil crossed one side of his jaw.

“You won’t,” Jack said.

You pulled out a bottle of sports drink.

“You sound confident,” you observed.

Jack stepped closer to the cart. His faded work shirt clung slightly across his chest, darkened by the afternoon heat. Dirt streaked his forearms beneath the rolled sleeves. 

“You packed me lunch,” Jack replied.

You glanced toward the wrapped sandwich beside the cash box.

“That could be for anyone,” you argued.

Jack reached past you and picked it up. His arm brushed yours.

“You hate turkey,” Jack said.

You looked at him.

“You remember that?” you asked.

Jack’s expression changed. The teasing softened into something warmer.

“I remember things about you,” Jack answered.

Your hand tightened around the bottle.

For one dangerous second, neither of you looked away.

A golf cart approached along the path behind you.

The man driving it slowed when he saw you. He was young for a club member, probably not much older than Jack, with expensive sunglasses and the kind of confidence that came from never being told no.

“There she is,” the golfer called. “I was starting to think you were avoiding us.”

You turned toward him.

“I’m making my rounds,” you explained.

The golfer rested one arm across the steering wheel.

“You could make an extra stop at the clubhouse when we finish,” he suggested.

Jack went still beside you.

You had already dealt with three versions of this conversation that morning. You gave the golfer the same polite smile you had given the others.

“I’ll make sure the bar knows you’re coming,” you replied.

The golfer grinned. “I was thinking you could join me,” he clarified.

Jack stepped closer to the beverage cart.

“She’s working,” Jack said.

The golfer looked toward him.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” the golfer replied.

Jack folded his arms across his chest. “I noticed.” 

You looked between them.

“I can handle it, Jack,” you told him.

Jack kept his attention on the golfer.

“I know,” Jack replied.

The golfer glanced at the tools scattered beside the sprinkler.

“You should probably get back to the grass,” he told Jack.

Jack’s jaw tightened.

You reached over and placed one hand against his forearm. The muscle shifted beneath your palm. Jack looked down at your hand. Then he looked at you.

“I’m fine,” you assured him.

Jack held your gaze for another beat.

“All right,” Jack said.

You turned back toward the golfer.

“I’m not interested,” you told him.

The golfer lifted both hands from the wheel.

“Worth a try,” he replied.

He drove away.

You watched until his cart disappeared around the bend. Then you looked toward Jack.

“You scared off a paying customer,” you said.

Jack picked up the sandwich.

“He’ll live,” Jack replied.

“You were glaring at him,” you accused.

Jack peeled back the paper around his lunch.

“He was bothering you,” Jack said.

“I was handling it,” you reminded him.

Jack looked at you.

“I know,” Jack repeated.

You folded your arms over the steering wheel.

“You do that for every beverage-cart girl?” you asked.

Jack took another bite of the sandwich.

“Do what?” Jack asked.

You tipped your head toward the disappearing golf cart.

“Scare off anyone who asks her out,” you clarified.

Jack looked down at the sandwich.

“He wasn’t taking the hint,” Jack replied.

You smiled.

“Was that bothering me,” you asked, “or was it bothering you?”

Jack pointed the sandwich toward the path.

“You have other customers,” Jack reminded you.

You started the cart.

“You’re jealous,” you said.

Jack’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“You’re Robby’s sister,” Jack replied.

You leaned one elbow against the steering wheel.

“That wasn’t a denial,” you pointed out.

Jack stared at you.

You smiled and pressed the accelerator.

This time, when you drove away, the cart stayed perfectly centered on the path.

By the time you reached the next hole, your pulse still had not settled.

Neither had Jack’s.

You knew because when you glanced back, he was standing exactly where you had left him.

Still holding the sandwich.

Still watching you.

It should have embarrassed you.

Instead, you smiled for the rest of your route.

Over the next few days, the sixth hole quietly became your longest stop.

Jack began appearing beside the path before you reached it, usually with some excuse about needing water or checking the cart’s unreliable front tire. You started keeping an extra sandwich beside the cash box without admitting who it was for.

Neither of you mentioned the golfer again.

You did not have to.

Jack watched every cart that slowed beside you.

You watched for him around every bend.

By Friday, you knew what time his crew reached the back nine.

Jack knew when you made your final round.

Robby knew neither of those things.

You preferred to keep it that way.

That afternoon, you pulled alongside the maintenance cart and found Jack alone, loading tools into the back.

Jack glanced toward the beverage cart.

“You’re almost done,” Jack observed.

You rested your arms across the steering wheel.

“You memorized my schedule?” you asked.

Jack placed a wrench inside the toolbox.

“You drive past me four times a day,” Jack replied.

“That wasn’t my question,” you pointed out.

Jack closed the toolbox and looked at you.

“You’re almost done,” Jack repeated.

You smiled despite yourself.

“In twenty minutes,” you answered.

Jack leaned one hand against the side of your cart.

“Robby closes tonight,” Jack said.

“I know,” you replied.

Jack held your gaze.

“I can take you back,” Jack offered.

You looked down at the cash box and straightened the bills inside it.

“You could leave when your shift ends,” you said.

Jack’s fingers tapped once against the cart. 

“I could,” Jack agreed.

You lifted your eyes to his.

“But you’re going to wait?” you asked.

Jack’s mouth curved.

“Looks that way,” Jack replied.

You pressed your lips together, trying to hide your smile.

“You’ll be waiting twenty minutes,” you warned.

Jack picked up the toolbox.

“I know,” Jack said. “I’ll be out front.”

You pressed the accelerator before your smile could become humiliating.

Twenty minutes later, you stepped through the employee entrance and found Jack waiting beside the Jeep.

He had showered.

That was the first thing you noticed.

His grounds-crew shirt was gone, replaced by a faded gray T-shirt and clean jeans. His dark curls were still damp, drying unevenly in the evening heat.

Jack pushed away from the driver’s door when he saw you.

“Ready?” Jack asked.

You adjusted the strap of your bag over your shoulder.

“You cleaned up,” you observed.

Jack glanced down at himself.

“I was covered in dirt,” Jack explained.

You looked at his damp hair.

“You washed your hair,” you pointed out.

Jack opened the passenger door.

“It was also covered in dirt,” Jack replied.

You tried not to smile as you stepped closer.

“Very thorough,” you said.

Jack rested one arm along the top of the open door.

“I take hygiene seriously,” Jack told you.

You climbed into the Jeep and placed your bag at your feet.

“I’m learning so much about you,” you replied.

Jack’s mouth curved.

He closed your door, walked around the hood, and climbed behind the wheel.

The Jeep rolled away from the country club with the windows down and warm evening air moving through the open cabin.

You settled into the passenger seat as Jack turned onto the familiar road toward the cabin.

For several minutes, neither of you said much.

Jack drove one-handed, his wrist loose over the steering wheel.

You tried not to notice his forearm.

You failed.

Jack reached the intersection that led back to the cabin.

Then he drove straight past it.

You looked over your shoulder at the disappearing turn.

“You missed it,” you told him.

Jack kept his attention on the road.

“I know,” Jack replied.

You turned toward him.

“Where are we going?” you asked.

Jack shifted his hand along the steering wheel.

“There’s a carnival at the boardwalk,” Jack explained. “I thought we could get something to eat.”

You stared at him for a moment.

“The carnival?” you repeated.

Jack glanced toward you.

“Unless you’d rather go back and wait for Robby to bring home bar food,” Jack added.

You felt warmth rise into your cheeks.

“The carnival sounds better,” you decided.

Jack’s gaze lingered on your face before returning to the road.

“Good,” Jack said.

You looked through the windshield before he could see your smile deepen.

Neither of you called it a date.

Jack had not asked you on one.

You had not agreed to one.

But he had showered, changed his clothes, waited for your shift to end, and driven straight past the turn home.

It was a date.

And you were already wondering whether he planned to kiss you.

You woke to the sound of the ocean.

Not your alarm. Not traffic outside your apartment. Not the radiator knocking in the wall or someone’s door shutting too hard down the hall.

The ocean.

Low and steady beneath the house. For a second, you did not know where you were. Then you felt the weight across your shoulders. An arm. Warm. Heavy. Still.

Your eyes opened slowly. The living room was gray with morning. The TV was dark. The blanket had slipped halfway off your lap. Your cheek was pressed against Pope’s chest.

His shirt was wrinkled beneath your hand. His bandaged knuckles rested near your hip, his fingers loose against the blanket like he had finally fallen asleep before he could decide not to. You stayed still.

Because his arm was around you, and his breathing was slow beneath your ear, and for one strange, fragile second, the night before felt like something the house had swallowed whole and kept quiet for you. Then Pope moved. Not much.

A shift of his shoulder. A deeper breath. His arm tightened around you before he was fully awake. Reflex. Panic. Protection. You lifted your head.

“Hey,” you whispered.

Pope’s eyes opened. For half a second, he did not know where he was either. You watched it happen.

The sleep leaving. The room returning. The couch. The blanket. You. His arm around you. His body went still. Then his eyes moved past you. Toward the hall.

“Lena,” Pope said.

His voice was rough with sleep.

“She’s okay,” you whispered.

Pope looked back at you. You did not know that for sure. Not yet. But the house was quiet. The hall light was still on. No crying. No small feet. No door opening. Pope swallowed.

His arm loosened like he had just realized he was holding you. You felt him start to pull away. You lifted your head and looked at him.

Pope looked back. Still half asleep. Already afraid. You did not say anything. You only settled against him again. Slow. Careful.

Pope’s arm stayed loose around you. But it stayed. The front door was locked. Your bag sat beside the couch. The kitchen waited in the soft gray light, dish towel folded over the sink where you had left it.

For one breath, no one asked anything of him. Then Lena’s door creaked. Pope sat up so fast the blanket slid to the floor.

You sat up too. Lena stood in the hallway in her pajamas, hair wild from sleep, Soup tucked under one arm. Bunny hung from her other hand by one soft ear.

She looked at Pope. Then at you. Then at the couch. Her face was still puffy with sleep.

“You stayed,” Lena said.

Your chest tightened. Pope did not answer right away. Like the words had touched something sore.

You pushed the blanket down from your lap and sat a little straighter.

“I did,” you said.

Lena looked at Pope.

“You came back,” Lena said.

Pope’s face changed. Barely. But you saw it.

“Yeah,” Pope said.

Lena stood there for another second. Then she walked into the living room and climbed onto the couch between you like that was where the morning belonged. Pope shifted back to make room.

You lifted the blanket before thinking. Lena tucked herself under it, Soup pressed to her stomach, Bunny trapped between her knees and the cushion. For a little while, no one moved.

Pope’s arm stayed along the back of the couch. Not around you anymore. Not exactly.

But close enough that his hand brushed your shoulder if either of you shifted wrong. You did not shift away. The morning light softened the living room.

Made it look different than it had the night before. Less like a place that had almost broken. More like a place that had survived.

Lena leaned heavier against Pope’s side. Then her head tipped against your arm too. You looked down at her. Her eyes were half closed again.

“You hungry?” you asked softly.

Lena shook her head.

“No,” Lena mumbled.

Pope looked at her.

“You have to eat,” Pope said.

“Later,” Lena said.

Pope’s mouth tightened like he wanted to argue. You glanced at him.

“Toast later?” you asked.

Lena thought about it.

“With butter?” Lena asked.

“With butter,” you said.

“And cinnamon?” Lena asked.

You looked at Pope. Pope’s eyes moved to you. For half a second, the room almost felt normal. Then he looked back at Lena.

“Yeah,” Pope said. “Cinnamon.”

Lena accepted that by closing her eyes again. Your chest warmed. Then you saw the clock on the wall.

The warmth thinned. You sat up a little. Pope noticed immediately.

“What?” Pope asked.

“I have work,” you said.

His face changed. Not much. Just enough. Like he had forgotten the outside world existed and hated it for coming back. You looked toward your bag beside the couch.

“I have to go home and change first,” you said.

Lena’s eyes opened.

“You’re leaving?” Lena asked.

Your heart pulled tight.

“Soon,” you said.

Lena sat up more fully, Soup slipping against the blanket.

“But you stayed,” Lena said.

“I did,” you said. “And I’m really glad I did.”

Lena looked at Pope.

“Is she coming back?” Lena asked.

Pope’s jaw flexed. You answered before the silence could scare her.

“Yes,” you said.

Lena looked back at you.

“When?” Lena asked.

You smiled gently.

“I work today,” you said. “But I can come by after, if Uncle Pope says it’s okay.”

Lena turned to Pope again. Pope looked at you. There was something careful in his face now.

Something from last night still there under the morning. His eyes dropped to your mouth for half a second. Then to your hand near Lena’s blanket. Then back to your face.

“Yeah,” Pope said.

The word was quiet. Lena nodded like that settled it.

“After work,” Lena said.

“After work,” you promised.

Pope heard the word promise even though you had not said it. It moved through him anyway. His phone buzzed on the coffee table.

All three of you looked at it. Craig. Pope did not pick it up. The phone went silent. Then buzzed again.

Craig. Lena’s shoulders tightened. You saw it. So did Pope. He reached for the phone and turned it face down.

“Eat first,” Pope said.

Lena looked at him.

“Is Grandma Smurf calling?” Lena asked.

Pope went still. The house changed around the question. Not loudly. Not enough for Lena to understand what she had done. But you felt it.

Pope’s eyes moved to yours. Then away.

“No,” Pope said.

It was not quite a lie. Not quite enough truth. Lena looked down at Soup.

“Are we going there?” Lena asked.

Pope did not answer fast enough. Your chest tightened. Lena already knew. Not the details. Not the why. But the shape of the day. The pull of that house. The way everyone eventually had to go where Smurf wanted them. Pope picked up his phone.

The screen lit again in his hand. This time, it was Deran. Pope stared at it. Then answered.

“Yeah,” Pope said.

You could hear Deran’s voice on the other end, low and faint. Not the words. Just the tone. Pope’s jaw tightened. Lena watched him. You watched Lena.

Pope looked toward the kitchen. Then toward the hall. Then at you.

“I know,” Pope said into the phone.

A pause.

Then, sharper, “I said I know.”

Lena pressed Soup closer. You shifted your hand under the blanket and touched her knee lightly. Lena leaned into it.

Pope saw. His expression flickered. Then closed again.

“I’ll bring her,” Pope said.

Your stomach dropped. He hung up. No one spoke for a second. Lena looked at him.

“We have to go to Grandma Smurf’s?” Lena asked.

Pope rubbed one hand over his mouth. His bandaged knuckles flashed white in the morning light.

“Just for a little while,” Pope said.

Lena’s face fell.

“But she stayed,” Lena said.

Pope looked at her. Then at you. The sentence landed hard because all of you knew who she meant. You were here. The night had made room for you. And still, morning had come with somewhere else to be.

“I have work,” you said softly.

Lena looked at you.

“I know,” Lena said.

She did not sound angry. That was worse. She sounded like a child trying to understand the rules of adults.

Pope stood. The blanket slid from his legs.

“Breakfast,” Pope said.

His voice had gone practical. Too practical. Like if he made toast, if he found shoes, if he packed Lena’s bag, then none of this would have to be felt all at once. You stood too.

Pope looked at you immediately.

“You don’t have to—” Pope said.

“I know,” you said.

He stopped. You folded the blanket and laid it over the back of the couch. Lena watched you do it. Then you crouched in front of her.

“Hey,” you said.

Lena looked at you.

“I’ll see you after work,” you said.

Lena held Soup tighter.

“At this house?” Lena asked.

You glanced up at Pope. His face was unreadable. But his eyes were not. You looked back at Lena.

“If Uncle Pope says yes,” you said.

Lena turned to him. Pope swallowed.

“Yeah,” Pope said. “This house.”

Lena nodded. Then, suddenly, she leaned forward and hugged you. You froze for only half a second. Then your arms came around her carefully. Soup pressed between you. Bunny bumped against your side. Lena’s voice was small near your shoulder.

“You didn’t go before morning,” Lena said.

Your throat tightened.

“No,” you whispered. “I didn’t.”

Pope looked away. Toward the kitchen. Toward the sink. Toward anywhere that was not you holding Lena on his couch like it was the easiest thing in the world and the most dangerous thing he had ever let happen.

Lena pulled back first. You tucked a piece of hair away from her cheek.

“Toast,” you said softly.

“With cinnamon,” Lena reminded you.

“With cinnamon,” you said.

Pope moved toward the kitchen. You followed only far enough to grab your bag from beside the couch. He noticed.

His eyes dropped to it. Then to you.

“I can drive you,” Pope said.

“You have to take Lena,” you said.

“I can do both,” Pope said.

His voice was clipped. Too quick. Like he needed one more task that kept you inside his reach. You shook your head gently.

“I can get home,” you said.

Pope’s mouth tightened. He did not like it. You knew he did not like it. But he had Lena to get ready. And Smurf waiting.

And a phone that had not stopped pulling at him since the night before. You stepped closer, keeping your voice low enough that Lena would not hear.

“I’ll text you when I get to work,” you said.

Pope looked at you. Something moved in his face. That first night, in reverse.

Text when you’re home. Now you offering him the same kind of proof. A small way to say: I left, but I am not gone.

Pope nodded once.

“Okay,” Pope said.

You held his eyes for one second longer. Then you glanced toward Lena, who was dragging the blanket off the couch again to wrap around herself. Your mouth softened.

Pope watched that too. Watched you see Lena. Watched Lena look up when she felt your attention. Watched the line between you both stretch across his living room like something visible. Something Smurf would see if she ever stood in the doorway long enough.

His phone buzzed again. Pope did not look at it. You did. Then back at him. The morning had fully arrived now.

Work. Smurf. Lena’s shoes. Toast. Leaving. All of it pressing into the house that had kept one night quiet.

You picked up your bag. This time, he did not tell you to go. This time, you did not ask him to tell Lena goodbye.

You opened the door yourself. The morning air came in cool and bright. You looked back once.

Lena stood by the couch with Soup under one arm and Bunny in the other. Pope stood between the kitchen and living room, still in yesterday’s clothes, his hair sleep-mussed, his bandaged hand curled at his side. You smiled a little.

Not enough to make it easy. Enough to mean it.

“I’ll see you after work,” you said.

Lena nodded. Pope did too. One sharp little movement. Like it cost him. You did not leave yet.

You closed the door behind you and stepped back inside. First to Lena. You crouched in front of her.

“Cinnamon toast,” you said softly.

Lena nodded again. “I’ll see you after work.”

“After work,” you promised.

Then you stood. Pope watched you come closer. His body went still before you even reached him.

You did not touch his hand. Not with Lena watching. Not with the morning already pulling him somewhere else.

You only leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. Soft. Brief. Careful enough to look like goodbye. Tender enough that he felt it everywhere.

Pope did not move. Not until you pulled back. Then his eyes found yours.

For half a second, the whole night was there again. The kitchen. Your hand on his wrist.

The door. Don’t go. Stay. Please. You held his gaze.

“I’ll text you,” you said quietly.

Pope swallowed.

“Okay,” Pope said.

You moved back toward the door and stepped out into the morning sun. The door closed behind you. Pope stood there for a second, listening to your footsteps fade from the porch.

Lena looked up at him.

“She kissed you,” Lena said.

Pope’s eyes stayed on the door.

“Yeah,” Pope said.

Lena considered that.

“On the cheek,” Lena said.

Pope looked down at her.

“Yeah,” Pope said again.

Lena hugged Soup closer.

“That’s allowed,” Lena said.

Pope’s throat worked. He looked back at the closed door.

“Yeah,” Pope said quietly. “It is.”

Then his phone buzzed again. The sound cut through the room. Pope looked at the screen.

Craig. This time, he answered.

“What?” Pope said.

Craig’s voice came loud enough through the phone for Lena to look over. Pope turned away from her. His jaw tightened.

“Yeah,” Pope said. “We’re coming.”

Smurf’s house was too bright. That was the first thing Pope noticed when he pulled into the driveway. Sun on the windows.

Blue sky over the roof. Lena sat quietly in the back seat. Soup was tucked under one arm. Bunny sat beside her, buckled in because she had insisted. Pope turned the engine off.

For a second, neither of them moved. Then Lena looked at him in the rearview mirror.

“How long?” Lena asked.

Pope’s hand tightened around the keys.

“Not long,” Pope said.

Lena looked toward the house.

“That’s what you said last time,” Lena said.

Pope looked back at her. Her face was serious. Not accusing. Just remembering. That was worse.

“I know,” Pope said.

Lena pressed Soup closer to her chest.

“Do I have to go in?” Lena asked.

Pope’s jaw flexed. He wanted to say no. Wanted to put the truck in reverse. Wanted to drive back to the beach house, lock the door, turn his phone off, make cinnamon toast, and wait for your text. Instead, he looked at the open front door.

Smurf was already moving around somewhere inside. Craig’s bike was in the drive. Deran’s truck was parked crooked near the curb. There was a job. There was always a job.

“Yeah,” Pope said.

Lena looked down at Bunny. Pope opened his door. Then hers.

He helped her out, even though she did not need help, and let her take Bunny in one hand and Soup in the other. She stood beside the truck and looked smaller than she had at the beach house. Pope hated that.

“Stay by me,” Pope said.

Lena nodded. They walked up the path together. Smurf appeared in the doorway before they reached the porch.

“There she is,” Smurf said.

Her smile spread warm and bright across her face. Too warm. Too bright.

“My girl,” Smurf said.

Lena stepped a little closer to Pope’s leg. Smurf saw it. Her smile did not move.

“Come here, baby,” Smurf said.

Lena looked up at Pope. Pope looked down at her. His throat worked.

“It’s okay,” Pope said.

It was not. Not really. But there were too many eyes already.

Lena crossed the porch slowly. Smurf bent and kissed the top of her head. Lena let her. She did not lean in. Smurf’s hand smoothed over Lena’s hair.

“You bring all your little friends today?” Smurf asked.

Lena looked at Soup.

“And Bunny,” Lena said.

Smurf smiled.

“And Bunny,” Smurf said. “Of course.”

Pope stepped into the house behind them. The smell hit him first. Coffee. Bacon. Something sweet in the oven. Smurf always made the house smell like someone was being taken care of.

That was part of it. Craig was on the couch with a bowl in his hand. Deran stood near the kitchen island with a beer he had not opened. His eyes went to Pope first. Then Lena. Then the bandage on Pope’s hand. He said nothing.

Craig looked over.

“Damn,” Craig said. “You look like shit.”

Pope stared at him. Craig lifted his spoon.

“What?” Craig asked.

“Craig,” Deran said.

Smurf’s eyes moved to Pope’s hand. Then his face. Then Lena.

“You hungry, baby?” Smurf asked Lena.

Lena looked at the kitchen. “Uncle Pope said toast.”

Smurf’s eyebrows lifted.

“Toast?” Smurf asked. “I can do better than toast.”

Lena did not answer. Pope’s jaw tightened.

“She wants toast,” Pope said.

Smurf looked at him. Then smiled.

“Then toast it is,” Smurf said.

She turned into the kitchen.

“Butter and cinnamon?” Lena asked.

Smurf paused. Pope went still. Deran looked down. Craig shoveled cereal into his mouth. Smurf turned back slowly.

“Butter and cinnamon,” Smurf repeated.

Lena nodded.

“That’s how she said it,” Lena said.

Then she used your name. The room changed. Not much. Not enough for Lena to notice.

Enough.

Pope felt Deran look at him. Pope kept his eyes on Smurf. Smurf’s smile stayed soft. She repeated your name. Carefully. Like she was testing how it felt in her mouth. Craig looked up from his bowl.

“What, that girl from the ice cream shop?” Craig asked.

Pope’s body went still. Deran’s head turned toward Craig. Too fast. Craig noticed that.

“What?” Craig asked.

Smurf looked from Craig to Pope. Something sharpened behind her eyes.

“The one who was at the house when I stopped by?” Smurf asked.

Pope did not answer. Lena looked between them.

Craig pointed his spoon toward Pope.

“She still hanging around?” Craig asked.

“Craig,” Deran said.

Craig frowned. “What? I’m asking.”

Pope looked at Craig.

“Don’t,” Pope said.

Craig lifted both hands, cereal bowl balanced in one palm.

“Jesus, man,” Craig said.

Smurf leaned against the counter. Still smiling. Still sweet.

“She watches Lena sometimes,” Pope said.

The words came out flat. Fast. Too fast. Smurf’s eyes stayed on him.

“She watches Lena,” Smurf repeated.

Pope said nothing. Lena looked down at Soup.

“She stayed,” Lena said.

Pope’s stomach dropped. Deran’s jaw tightened. Craig’s spoon stopped halfway to his mouth. Smurf turned her face toward Lena.

“She did?” Smurf asked.

Lena nodded.

“Uncle Pope had to go with Uncle Deran,” Lena said. “So she stayed with me until he came back.”

The room went quiet. Pope could hear the refrigerator hum. The small clink of Craig setting his spoon back into the bowl.

Deran did not move. Smurf looked at Pope. Only Pope.

“All night?” Smurf asked.

Pope’s face stayed blank. It had to.

“She helped,” Pope said.

Smurf’s smile softened.

“That’s nice,” Smurf said.

Pope did not blink. Lena shifted her weight beside him.

“She was on the floor,” Lena said.

Pope looked down at her. Lena looked back up at him, uncertain now. Like she knew she had said too much but did not know which part.

“She stayed until I fell asleep,” Lena said more quietly.

Pope’s chest tightened. He wanted to kneel down. Tell her she had not done anything wrong. Tell her she was not in trouble. Tell everyone in the room to stop looking at her like she had opened something. Smurf got there first.

“That was very sweet of her,” Smurf said.

Lena nodded once.

“She said she’d come back after work,” Lena said.

Craig looked at Pope.

“She works today?” Craig asked.

Pope’s eyes cut to him.

Craig blinked. “What?”

“Can we talk about the job?” Deran asked.

Smurf did not look at him. Her eyes stayed on Pope.

“What time is she off?” Smurf asked.

Pope’s jaw flexed.

“She’s a babysitter,” Pope said.

The lie sat ugly in the room. Not because it was fully untrue. Because it was nowhere near enough.

Smurf smiled.

“Of course,” Smurf said.

Lena looked confused.

“She works at Harbor Scoops,” Lena said.

Pope closed his eyes for half a second. Not because of Lena. Because every true thing in that house turned into a weapon the second Smurf heard it.

Lena’s voice got smaller.

“Right?” Lena asked.

Pope opened his eyes and looked down at her. His face softened immediately.

“Yeah,” Pope said. “Right.”

Lena relaxed a little. Smurf watched that too. The softening. The speed of it. The way Pope could go from stone to something else when Lena needed him. The way Lena looked at him like she expected him to make the room safe.

Smurf turned back toward the toaster.

“Butter and cinnamon,” Smurf said lightly. “Coming right up.”

The room started moving again. Craig went back to his cereal. Deran looked at Pope.

Pope did not look back. He could feel Smurf behind him. Could feel her adding things together.

You at the house. You staying with Lena. You leaving for work. You coming back after. Lena saying your name like you belonged somewhere in the middle of all of it. Pope’s phone buzzed in his pocket.

He pulled it out before he thought better of it. Your name lit the screen.

You: Made it to work. I’m here until 4.

Proof.

That was what it felt like. Proof that you had left and still existed somewhere he could reach. Pope stared at the words for one second too long.

Deran saw. Smurf saw. Pope locked the phone and put it back in his pocket.

Smurf set bread into the toaster.

“Everything okay, baby?” Smurf asked.

Pope looked at her.

“Yeah,” Pope said.

Smurf smiled.

“No,” Smurf said softly. “It isn’t.”

Pope did not answer. Lena stood by his side with Soup pressed to her chest and Bunny hanging from one hand. Pope put his palm lightly on the back of her head.

Smurf watched his hand. Then she looked at him again.

“That’s a lot of trust,” Smurf said.

Pope’s fingers stilled against Lena’s hair. Deran looked at Smurf. Craig looked between all of them like he was finally starting to understand he had missed something. Smurf’s smile stayed warm.

“Leaving Lena with someone like that,” Smurf said. “Someone new.”

Pope’s voice came out low.

“She’s not new to Lena,” Pope said.

Smurf’s eyes brightened. Just a little. There. She had found another piece.

“No,” Smurf said. “I guess she isn’t.”

Pope stared at her. Deran stepped closer to the counter.

“Job,” Deran said again.

This time, his voice had an edge. Smurf looked at him. Then at Pope. Then down at Lena.

“Toast first,” Smurf said.

She turned away. The conversation ended because she wanted it to. Not because it was over.

Pope looked toward the front door. For one second, he wanted to take Lena and leave. Then his phone buzzed again. Another message.

He did not check it. He knew better now. Smurf had already seen enough.

Maybe more than enough. Lena leaned lightly against his leg. Pope looked down at her.

She was watching the toaster. Waiting for cinnamon toast in a house where every soft thing had teeth. Pope rested his bandaged hand carefully on her shoulder.

Not too tight. Just enough. And across the kitchen, Smurf smiled like she had not found exactly what she had been looking for.

Lena sat at the kitchen table with her toast cut into four squares. Butter. Cinnamon. Exactly how she had asked. Craig had somehow ended up beside her, eating the corner piece she did not want while Lena explained that Soup did not like too much cinnamon.

Craig nodded like that made sense.

“Yeah,” Craig said. “Too much cinnamon is aggressive.”

Lena looked at him.

“Soup is a turtle,” Lena said.

Craig shrugged.

“Still,” Craig said.

Pope stood near the counter. Deran leaned against the island with his arms crossed. Smurf watched all of it.

The toast. The stuffed animals. The way Pope’s eyes kept moving back to Lena like he expected the room to change if he looked away too long. Then Lena looked toward the sliding doors. The pool glittered blue through the glass.

“Can Soup see the pool?” Lena asked.

Pope looked at her.

“You’re eating,” Pope said.

“I can bring toast,” Lena said.

“No,” Pope said.

Craig looked toward the pool, then back at Lena.

“I can show him,” Craig said.

Pope’s eyes cut to him. Craig lifted one hand.

“The turtle,” Craig said. “Not the toast.”

Lena slid down from the chair with Soup under one arm and Bunny in her other hand.

“Bunny too?” Craig asked.

Lena looked offended.

“Bunny doesn’t swim,” Lena said.

Craig nodded seriously. “Right. Obviously.”

Deran pushed off the island.

“I’ll go,” Deran said.

Craig looked at him.

“For the pool?” Craig asked.

Deran gave him a look.

Craig rolled his eyes.

“Jesus. Fine. Supervised turtle tour,” Craig said.

Lena looked up at Pope. Pope nodded once.

“Stay with Deran,” Pope said.

Lena looked at Craig.

“And Uncle Craig,” she said.

Pope’s jaw shifted.

“And Craig,” Pope said.

Craig opened the sliding door. Lena stepped outside with Soup pressed to her chest, Bunny held carefully away from the sun, as if he had delicate skin. Deran followed them out.

He paused at the door and looked back at Pope. A warning. Or an apology. Maybe both. Then he slid the door shut.

The kitchen went quiet. Too quiet. Smurf rinsed the butter knife at the sink. She did not look at Pope right away. That was how he knew it was coming.

“The girl seems sweet,” Smurf said.

Pope said nothing. Smurf set the knife in the sink.

“Innocent,” she added.

Pope’s jaw tightened.

Smurf dried her hands on a towel.

“I can see why Lena likes her,” Smurf said.

Pope looked toward the sliding door. Outside, Lena held Soup up so the turtle could look at the pool. Craig stood beside her, saying something Pope could not hear. Deran watched from a few feet back. Pope kept his eyes on Lena.

“She’s good with her,” Pope said.

Smurf smiled faintly.

“I’m sure she is,” Smurf said.

Pope looked back at her. That was the wrong thing to do. Smurf’s eyes stayed soft. Too soft.

“Girls like that like being good,” Smurf said.

Pope’s hand flexed once at his side.

“They like being the safe place,” Smurf said. “The soft place.”

Pope’s voice dropped.

“Stop,” Pope said.

Smurf tilted her head.

“I’m not saying anything bad, baby,” Smurf said.

“No,” Pope said.

Smurf stepped closer. Not enough to crowd him. Enough that he had to feel the room shrink. Pope stared at her. His face stayed blank. It had to. Smurf watched anyway.

“Girls like that think they can fix boys like you,” Smurf said.

Pope’s mouth tightened.

“Make you softer,” Smurf said. “Make you good.”

His eyes flicked toward Lena again. A mistake. Smurf saw it.

Her voice went gentler.

“She likes Lena needing her,” Smurf said. “And maybe she likes you looking at her like she’s something good, something clean.”

Pope looked back at her.

“She is,” Pope said.

The words came out before he could stop them. Smurf’s smile softened. For a second, she almost looked sad. Almost.

“Oh, baby,” Smurf said.

Pope went still. That was worse than if she had laughed.

“She might be,” Smurf said. “For now.”

Pope’s throat worked.

“But it doesn’t last,” Smurf said. “Not when it turns ugly. Not when it stops being cute.”

The kitchen went still. Through the glass, Lena held Soup toward the water while Craig pointed at one of the pool floats. Deran looked back toward the kitchen.

Like he could feel the temperature change from outside. Smurf reached out and touched Pope’s cheek with the back of her fingers. He let her because not letting her would give her too much.

“One day she’s going to look around and realize this isn’t cinnamon toast and bedtime and helping out after work,” Smurf said. “This is your life.”

Pope did not move.

“She’ll see this family,” Smurf said.

Then Smurf’s voice went softer.

“She’ll see you,” Smurf said.

Pope’s face stayed blank. But something behind it went cold. Smurf’s thumb brushed his jaw.

“She’ll leave,” Smurf said. “And you’ll blame yourself like you always do.”

The sliding door opened before Pope could answer. Lena came in first, clutching Soup to her stomach. Craig followed behind her.

Deran came in last, eyes moving immediately between Pope and Smurf. Lena looked up at Pope.

“Soup saw the pool,” Lena said.

Pope forced his hand to unclench.

“Yeah?” Pope asked.

Lena nodded.

“He likes it,” Lena said.

Craig shut the door behind them.

“There’s a turtle float,” Craig said. “So that’s apparently huge news.”

Lena’s face lifted.

“Soup could ride a turtle,” Lena said.

Pope nodded once.

“Yeah,” Pope said.

His voice sounded normal enough that Lena believed it. Smurf looked at him across the kitchen. Still smiling.

Pope did not look back. By three-thirty, your feet hurt. That was the thing about Harbor Scoops no one told you before you started working there.

It looked cute from the outside. Striped awning. Chalkboard specials.

Little kids pressing both hands to the glass while they tried to decide between birthday cake and mint chocolate chip.

Inside, it was sticky counters, aching calves, freezer burn across your knuckles, and the same song playing through the overhead speaker for the sixth time in two hours.

You were wiping melted strawberry from the edge of the toppings station when the bell above the door rang.

“Be right with you,” you called.

You finished the counter first. One last swipe. Then you turned. Smurf stood on the other side of the glass. White blouse. Gold jewelry. Soft smile. Like she had wandered in because the day was warm and she wanted something sweet.

Your hand tightened around the rag. Only for a second. Then you set it down beside the sink.

“Hi,” you said.

Smurf smiled wider.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Smurf said.

The word landed wrong. You stepped behind the counter.

“What can I get for you?” you asked.

Smurf looked over the flavors slowly. Too slowly. Like she had not already decided before she walked in.

“You work here,” Smurf said.

You kept your face pleasant.

“I do,” you said.

Smurf’s eyes moved from the menu to you.

“Lena said,” Smurf said.

Your stomach tightened. You reached for the metal scoop because your hands needed something to do.

“She’s a great kid,” you said.

Smurf smiled.

“She is,” Smurf said.

There was something in the way she agreed. Like Lena being great belonged to her. Like everything did. Smurf looked back at the case.

“What’s good?” Smurf asked.

You looked at the rows of ice cream between you.

“Depends what you like,” you said.

Smurf’s eyes returned to your face.

“What do you like?” Smurf asked.

You smiled because that was easier than answering the question underneath it.

“Coffee crunch is popular,” you said.

Smurf hummed.

“I’ll do vanilla,” Smurf said.

Of course.

“Cup or cone?” you asked.

“Cup,” Smurf said. “Small.”

You grabbed the cup. Your hand was steady. You were proud of that. Smurf watched you scoop.

“You were at the house last night,” Smurf said.

You did not look up.

“I was,” you said.

Smurf leaned one hip against the counter.

“With Lena,” Smurf said.

You dragged the scoop through the vanilla.

“Yes,” you said.

Smurf’s bracelets clicked softly when she folded her hands.

“That was kind of you,” Smurf said.

“She shouldn’t have been alone,” you said.

Smurf’s smile stayed in place.

“No,” Smurf said. “She shouldn’t.”

You set the scoop back into the metal well and closed the freezer case. Smurf did not look at the ice cream. Not once.

That was when you knew. Not thought. Knew. She had not come in for vanilla. You set the cup on the counter between you.

“Your total is $3.42,” you said.

Smurf did not reach for her purse yet.

“Andrew trusts you,” Smurf said.

The name hit different from her mouth. Not soft. Not private. Not earned. Your hand stilled beside the register. Half a second. Maybe less.

Smurf saw it. You tapped the total on the screen.

“Cash or card?” you asked.

Smurf’s smile deepened.

“That name means something to you,” Smurf said.

You looked at the register instead of her.

“Cash or card?” you asked again.

Smurf opened her purse slowly.

“You know, he’s always been sensitive,” Smurf said.

You finally looked at her. Smurf’s face was gentle. That was the worst part.

“He feels things too much,” Smurf said. “Always has.”

You held her gaze.

“Do you want a lid with that?” you asked.

For the first time, Smurf’s smile changed. Only slightly. A small tightening at one corner.

“No lid,” Smurf said.

You nodded and set a spoon beside the cup. Smurf pulled out a five and placed it on the counter.

“He gets attached,” Smurf said.

You took the bill. The register drawer slid open with a sharp little click.

“He always has,” Smurf said.

You counted her change.

Smurf tapped her finger against the counter.

“Some people mistake that for something else,” Smurf said.

You set the coins on the counter instead of placing them in her hand.

“Here’s your change,” you said.

Smurf looked down at the coins. Then back at you.

“You’re careful,” Smurf said.

You folded the receipt and placed it beside the change.

“I’m working,” you said.

Smurf smiled.

“Mm,” Smurf said. “You are.”

You picked up the rag and wiped a clean spot on the counter. Smurf did not move.

“He likes things quiet sometimes,” Smurf said.

You kept wiping.

“Soft,” Smurf said.

Your hand slowed. Smurf saw.

“He likes pretending,” Smurf said.

You looked at her then. Smurf’s face stayed gentle. Like she was trying to spare you.

“That little house by the water,” Smurf said. “Lena with her stuffed animals. You staying for dinner. Everyone tucked in safe for the night.”

Your fingers tightened around the rag. Smurf’s eyes dropped to your hand. Then lifted again.

“It’s sweet,” Smurf said.

The word did not sound sweet at all. You held her gaze. Smurf tilted her head.

“Andrew’s had a hard life,” Smurf said.

You said nothing.

“And sometimes hard men like soft things,” Smurf said. “For a little while.”

The shop felt too quiet. The music hummed overhead. The vanilla sat untouched between you.

Smurf smiled.

“You’re a pretty little distraction,” Smurf said. “A way to play house without having to look too closely at what’s real.”

Your stomach dropped. You did not let it show on your face. Not all of it.

Smurf leaned closer.

“Don’t mistake that for forever, sweetheart,” Smurf said.

For a second, you could not hear anything but your own pulse. Then you looked down at the cup of vanilla. Untouched. Melting at the edges. You picked it up and slid it half an inch closer to her.

“Your ice cream is melting,” you said.

Smurf’s smile thinned. You looked back at her.

“Did you need anything else?” you asked.

Smurf studied you. Something colder moved behind her eyes.

“No,” Smurf said. “That’s all.”

You nodded.

“Have a good day,” you said.

Smurf looked at you for another second. Then she stepped back from the counter. At the door, she paused. Her hand rested lightly against the frame.

“Tell Andrew I said hello,” Smurf said.

Your grip tightened around the rag. This time, you did not care if she saw.

“I’m sure he’ll hear from you,” you said.

Smurf’s eyes sharpened. Briefly. Then the smile returned. She pushed the door open. The bell rang above her.

You watched her step out onto the sidewalk with the untouched vanilla in her hand. You stood behind the counter and watched through the front window until she crossed the street.

Until she reached her car. Until she got in. Until the car pulled away from the curb and disappeared into traffic. Only then did your breath leave you. Slow. Shaky. You looked down.

Your hand was still wrapped around the rag. Too tight. Your knuckles ached.

You forced your fingers to open one at a time. The rag fell onto the counter. There was a cold ring where the cup had sat. Vanilla. Sticky and pale.

You wiped it away. Then wiped it again. The spot was already clean. You wiped it anyway.

From the back room, your coworker Tara called your name. “You good out there?”

You looked toward the doorway. Your voice took a second to arrive.

“Yeah,” you called back. “I’m good.”

The lie came out clean. That was something. You turned back to the register. The screen had gone dark. You tapped it awake.

Your reflection stared back at you in the black glass for half a second before the order screen returned. You looked normal. That almost made you laugh.

You looked normal, and your stomach felt like it had dropped through the floor. A little boy came up to the counter with his mother behind him. He stood on his toes and pointed at the case.

“Can I have blue moon?” he asked.

His mother touched his shoulder.

“What do we say?” his mother asked.

The boy looked up at you. “Please,” he added.

Your hands were cold. Your heart was still beating too fast. But you smiled.

“Cup or cone?” you asked.

The boy grinned.

“Cone,” the boy said.

You grabbed one from the stack. It cracked slightly beneath your fingers. You stopped.

The boy did not notice. His mother did not notice. You set the broken cone aside and reached for another. This one held.

You scooped blue moon carefully. One round scoop. Then another, smaller one on top. You handed it over the glass.

“There you go,” you said.

The boy’s whole face lit up.

“Thank you,” the boy said.

“You’re welcome,” you said.

The mother paid. You made change. You smiled. You wiped the counter. You did your job.

One customer. Then another. Then another. The whole time, Smurf’s voice stayed in your head. Pretty little distraction. Play house. For a little while.

You hated that she had found somewhere to put the words. You hated more that they fit into fears you had not said out loud. By the time four o’clock came, your apron felt too tight around your waist.

The second Tara stepped out of the back to take over the register, you untied it.

“You sure you’re okay?” Tara asked.

You folded the apron over your arm.

“Long shift,” you said.

Tara studied your face. You could tell she did not fully believe you. You appreciated that she did not push.

“Go home,” Tara said. “I’ve got it.”

“Thanks,” you said.

You grabbed your bag from the back room. Your phone was at the bottom, beneath your keys and a crushed granola bar wrapper. You pulled it out.

Pope had not texted again. For a second, that hurt. Then you remembered where he was.

Smurf’s house. Smurf’s voice. Smurf’s hands. Smurf saying things softly enough that they sounded like love if you did not know better. You stood in the back room with your phone in your hand. Your thumb hovered over his name.

You almost typed three different things. I’m off. Smurf came in. Are you okay? All of them felt too small. All of them felt like too much. Finally, you typed.

You: I’m off.

You stared at it. Then added the rest before you could talk yourself out of it.

You: I can still come over if that’s okay.

Your thumb hesitated. The back room hummed around you. Freezer. Fluorescent light. Your own pulse. Then you typed one more message.

You: Also, Smurf came into work.

You sent it. For three seconds, nothing happened. Then your phone rang in your hand.

Pope.

You stared at his name for half a breath. Then you answered.

“Hi,” you said.

“What happened?” Pope asked.

His voice came through low. Too low. You closed your eyes. He was not angry. He was scared. You knew the difference now.

“I’m okay,” you said.

Pope did not answer right away. You stepped farther into the back room and lowered your voice.

“She just talked,” you said.

“What did she say?” Pope asked.

You leaned back against the wall beside the freezer and closed your eyes.

“I don’t want to talk about it over the phone,” you said.

The line went quiet. Something moved in the background. A car door. Lena’s voice, muffled and small.

“You have Lena?” you asked.

“Yeah,” Pope said.

“Is she okay?” you asked.

“She’s okay,” Pope said.

You leaned back against the wall beside the freezer.

“I can still come over,” you said. “If that’s okay.”

“Yeah,” Pope said.

The answer came too fast. Then his voice dropped.

“Yeah. Come over,” Pope said.

You pushed away from the wall.

“I’ll pick you up,” Pope said.

“Don’t tell me,” you said.

The line was quiet. You softened your voice before he could pull away from it.

“Ask me, please,” you said.

For one second, you thought he might not understand. Then Pope exhaled.

“Can I pick you up?” Pope asked.

Your eyes burned suddenly. Stupidly.

“Yes,” you said.

Lena’s voice came closer through the phone.

“Is that her?” Lena asked.

Pope’s voice softened when he answered her. “Yeah.”

There was a muffled sound. Then Lena was closer.

“Are you coming back?” Lena asked.

You pressed your free hand over your mouth for one second. Then you dropped it.

“I’m coming back,” you said.

Pope was quiet. Lena was not.

“Uncle Pope said we can get you,” Lena said.

You smiled even though your hands were still cold.

“That’s good,” you said. “My feet hurt.”

“From work?” Lena asked.

“From work,” you said.

“We have toast,” Lena said.

Your smile softened.

“That sounds perfect,” you said.

Pope’s voice came back, closer to the phone.

“Ten minutes,” Pope said.

You nodded even though he could not see you. “Okay.”

“Stay inside,” Pope said.

Your mouth softened.

He caught himself before you could answer.

“Please,” Pope said.

“I’ll stay inside,” you said.

The call ended a few seconds later. Not because either of you said everything. Because neither of you could. Not yet. Ten minutes later, Pope’s truck pulled up outside Harbor Scoops.

Lena waved from the back seat with Soup pressed to the window. You waved back. Pope did not.

He sat behind the wheel with both hands on it, eyes fixed on you like he had been counting every second since the call ended. You crossed the sidewalk and opened the passenger door. The truck smelled like salt air and cinnamon.

Lena leaned forward as far as her seatbelt allowed.

“You came back,” Lena said.

You climbed in and shut the door.

“I said I would,” you said.

Pope looked at you. Only for a second. Then he put the truck in drive. No one talked about Smurf. Not with Lena in the back seat.

Instead, Lena told you that Soup had seen the pool. You listened. You asked if Soup liked it. Lena said he did, but Bunny did not swim. Pope drove quietly. Tense. Careful. At the first red light, his hand shifted near the center console.

Palm up. Not reaching. Just there. You looked at it. Then you placed your hand in his. Pope’s fingers closed around yours immediately.

The light turned green. Lena kept talking. Pope kept driving. And neither of you let go.

By the time Lena fell asleep, the house felt tired. Not peaceful. Not exactly. Tired. Like the day had walked through every room and touched everything. Soup was tucked under Lena’s arm.

Bunny was on the outside edge of the bed. The hall light was on. The door was cracked. You pulled the blanket up over Lena’s shoulder, then stepped back carefully.

Pope stood in the doorway, watching. He had been quiet through dinner. Quiet through cinnamon toast.

Quiet while Lena told you the pool story again with more details this time, including the part where Craig had apparently apologized to Soup for not knowing turtles could have opinions. He had laughed once. Barely. For Lena. Then gone quiet again.

You moved toward the door. Pope stepped back to let you pass. Neither of you spoke until you were in the hall. The door stayed cracked behind you. The house settled around the two of you. Ocean outside. Hall light behind you. Living room dark ahead.

You looked at Pope. He looked exhausted. Not just tired. Hit somewhere deep.

“She’s asleep,” you whispered.

Pope nodded. His eyes stayed on Lena’s door.

“She okay?” Pope asked.

You looked back at the crack of light.

“She was tired,” you said. “But yeah. I think so.”

Pope nodded again. Still staring at the door. You waited. He did not move. So you stepped closer.

“Andrew,” you said softly.

His eyes closed for half a second. Then opened. He looked at you then. Really looked. And you knew, before either of you said a word, that the thing you had avoided in the truck had followed you home.

You kept your voice low.

“Do you want to sit down?” you asked.

Pope looked toward the living room. Then back at Lena’s door. Like he was measuring distance. Like sitting down meant letting go of watch. Only a little. Only enough to breathe.

“She’s asleep,” you said.

Pope nodded once.

“I know,” Pope said.

But he did not move. You touched his wrist. Careful. Light. His eyes dropped to your hand. Then to your face.

“She’s safe,” you said.

Pope swallowed. His hand turned under yours, slow enough that you could have pulled away. You didn’t. His fingers curled around yours.

“Yeah,” Pope said.

It did not sound like he believed it yet.

But he let you lead him down the hall anyway. The living room was dim. Only the kitchen light reached it, soft and weak around the edges. You sat on the couch first. Pope sat beside you. Not touching at first. Close enough that you could feel the warmth of him.

Far enough that he could still pretend he was leaving space. You looked at his profile. The tension in his mouth. The way his eyes stayed lowered, as if looking at you might make something worse.

“She came in right before I got off,” you said.

Pope’s hand tightened around yours.

“What did she say?” Pope asked.

You looked down at your joined hands.

“She wanted me to know she knew who I was,” you said.

Pope’s jaw moved.

“She wanted me to know she knew where I worked,” you said. “That she could walk in whenever she wanted.”

Pope stared at the floor.

“I’m sorry,” Pope said.

You looked at him.

“You didn’t send her,” you said.

Pope did not answer. That was not agreement. That was guilt finding somewhere familiar to sit. You squeezed his hand.

“Andrew,” you said.

His eyes closed again. This time, longer. When he opened them, he looked at you.

“She said I was a distraction,” you said.

Pope went still. You watched his face carefully.

“Something pretty and soft for you to play house with,” you said.

Pope’s eyes changed. Anger first. Then shame. Then something worse. The quiet, awful flicker of someone hearing a fear said out loud.

You felt his hand start to pull away. You let it. His fingers slipped from yours slowly. Carefully. Like even leaving your hand was something he was trying not to do too hard. Your palm felt cold without him.

Pope looked down at the space between you. You looked at him.

“Don’t,” you said softly.

Pope’s eyes lifted.

You shook your head. “Don’t let go of me just because of something she said.”

His face tightened. You kept your hand where it was. Open. Waiting. Not grabbing. Not asking him to prove anything with force. Just there.

Pope looked at your hand. Then at your face. For a second, he did not move. Then his hand came back to yours. Slowly. Like it cost him something. His fingers slid into yours again.

Pope looked at you then. His face was raw. Open in a way he probably hated.

“She said you’d leave,” Pope said.

Your throat tightened. There it was. You already knew somehow. Still, hearing it hurt.

“What else?” you asked.

Pope looked away. You waited. He stared toward the dark kitchen.

“She said girls like you think they can fix boys like me,” Pope said.

Your chest hurt. Both sides of the same blade. Smurf had held it carefully.

Turned it once. Cut both of you where she thought you were softest. You looked down at his hand in yours.

“She’s good,” you whispered.

Pope’s head turned.

“No,” Pope said.

You looked at him. His eyes were dark.

“She’s practiced,” Pope said.

That was worse. You nodded slowly.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “She is.”

Pope looked back toward the hallway.

His voice came out low.

“I should’ve kept her away from you,” Pope said.

You shook your head.

“You don’t get to decide that by yourself,” you said.

Pope’s mouth tightened.

“I brought you into it,” Pope said.

“I walked in,” you said.

His eyes lifted to yours. You held his gaze.

“I knew being close to you wasn’t simple,” you said. “Maybe I didn’t know all of it. But I knew enough.”

Pope said nothing. You shifted closer.

“I’m not here because I think you’re easy,” you said.

His throat worked.

“And I’m not here because I think you’re broken,” you said.

Pope looked like he wanted to believe you and had no idea how. You squeezed his hand once.

“I’m here because I want to be,” you said.

The words landed between you. Quiet. Simple. Too big for how softly you said them. Pope stared at you. Like the sentence had nowhere safe to land. So you gave it somewhere.

You leaned in and kissed him. The kiss was supposed to be soft. It was, at first.

Your mouth on his. His hand still near yours. A quiet thing in the living room while Lena slept behind a cracked door. Then Pope exhaled against you, and something in the day broke loose.

His hand slid to your waist. Your fingers caught in the front of his shirt. Not pulling. Holding. Pope kissed you again.

Deeper this time. Less careful. Not rough. Just not pretending he did not want more. Your hand moved to his jaw. The scratch of stubble caught softly beneath your palm.

Pope made a sound against your mouth. Low. Almost nothing. Enough. Your stomach tightened. You shifted closer. His fingers flexed at your waist. Then stopped. You felt him catch himself.

You pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes were dark. Focused. Afraid.

“Okay?” you whispered.

Pope stared at you. Then he nodded once.

“Yeah,” Pope said.

His voice was rough. You believed him. So you kissed him again.

This time, he met you halfway. His hand moved up your back. Slow. Careful. Like he had to learn the shape of permission one inch at a time. You let him. More than that.

You wanted him to. Your fingers slid into his hair. Pope’s breath changed. You felt it. So did he. His forehead pressed briefly to yours.

“We should stop,” Pope said.

He did not move away. You smiled a little, breathless.

“Is that what you want?” you asked.

Pope’s eyes dropped to your mouth. Then back to yours.

“No,” Pope said.

The answer came too fast. Too honest. It made your chest ache. You kissed him again because you had to. Because he had said no like it cost him something.

Because Smurf had spent all day trying to make this feel foolish and temporary and doomed, and Pope’s hand on your back felt like none of those things. It felt scared. It felt careful. It felt real. His mouth moved against yours.

Your hand tightened in his hair. Pope’s fingers pressed into your waist. Not too much. Enough that heat moved through you, low and sudden. You pulled back first.

Not because you wanted to. Because if you did not, you were not sure either of you would. Pope followed half an inch before he stopped himself. That almost undid you.

You rested your forehead against his. Both of you were breathing too hard for how little had happened. Or maybe a lot had happened. Maybe this was a lot.

“I should go home,” you whispered.

Pope went still. You felt it immediately. His hand loosened at your waist. You opened your eyes.

“Not like that,” you said quickly.

Pope looked at you. You touched his cheek.

“We both need sleep,” you said.

Pope said nothing. His face had closed just enough to hurt. You brushed your thumb along his cheekbone.

“I’m coming back,” you said.

His eyes searched yours. You held his gaze.

“I’m not leaving because of her,” you said.

Pope’s throat worked. You leaned in and kissed him once. Soft. Certain.

“I’m going home because I have been awake forever,” you whispered, “and you look like you’re about to fall over.”

Pope blinked. Then, barely, his mouth shifted. Almost.

“You too,” Pope said.

You smiled.

“Wow,” you said. “Charming.”

His eyes dropped. The almost-smile stayed for half a second longer than he meant it to. Then it was gone. But you had seen it. Pope reached for his keys on the coffee table.

“I’ll drive you,” Pope said.

You looked toward the hall. He followed your gaze. Lena’s door was cracked. The hall light glowed softly over the carpet. He could not leave. You both knew it.

His hand tightened around the keys anyway.

“You can’t,” you said gently.

Pope looked down at them.

“I can call a cab,” you said.

“I’ll call it,” Pope said.

You let him have that. He pulled out his phone. He still had your address from the first night. That should not have made your throat tight. It did. Pope tapped the screen. Then he looked at the estimate.

“Eight minutes,” Pope said.

You nodded.

“Okay,” you said.

Neither of you moved. Then Pope looked toward the hall.

“I’m gonna check her,” Pope said.

You nodded again.

“I’ll wait,” you said.

Pope looked at you. Like he needed to make sure. You softened.

“I’ll wait,” you said again.

Pope went down the hall. You stood in the living room with your bag by your feet and your lips still warm from his. The house was quiet. The ocean moved beyond the deck.

For the first time all day, no one was asking you to prove what you were doing there. You were just there. Pope came back a minute later.

“She’s asleep,” Pope said.

“Good,” you said.

Headlights swept briefly across the front window. The cab. Pope looked at the door. Then at you. You picked up your bag.

He walked you to the front door. Not outside. Not all the way. He stayed inside the threshold because Lena was inside. Because the house was his to hold. Because tonight, that had to matter too. You opened the door.

Cool night air moved between you. Pope looked at you like he was trying to memorize the fact that you were leaving and staying at the same time. You stepped onto the porch.

Then you turned back.

“I’ll text you when I’m home,” you said.

Pope nodded.

“Okay,” Pope said.

You should have gone. You did not. Neither did he. So Pope leaned forward and kissed you. Soft at first. Then not. His hand came up to your cheek. Your fingers curled around the edge of his shirt.

For a second, the cab might as well have been miles away. When you pulled back, Pope stayed close. His thumb moved once along your cheek. You looked up at him, breath still uneven.

“You have to stop kissing me like that,” you whispered.

Pope went still. His eyes searched yours. His hand eased back a fraction from your face.

“What?” Pope asked.

Your mouth softened.

“Or I’m never going to leave,” you said.

For a second, Pope only stared at you. Like he was waiting for the part he had missed. Then it landed. Slow. His eyes dropped to your mouth. Then back to your face.

“Oh,” Pope said.

The word came out quiet. Almost startled. Heat rose along his neck. You saw it. And then, just barely, his mouth shifted. Not a smile. Almost. Small enough that anyone else would have missed it. Enough that you wanted to kiss him all over again.

Your smile grew.

“You almost smiled,” you whispered.

Pope looked away. Too late. The color was still there. So was the almost-smile. When he looked back, his face had changed. Still raw. Still afraid.

But softer now. Caught. With you. You stepped closer just enough to press one more kiss to the corner of his mouth. Quick.

Mean, almost, for how soft it was. Then you stepped back before he could follow.

“I’m coming back,” you whispered.

His throat worked. He nodded.

“I know,” Pope said.

It sounded like he was trying to. You walked to the cab. Pope stayed in the doorway while you got in. He stayed there when the door shut. Stayed there when the car pulled away from the curb. Stayed until the taillights disappeared.

Then he stepped back inside and closed the door.

Deadbolt. Chain. Lock.

The house settled around him. Lena asleep down the hall. Soup under her arm. Bunny on the outside edge of the bed. Your warmth still on his mouth. Your words still in the room.

I’m coming back.

Pope stood with his hand on the lock for one more second. Smurf had gotten into the day. Into his head. Into yours. Into the space between leaving and staying.

But you had gone home.

Not gone away.

There was a difference.

Pope turned off the living room lamp. Left the hall light on. And for tonight, because it was the only thing he knew how to believe, he let coming back mean more than leaving.

--- --- ---

You: Feeling a little under the weather and Jack is asleep. Can you take Lizzie for a couple of hours? Robert Robinavitch: Yeah, sure. Give me an hour, then I’ll pick her up. You: Thanks, you’re a lifesaver. Robert Robinavitch: I’m a doctor. I’m a lifesaver by definition. You: Yeah, but you’re also a pain in the ass and still not a hemorrhoid. :)

The indoor playground was controlled chaos. Bright plastic climbing frames stretched toward the ceiling in impossible colors, enclosed by black safety netting. Children shrieked from every direction. Somewhere a tiny ride played the same cheerful melody over and over again - much like in a horror film. The air smelled faintly of coffee, pizza, disinfectant and the unmistakable scent of worn socks.

Robby spent a full three minutes choosing a table. Not because he cared about the table per se but he wanted to sit where he could see the slide, the climbing bridge, the ball pit and the play kitchen all at once. He instantly noticed two blind spots - and liked neither of them.

Lizzie got swept into the chaos in an instant. Within seconds she ha found a boy near her age, who took her hand and helped her climb the slide. Robby followed her every movement.

Tiny sneakers, green dinosaur shirt, ginger curls - good, she was still there.

Every couple of minutes she looked over to Robby, a little anxious - just to start grinning when she noticed him in the exact same spot, waving. “RARA!”

He waved more. “Hey, Elizabeth.”

She shrieked. “DADDY DUPID!”

He tilted his head - and mentally filed it under “toddler language”. A while later, when he helped her onto a spring horse she looked up at him with big eyes. “Daddy dupid” she repeated, solemnly. 

“I don’t know what that means, Elizabeth” Robby replied with an apologizing smile. “But I know your daddy is at home, sleeping. So don’t worry about him, okay?”

She glanced at him, then nodded slowly. “‘kay.”

Five minutes later she disappeared into the ball pit again with a couple of other toddlers. He smiled amused then quietly pulled out his phone and opened his browser.

What does dupid mean?

No results. He frowned.

dupid toddler meaning

Nothing.

dupid child language → “Do you mean developmental language disorder?”

Robby stared at his screen. “I fucking hope not” he mumbled to himself, then put the phone away again. “I guess she’s just inventing words now.”

A while later.

Robby was already at his third cup of coffee and his butt was officially asleep by now. He shifted slightly and flinched. He watched his goddaughter toddling over to a woman sitting on the floor with her son, building bricks. She stared at the woman for a solid ten seconds without blinking.

The woman looked up at her and smiled awkwardly. “Um… hi?”

Lizzie beamed by the sudden attention and raised both her arms enthusiastically. “Daddy dupid.” With that she ran away.

The woman blinked, smiled and shook her head before turning her attention back to her son.

Five minutes later Lizzie came back. “Daddy dupid” she whispered in a conspiratorial tone.

The woman had to hide her laugh. 

She stood up and walked over to Robby, Lizzie toddling behind her like a duckling. “Excuse me…”

Robby tilted his head. “Yeah?”

“Um, I just thought you should know - your daughter has been telling everyone you are stupid.”

Robby frowned. “She’s been saying what?”

“Daddy stupid” the woman repeated with a shy smile and an apologetic shrug.

Robby burst out laughing. “Oh my God - THAT’s what she’s saying!” he managed between laughs. “And I was thinking she was- oh my God, I’m sorry - never mind.” He wiped tears from his eyes. “I tried for the last hour to figure out what she’s saying. I already thought she was just inventing words.”

Lizzie stepped closer, a little shy, and climbed onto his lap. She sat down and stared at the woman with big eyes, her hand clutched into Robby’s shirt. 

Robby pulled her closer, pressing a quick kiss onto her hair. “She doesn’t mean me, by the way.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, she means her other dad” he said with a shrug. “I mean - her dad” he corrected quickly. “I’m not her dad. I’m just her godfather. Her dad is my best friend. And apparently he’s the stupid one.”

The woman started laughing. “Okay, I see.” She scanned him over briefly. “Do you want to have a coffee with me?”

Robby looked up, surprised. “Um, I still have one.” He gestured toward his plastic cup. “But you can keep me company. I guess that little devil here will abandon me in ten seconds.”

The woman laughed then sat down next to him. “Yeah, that tracks.”

Lizzie blinked and glanced at her. Then she straightened and climbed from Robby’s lap with surprising speed. She disappeared toward the ball pit without a second glance back.

Robby shrugged. “See?”

The woman chuckled then leaned slightly back in her chair. “She’s adorable.”

“Yeah.” Robby looked at his hands, a smile on his face. “She is.”

“She keeps everyone entertained” the woman continued, sounding clearly amused.

He glanced at her. “That’s one way to put it.”

Another chuckle. “So… are you just here for your goddaughter or are there a couple of your kids running around too?”

Robby’s smile fell a little. “No.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t have any of my own.”

“Oh.” She looked at him. “But you’re married?”

Robby shook his head.

“But you have a girlfriend, right?”

He hesitated. He opened his mouth, closed it and shrugged. “I don’t know.” He saw the confusion in her face and figured he owed her some kind of further explanation. “There’s this woman I like.” Another shrug. “We kissed on New Year’s Eve but that’s… about it.”

“And neither of you has asked the other out since?” the woman asked slowly, like she was carefully choosing her words.

“No.” Robby let out a sigh. “I don’t know. We’re texting. Occasionally. But it’s not like I’m dating her. At least - I don’t think so.” He ran his hand through his hair. “I’ve been out of the dating game for a while but I guess I would know if I’m dating someone. Right?”

The woman chuckled softly and placed her hand on his arm. “Usually my answer would be yes but you’re a guy so…” She winked playfully. “But do you want to date her?”

“Yes.” The answer came immediately. “But… I’m not sure she wants to date… me.”

She squeezed his arm gently. “She kissed you.”

“Yeah.” He looked at her, his face scrunched in a tormented way. “But that was one kiss fueled by cocktails and fireworks. So… maybe it didn’t mean anything.”

“Why don’t you just ask her out?” She pulled her hand back.

“Mhm.” He clutched his hands around his coffee cup again, turning it slightly. “I don’t know.”

“Maybe you should just bite the bullet and do it. Then you have some clarity.”

Robby nodded slowly. “Mhm.”

“RARA!” Lizzie stood in front of him, her eyes wide, tears glistening. “Rara, ouch.”

His attention snapped immediately toward her, looking her up and down. “What’s wrong?”

“Ouch” she whimpered, pointing to her knee.

He lifted her onto his lap, rolling up her trouser leg and noticed a small graze on her shin. “Oh, baby, what happened?”

Her lip wobbled and she pointed roughly toward the slide.

The woman smiled and got up. “I leave you to it. If you want to have a coffee later just give me a shout.” She waved and wandered back to her son.

Robby nodded once, his attention fully centered on Lizzie. “That’s not too bad, Elizabeth.” He gave her a kiss on top of her head. “It’s just a scratch. Does it hurt?”

She swallowed hard. “Dana” she whimpered.

“Do you want me to make it better?” He wiped away the tears running down her cheek.

She nodded. “Dana” she sniffled again.

“Okay.” Robby nodded and straightened. With exaggerated concentration Robby moved his hand in small circles above the scrape, his fingers wriggling slightly as if performing some complicated medical procedure only he understood. 

Lizzie watched him intently, waiting for the words she already knew by heart now.

“Check it, clean it, kiss it too. That’s what doctors always do” he said with utter seriousness, then booped her nose gently. “See? All better now.”

Lizzie shrieked delighted. She threw her hands around him and cuddled him. Robby hugged her and closed his eyes for a moment.

“See? You’re okay now, little Missy” he said quietly. “Everything will be okay in the end.”

--- --- ---

You wanna keep reading? - Next chapter is coming soon, I promise!

--- --- ---

You had heard it so many times by now that you could practically recite it yourself.

“Oh my goodness, she’s his twin.”

“Look at that face. That’s all Dr. Robinavich.”

“You copied and pasted your husband, didn’t you?”

You laughed every time. Because you loved your husband. You loved his smile, his eyes, his ridiculous humor and his stubborn streak. Of course you didn’t mind that your daughter looked like him. At least, you hadn’t.

Now, though…

Now it seemed to be all anyone said. You sat on a blanket spread across your living room floor while your daughter played with stacking cups, her tiny fingers trying—and failing—to fit one inside the other. She looked up at you, serious and determined. Exactly like her father. Your mother smiled from the couch.

“She gets that concentration from Robby.”

You smiled back.

“Maybe.”

“No, honey. That’s definitely him.”

Your daughter squealed when one of the cups rolled away, then immediately started crawling after it. Your mother laughed.

“Oh, look at that. Even the way she crawls reminds me of him.”

You blinked. Even the way she crawls? How exactly did one crawl like another person? But you didn’t say anything. You simply smiled.

Again.

Because people meant well. Because they loved your little girl. Because none of this should bother you. Your daughter finally captured the runaway cup and held it triumphantly above her head. Your mother reached down and scooped her up.

“There’s Daddy’s little clone.”

You looked down at your hands. Little clone. Your husband walked into the living room then, having just gotten home from the hospital, still wearing scrubs and looking exhausted.

The second your daughter spotted him, she lit up. Actually lit up. Her entire face changed. Her eyes widened, her mouth fell open, and she let out a squeal so loud it made everyone laugh.

“Dada!”

Your mother’s face softened.

“Oh, look at her.”

Robby grinned despite the exhaustion etched into every line of his face.

“Hey, bug.”

Your daughter nearly launched herself from your mother’s lap. Robby quickly crossed the room and took her, and she immediately wrapped her tiny hands around his neck. He laughed softly.

“How’s my girl.”

She buried her face against him. You swallowed. Your mother smiled again.

“She’s such a daddy’s girl.”

There it was. Again. Daddy’s girl. Robby didn’t seem to notice. He kissed the side of your daughter’s head and sat beside you on the blanket.

“How was she today?”

“Good,” you answered.

“Only good?”

You smiled softly. “She threw peas at the television.”

He nodded solemnly.

“That’s my girl.”

Your daughter giggled. You laughed too. But something in your chest tightened. Because of course she giggled for him. Because of course she reached up and patted his cheek. Because of course she looked so content in his arms.

You hated yourself a little for even thinking it. Because this was good. This was beautiful. This was exactly what you wanted.

A husband who adored his daughter. A daughter who adored her father. So why did it hurt?

******

Later that night, after dinner and bath time, the three of you sat in the nursery. The room glowed softly from the nightlight shaped like a moon. Your daughter sat between you and Robby in footie pajamas covered in little stars. Robby held up one of her books.

“Again?”

She slapped the cover enthusiastically.

“Again.”

He laughed.

“You’re really milking this whole reading thing.”

She grinned. You watched them quietly. Watched your husband do the voices. Watched your daughter laugh at every single one. Watched the way she looked at him. Like he hung the stars themselves. And God…you loved them.

You loved them so much your chest ached. The story ended, and your daughter immediately reached for him.

“Dada.”

He smiled.

“One more cuddle, huh?”

She nodded. You looked away. You didn’t mean to. You just… did. Robby didn’t notice. He was too busy tucking her against his chest.

Eventually it was bedtime. You stood and held out your arms.

“Come here, sweetheart.”

Your daughter looked at you. Then immediately turned back toward her father.

“Dada.”

You froze. Robby chuckled softly.

“I know. Momma’s no fun.”

The words were innocent. A joke. But they landed harder than they should have. He stood and gently transferred her into your arms. She whined. Actually whined. Little hands reaching back toward him.

“Dada.”

Your throat tightened.

“She’s okay,” Robby said softly.

You nodded. Of course she was okay. She was just tired. Babies did this. You knew that. You knew that. Still…

Still, as you carried her into her room and settled into the rocking chair, something deep inside you cracked just a little. She curled against your chest, sleepy and warm. Beautiful. Perfect. You brushed your fingers through her dark curls. You touched her little cheek. Her father’s eyes. Her father’s expressions. Her father’s smile. Your eyes burned.

“What did you get from me, huh?” you whispered.

She blinked sleepily. You smiled through the sting in your throat.

“You’ve got my nose.”

She yawned.

“And maybe my love of sleep.”

Silence. You kissed her forehead.

“But everything else is your daddy.”

She made a soft little noise and tucked herself closer. You looked down at her and suddenly felt something you hated.

Jealousy.

Not of your husband. Never of him. But of how easily everyone seemed to see him in her. Because no one ever seemed to see you. No one ever said she had your smile. Or your laugh. Or your kindness. You had carried her. Loved her before you ever saw her. Brought her into this world. And somehow, lately… it felt like you were disappearing from the picture.

A tear slipped down your cheek. You wiped it away quickly. The nursery door creaked open. Robby leaned against the frame, looking tired and beautiful and completely unaware that your heart was quietly breaking.

“Everything okay?”

You looked up and smiled. A practiced smile.

“Yeah.”

He studied you for a moment. Then smiled back.

“She asleep?”

You looked down. Your daughter had finally drifted off, one tiny hand still fisted in your shirt.

“Almost.”

He nodded.

“I’ll make some tea.”

“Okay.”

He disappeared down the hallway. You looked back at your daughter. Then down at that little hand clutching your shirt. Your chest tightened again. Because even now…even now…you couldn’t help but wonder if she was only holding on because you happened to be the one rocking her. And not because you were her momma.

******

The next few days only seemed to make it worse. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. That was the terrible part. No one was trying to hurt your feelings. No one even knew your feelings were hurt. But somehow every little thing seemed to dig the hole a little deeper.

You and Robby took your daughter to brunch that Saturday morning with a few friends from the hospital. It had been months since you’d seen everyone, and they practically descended on your little family the second you walked through the restaurant doors.

“Oh my God, she’s gotten so big!”

“Look at those cheeks!”

“Those curls!”

Dana was the first one to scoop her up, grinning from ear to ear.

“I haven’t seen this kid in months. Let me look at you.”

Your daughter blinked up at her. Then smiled. Dana gasped dramatically.

“Okay, first of all, she’s adorable. Second of all…” She looked at Robby. “I swear you cloned yourself.”

Everyone laughed. You smiled. Again.

“Seriously,” one of the nurses said. “She has your whole face, Robby.”

“I feel bad for her then,” he deadpanned.

Another round of laughter. Dana adjusted your daughter on her hip.

“No, look at this little expression.” She pointed at the baby. “That’s him. That’s the exact look he gives people when they’re annoying him.”

You glanced over.nUnfortunately… she wasn’t wrong. Even you had to laugh a little.mYour daughter looked at Robby then, her entire face brightening.

“Dada!”

“There it is,” Dana said. “She’s obsessed with you.”

“I know,” Robby sighed dramatically. “It’s exhausting being this popular.”

She giggled and reached for him. He took her without hesitation, kissing her temple.

You took a sip of your coffee. Then another. The conversation moved on, but you found yourself growing quieter. Because no one had looked at her and said she had your smile. No one had said she had your laugh. No one had even said she had your nose. She was simply… Robby’s.

And you hated yourself for caring. You really did. Because what kind of mother gets jealous over something so silly? You should be happy. You were happy.nWeren’t you?

“Hey.”

You blinked. Robby was looking at you.

“You okay?”

You smiled immediately.

“Of course.”

He frowned slightly.

“You got quiet.”

“I’m just tired.”

He studied you for another second before nodding.

“Okay.”

Then your daughter leaned over and patted his cheek.bHe smiled at her instantly.nAnd somehow, ridiculously, that made your chest ache.

******

The drive home was quiet. Your daughter had fallen asleep in her car seat, one hand still clutching the stuffed giraffe she’d been carrying around all week. Robby glanced over from the driver’s seat.

“You sure you’re okay?”

You looked out the window.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re doing that thing.”

“What thing?”

“The thing where you say you’re fine but your voice goes all weird.”

You almost laughed.

“That’s very scientific, Doctor.”

“I’m an excellent diagnostician.”

You finally looked at him. He smiled softly. You returned it, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. His smile faded.

“Talk to me.”

You looked back out the window.

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

He didn’t push. Which somehow made you feel worse.

******

A few days later, he got called into the hospital for a few hours. Some staffing issue. A physician had called out sick. He’d kissed your forehead, apologized profusely, and promised he wouldn’t be gone long. So it was just you and your daughter that afternoon.

You sat on the living room floor while she played. Or rather…while she destroyed the living room. Blocks were everywhere. Books had somehow ended up under the coffee table. One sock had disappeared entirely. You watched her crawl toward the television stand.

“No, ma’am.”

She ignored you. You gently turned her around. She blinked. Then immediately went right back toward it. You laughed softly.

“You’re stubborn.”

She looked up. And for one beautiful second, you thought maybe…Maybe there it was. Maybe that was yours. Because you were stubborn too.

Then she scrunched her face. Exactly like Robby. And the thought disappeared. You sighed. Your daughter crawled back over and pulled herself up against your legs. You smiled and brushed her curls away from her eyes.

“Hi, sweetheart.”

She grinned.

“Dada.”

Your smile faltered.nYour husband had only been gone for forty minutes.

“Dada?”

She looked around.

“Dada.”

“Oh.” You swallowed. “He’s at work.”

“Dada.”

“I know.”

She looked toward the hallway.

“Dada?”

Your chest tightened. You picked her up. She immediately twisted in your arms, looking around the room.

“Dada.”

“I know, baby.”

Your voice sounded strange. She looked at you. Then back toward the hallway.

“Dada.”

You hugged her a little closer.

“I’m right here.”

She blinked. Then rested her head against your shoulder. You closed your eyes. Because she was cuddling you. She wanted comfort. She was perfectly happy. But your brain was being cruel today. All you could hear was that tiny little voice asking for him. Asking for her father. Not her mother. Not you.

Your eyes burned. You sat down in the rocking chair by the window and held her close. She played with the sleeve of your sweater.

Eventually she looked up at you. A tiny smile. You smiled back.

“Hi.”

She touched your cheek. Your heart melted.

“Dada.”

You looked away before the tears could come.

******

When Robby got home that evening, she nearly launched herself out of your arms.

“Dada!”

He laughed, dropping his bag.

“Whoa there.”

She reached for him desperately. You handed her over. Because of course you did. And because you loved seeing them together. But tonight…tonight it hurt. Robby kissed her cheek.

“Miss me?”

She babbled happily. He looked over at you.

“You two survive without me?”

You forced a smile.

“Barely.”

He chuckled. Then paused. Because your smile disappeared too quickly.

“Hey.”

You busied yourself gathering toys.

“Can you grab her dinner plate?”

A beat of silence.

“Sure.”

You nodded. You didn’t look at him. Because if you did…you might cry.

******

That night, after your daughter was asleep, you found yourself standing in the nursery doorway. The moon-shaped nightlight cast a soft glow over the room. She slept peacefully, one hand tucked beneath her cheek. Dark curls spread across the mattress.

She looked so much like him. You stepped closer. Sat beside the crib. And just watched her. Your beautiful girl. The baby you had prayed for. The baby you loved so much it physically hurt.

A tear slid down your cheek. Then another.

“I don’t know why this is bothering me so much,” you whispered.

Your voice trembled.

“I know you’re mine too.”

You reached through the slats and touched her tiny hand.

“But everyone sees your daddy.”

Another tear slipped free.

“And I…” You swallowed hard. “I just want one thing that’s mine.”

The words hung in the quiet room. You immediately felt guilty. Ashamed. Selfish. Your daughter stirred softly but didn’t wake. You wiped your face. Took a shaky breath. Then whispered the thing you hadn’t dared say out loud before.

“I don’t know if I’m enough for you.”

The nursery was silent. And somehow…that silence felt unbearably loud. You didn’t hear the floor creak behind you. You didn’t hear the bedroom door open. So you had no idea that your husband was standing in the hallway. And that he had heard every single word.

******

The first thing you noticed was the warmth. A hand. Large and familiar. Resting gently against the back of your neck. You startled, turning quickly.

Robby stood there in the doorway of the nursery, his face soft in the dim glow of the nightlight. His hair was still damp from his shower, a gray T-shirt stretched across his shoulders, and yet there was something in his expression that made your heart sink. He’d heard you. Every bit of it.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

You immediately wiped beneath your eyes.

“Hi.”

Neither of you moved. Then his gaze flickered to your face.

“You’ve been crying.”

You looked back at your daughter.

“I’m okay.”

He sighed softly.

“No, you’re not.”

The words were gentle, not accusing. That somehow made them worse. You looked down at your hands. For a long moment, the only sound in the room was your daughter’s soft breathing.

Then the mattress shifted as Robby sat down beside you. He didn’t speak right away. He simply slid his hand over yours. Waited. You knew that patience. You’d seen him use it with frightened patients and grieving families and nervous residents. He never forced. He just… stayed.

“How long?” he finally asked.

You frowned.

“What?”

“How long have you been feeling like this?”

You swallowed.

“Robby…”

“How long?”

His voice remained soft, but there was something underneath it now. Concern. You stared at your sleeping daughter.

“I don’t know.”

He squeezed your hand. You let out a shaky breath.

“A while.”

A beat.

“A few weeks maybe.”

He was quiet for so long that you finally looked at him. And your heart broke a little. Because he looked devastated. Not angry. Not confused. Devastated.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

You tried to laugh. It came out watery.

“Because it sounds ridiculous.”

“Sweetheart.”

“It does.”

“It doesn’t.”

“It does,” you insisted, your voice cracking. “She’s a baby, Robby. She can’t help who she looks like.”

“I know.”

“And I love that she looks like you.”

“I know.”

“But…”

Your throat tightened.

“But?”

You looked away. The tears started all over again

“I don’t know.”

“Talk to me.”

You shook your head.

“I can’t even explain it.”

“Try.”

The word was so gentle. So patient. You let out a trembling breath.

“I just…”

Your voice faltered. Robby’s thumb rubbed softly across your knuckles.

“I carried her for nine months.”

Your eyes stayed on the crib.

“I felt every kick. Every hiccup. I was sick and exhausted and swollen and miserable and I would’ve done it all again because I wanted her so badly.”

He didn’t interrupt.

“And now she’s here and everyone looks at her and all they see is you.”

You laughed shakily through your tears.

“She has your eyes. Your hair. Your smile. Your expressions. Your little grumpy face.”

A tiny smile touched his mouth despite himself. You looked at him.

“I can’t even blame them because they’re right.”

“Hey.”

“No, they are.”

You looked back at your daughter.

“And I know it’s stupid, but…”

Your voice broke completely.

“I just wanted one thing.”

The room went still.

“One thing that was mine.”

Robby’s face crumpled. You covered your mouth with your hand.

“I know how selfish that sounds.”

“It doesn’t.”

“It does.”

“It really doesn’t.”

You shook your head.

“It feels like she has everything of yours.”

A tear slipped down your cheek.

“And I know she loves me, I know she does, but lately…” You swallowed hard. “Lately I feel like I’m just… there.”

Robby’s hand tightened around yours.

“You’re not just there.”

You looked at him then. Your eyes were red. Tired.

“I don’t even feel like I’m her favorite parent.”

The words hung in the air. You laughed softly, miserably.

“Listen to me. I sound insane.”

“You don’t.”

“I do.”

“You don’t, I promise.”

Your chin trembled.

“Sometimes…” You looked away again. “Sometimes I don’t even feel like I’m a very good mom.”

Silence. Absolute silence.

“What?”

You blinked. Robby was staring at you. Actually staring. Like you’d just spoken another language.

“Where did that come from?”

You shrugged helplessly.

“I don’t know.”

“No.”

His voice had changed. Still gentle. But firmer now.

“You don’t get to throw something like that out there and then say you don’t know.”

You looked down.

“Look at me.”

You didn’t. A hand came up, fingers gently tipping your chin upward.

“Look at me.”

You did. And your heart squeezed. Because he looked heartbroken.

“You think you’re not a good mom?”

A fresh wave of tears spilled down your cheeks.

“I don’t know.”

“Sweetheart.”

“I don’t know.”

“You are the best mother I have ever seen.”

You shook your head immediately.

“No I’m not.”

“Yes you are.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

You laughed through your tears.

“I don’t even think she likes me most days.”

His eyebrows shot upward.

“Are you kidding me?”

You sniffled.

“Robby…”

“No, seriously. Are you kidding me?”

You stared at him. He looked completely bewildered. Like the idea itself made no sense.

“She cries when you leave the room.”

You blinked.

“What?”

“She follows you around the house.”

“She’s a baby.”

“She lights up when you sing to her.”

You opened your mouth. He kept going.

“She calms down the second you pick her up.”

“Robby—”

“She reaches for you all the time.”

“Not like she does for you.”

He stared at you. Then his expression softened.

“Oh.”

Just one word. But suddenly he understood. Understood all of it. The reaching. The asking for him. The daddy’s girl comments. Everything. You looked away.

“I know it’s ridiculous.”

“No.”

“It is.”

“No, sweetheart.”

He shifted closer.

“So this is about her asking for me.”

You said nothing.

“So this is about everyone saying she looks like me.”

Your eyes filled again.

“I just…” Your voice trembled. “I wanted one thing that belonged to me.”

The room fell quiet. You looked back at your daughter sleeping peacefully in her crib.

“So much of motherhood already feels like giving pieces of yourself away,” you whispered. “Your body changes. Your time changes. Your whole life changes. And I would do it all again because I love her.”

Your lip trembled.

“But I just wanted one little thing.”

You looked at him.

“Just one.”

Tears spilled down your cheeks.

“And I don’t know why that makes me feel so awful.”

For a long moment, Robby said absolutely nothing. Then he reached for you. You went willingly. Because you always did. He pulled you into his chest, and the second his arms wrapped around you, you broke. A sob escaped you. Then another.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he whispered, holding you tighter.

Your face buried in his shirt.

“I’m sorry.”

“What are you apologizing for?”

“This.”

He kissed the top of your head.

“You never have to apologize for telling me you’re hurting.”

“I feel stupid.”

“You aren’t.”

“I do.”

His hand moved slowly up and down your back.

“You know what I think?”

You sniffled.

“What?”

“I think you’ve been carrying this around by yourself for way too long.”

You closed your eyes. Because unfortunately…he was right. And as he held you there in the soft glow of the nursery, your daughter sleeping peacefully a few feet away, you had a feeling your husband wasn’t finished.

Not even close.

******

For a long while, neither of you moved. Robby simply held you. One hand rested at the back of your head while the other slowly rubbed up and down your spine, the same soothing motion he’d used countless times over the years whenever life became too heavy. Your tears eventually quieted, leaving behind only the occasional sniffle. Still, he didn’t let go. You could hear his heartbeat beneath your ear. Steady. Familiar. Home.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered again.

Immediately, his hand paused. Then he tipped his head back just enough to look down at you.

“If you apologize one more time, I’m going to be offended.”

A tiny laugh escaped you. It sounded watery and broken.

“There’s a little laugh,” he murmured.

You rolled your eyes weakly and pulled back enough to wipe your face.

“I’ve cried all over your shirt.”

“I own more than one.”

“You like this shirt.”

“I do.”

“And I ruined it.”

“You absolutely did.”

A soft huff of laughter escaped you. He smiled. Then his expression gentled again.

“Can I say something?”

You nodded.

“You don’t get to decide what makes you important to her.”

You frowned.

“What?”

He brushed a strand of hair from your face.

“You don’t get to decide that because she has my eyes or my face, somehow I’m more important to her.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

You looked down. A finger slipped beneath your chin.

“Look at me.”

You did. He looked almost… offended. Not at you. At the idea.

“You carried her for nine months.”

Your eyes softened.

“You grew her.”

He brushed his thumb across your cheek.

“You gave birth to her.”

A second tear slid free.

“You are the reason she exists.”

You swallowed.

“Robby—”

“No. Let me finish.”

There was no bite in his voice. Only gentle insistence.

“You know what our daughter knew before she knew my face?”

You blinked.

“What?”

“Your heartbeat.”

You went still.

“She knew your voice.”

His hand settled against your cheek.

“She knew the way you laughed.”

Another tear escaped.

“She knew how you sounded when you talked to her in the middle of the night because you thought I was asleep.”

You let out a soft, surprised breath. He smiled.

“I wasn’t, by the way.”

“You were supposed to be sleeping.”

“I know.”

A tiny laugh escaped him.

“You’d put your hand on your stomach and tell her all these things.”

Your eyes filled all over again.

“You’d tell her about the world and how much you loved her and how excited you were to meet her.”

You looked down.

“I remember.”

“I do too.”

Silence settled between you. Then he gently tucked a piece of hair behind your ear.

“She knew you before she knew anyone else.”

Your chin trembled.

“Even me.”

The tears came again. Not hard this time. Just quietly.

“You are her first home.”

You covered your mouth. Robby’s expression softened even more.

“And sweetheart… she doesn’t reach for me because she loves you less.”

You looked at him.

“Then why does she always want you?”

He smiled softly.

“Because you are always here.”

You frowned.

“What?”

“I leave.”

You blinked.

“I go to work.” He shrugged lightly. “Sometimes for twelve hours. Sometimes longer.”

Your eyes stayed on his.

“You are her constant.”

A tear slipped down your cheek.

“When I come home, it’s exciting.”

He smiled sadly.

“I’m the fun thing that just walked through the door.”

You stared at him.

“But you’re her whole day.”

Your lip trembled.

“You’re breakfast and lunch and naps and books and songs and cuddles.”

You swallowed hard.

“You are every safe thing she knows.”

The nursery suddenly felt very quiet.

“You think she asks for me because she needs me more.”

He gently brushed away another tear.

“No, sweetheart.” His voice softened. “She asks for me because she already knows you’re not going anywhere.”

You broke all over again. A sob escaped you. His face crumpled immediately.

“Oh, honey.”

You covered your eyes.

“Oh my God.”

He gathered you back into his arms without hesitation.

“You are her safe place.”

You cried harder.

“She reaches for me because I’m exciting.”

You laughed through your tears.

“I don’t know if exciting is the word I’d use.”

He snorted softly.

“Fine. Novel.”

You laughed again. A shaky, tearful sound.

“Please trust me,” he whispered, kissing your temple.

You stayed tucked against him.

And after another minute, you whispered, “Everyone says she’s your twin.”

“I know.”

“It hurts.”

“I know.”

You looked up.

“No, I don’t think you do.”

He was quiet. Then he nodded.

“You’re right. I probably don’t.”

Your eyes softened.

“But I do know what it’s like to want to see yourself in someone you love.”

You frowned.

“What do you mean?”

He looked toward the crib.

“I look at her every day and pray she got your heart.”

You blinked.

“What?”

“I hope she got your kindness.”

Your breath caught.

“Your patience.”

He smiled.

“Your empathy.”

You stared at him.

“Your ability to make people feel safe.”

A tear slipped free.

“I hope she gets your laugh.”

You smiled despite yourself.

“Your stubbornness too, unfortunately.”

You let out a watery laugh.

“Or maybe she got that from both of us?”

He kissed your forehead.

“I don’t care if she looks exactly like me.” His voice softened. “I hope she’s like you.”

Your face crumpled. Because there it was. The thing you hadn’t realized you needed. Not to hear that she had your nose. Not to hear that she had your skin. But to hear that maybe… maybe the things that mattered most couldn’t be seen.

“You really think that?” you whispered.

He looked almost confused.

“Of course I do.”

Silence. Then you looked toward the crib.

“She’s beautiful.”

“She is.”

“And kind.”

“Very.”

“And happy.”

“The happiest.”

You swallowed.

“Maybe she already has some of me.”

He smiled.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

His hand settled over yours.

“She has all kinds of you.”

You looked back at him.

“Really?”

He looked downright offended again.

“Have you seen the way she reaches out to pet every dog she meets?”

You laughed softly.

“Okay… maybe.”

“The way she watches people when they’re upset.”

Your smile faded.

“The way she leans against you when she thinks you’re sad.”

Your throat tightened.

“The way she giggles when she hears music.”

Another tear escaped.

“Those things didn’t come from me.”

You stared at him. He smiled softly.

“They came from her mama.”

The room blurred. And for the first time in weeks…the ache in your chest eased. Just a little. Robby reached over and wiped away the last of your tears. Then he leaned forward and kissed your forehead.

“Besides,” he said softly, “you’re forgetting one very important thing.”

You frowned.

“What?”

A slow smile spread across his face.

“You gave her your nose.”

You laughed. A real laugh this time. He grinned.

“And honestly? Thank God.”

You smacked his arm.

“Robby!”

“What? My nose is huge.”

“It is not.”

“It absolutely is.”

You laughed again, shaking your head. He looked at you like he’d hung the moon. Then he kissed your temple. Then your cheek. Then the tip of your nose.

“You’re a good mom.”

You closed your eyes.

“You’re an incredible mom.”

A tear slipped free.

“And our daughter adores you.”

You leaned into him.

“I love you.”

His arms tightened.

“I love you too.”

The two of you sat there for a long while after that. Just holding each other. Watching your little girl sleep. And when you finally stood to leave the nursery, Robby slipped his hand into yours. You looked up at him. He smiled softly.

“Come to bed.”

You squeezed his hand.

“Okay.”

As you stepped into the hallway, neither of you noticed the tiny pair of eyes blinking open inside the crib. Or the little girl watching her parents walk away. Watching her mama. And smiling.

******

The next morning felt lighter. Not perfect. The little ache in your chest hadn’t completely disappeared overnight, but it no longer felt quite so sharp. Maybe because you had finally said it out loud. Maybe because your husband had held every ugly, insecure feeling in his hands and hadn’t laughed or dismissed it. Maybe because he’d looked at you like you were the most important person in the world and reminded you that motherhood wasn’t measured in genetics or who got the first smile.

It was measured in love. And you loved your daughter more than you had ever thought possible. You stood in the kitchen, making coffee while morning sunlight streamed through the windows. A few minutes later, you heard the familiar shuffle of feet.

“Mama?”

You smiled. You turned to find Robby standing in the doorway, your daughter balanced on one hip. His hair was a mess, his T-shirt wrinkled from sleep, and your little girl looked equally disheveled. The sight nearly made you laugh.

“Good morning.”

Your daughter’s entire face brightened.

“Mama!”

She reached for you. Your heart fluttered. You took her from him and kissed her chubby cheek.

“There’s my girl.”

She giggled. Robby wrapped his arms around both of you from behind, pressing a kiss into your hair.

“She woke up and immediately demanded breakfast.”

“Demanded?” you asked.

“Yes. Quite aggressively.”

Your daughter babbled.

“See?” he said. “She’s defending herself.”

You laughed. And something inside you eased a little more.

The day passed quietly. No visitors. No comments about whose eyes she had. No mention of who she resembled. Just your little family. The three of you played in the living room, ordered takeout for lunch, and spent most of the afternoon on the floor surrounded by blocks and books. Your daughter had recently started pulling herself up on everything. The couch. The coffee table. Your legs. Robby. Mostly Robby.

“You’re going to walk before we’re ready,” he informed her seriously.

She smiled. Then promptly tried to eat one of her blocks.

“Never mind,” he sighed.

You laughed. By early evening, the sun cast golden light through the windows. You sat on the rug folding tiny laundry while your daughter played near the couch. Robby was stretched out beside you, absently sorting through baby toys. It was peaceful. Quiet. The kind of ordinary moment you knew one day you’d miss.

Then you looked up. And froze. Your daughter was standing. Not holding the couch. Not holding the table. Standing. Completely on her own.

“Oh my God,” you whispered.

Robby looked up immediately.

“What?”

Then he saw her. His eyes widened.

“No way.”

The two of you became perfectly still. As though even breathing too loudly would ruin it. Your daughter looked between the two of you. Proud. Wobbly. A tiny smile spread across her face.

“Oh, sweetheart,” you breathed.

Robby slowly sat up.

“I think this is happening.”

“I think it is too.”

Your daughter swayed. Regained her balance. Then looked directly at you. Your breath caught. She smiled. And took one tiny step. You gasped. A second step.

“Oh my God.”

A third. Robby’s hand found yours. A fourth. Then she tipped forward. Straight into your waiting arms. You caught her with a startled laugh, immediately gathering her against your chest. For a second, everything went silent.

“Oh my God!”

Tears instantly filled your eyes. Your daughter giggled. You looked at her in complete disbelief.

“You walked.”

She squealed.

“You walked!”

Robby let out a strangled sound beside you. You looked over. Your husband was crying. Actual tears. You burst out laughing.

“Oh my God, you’re crying.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You absolutely are.”

“I’m having an emotional response.”

You laughed harder.

“That’s called crying.”

He wiped at his eyes.

“I wasn’t prepared.”

Neither of you could stop smiling. You looked back down at your daughter. And she looked back at you. Then she reached up with both tiny hands and cupped your cheeks. Your breath caught.

“Mama.”

The world stopped. Everything stopped. Your heart. Your breathing. Time itself.

“Mama.”

A sob escaped you.

“Oh.”

Tears spilled freely down your cheeks. Your daughter smiled.

“Mama.”

You pulled her against you and held her close.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

Your voice broke completely. Robby was openly crying now. Neither of you cared. You kissed your daughter’s curls. Her forehead. Her cheeks.

“I love you so much.”

She laughed and patted your face.

“Mama.”

You let out another tearful laugh. Then strong arms wrapped around both of you. Robby gathered you and your daughter into his lap until all three of you were tangled together on the rug. Your daughter happily squished between you.

You looked up. Your husband was staring at you. Not at the baby. At you. And his expression was so soft it made your chest ache.

“What?” you whispered.

He smiled. Then he reached over and brushed away your tears.

“Looks like she knew exactly where she wanted to go.”

Fresh tears filled your eyes. You laughed softly.

“Robby…”

“No.” His own eyes glistened. “I think she just picked her person.”

You shook your head immediately.

“No, she—”

“She did.”

His voice was gentle. Certain.

“Because she could’ve gone anywhere.”

You looked down at your daughter. She was now chewing on your sleeve.

“But she walked to you.”

Your lip trembled.

“You.”

A tear slipped down your cheek. Robby reached over and kissed your forehead. Then another kiss to your temple. Then your cheek.

“So I think we can officially retire the whole ‘she doesn’t need me’ thing.”

You laughed through your tears.

“Maybe.”

He grinned.

“Maybe?”

You smiled.

“Definitely.”

“There we go.”

He kissed your forehead again. Your daughter looked between the two of you and giggled. Then she reached up and smacked her father’s face. He blinked. You burst out laughing.

“Well, that’s definitely your child.”

He looked offended.

“My child?”

“Absolutely.”

Your daughter did it again. He sighed.

“I stand corrected. She has your sense of humor.”

You laughed harder. Then your little girl leaned forward and buried herself against your chest. Your laughter slowly faded. Because there she was. Curled against you. Warm. Safe. Home.

You looked at the dark curls on her head. The eyes that looked so much like her father’s. The tiny fingers. The little expressions. And suddenly…you didn’t care. Because she had just taken her very first steps. And she had walked straight into your arms. As though there had never been any other destination.

Robby watched your face soften. He smiled. Then he wrapped one arm around your shoulders and pulled you close. You rested your head against him. Your daughter tucked safely between you.

The three of you sat there on the living room floor as the evening sunlight poured through the windows. No one said anything for a long while. Then your husband pressed one final kiss into your hair and whispered softly,

“She has my eyes.”

You smiled.

“She does.”

“My hair.”

“Definitely.”

He looked down at the little girl asleep against your chest. Then back at you.

“But she knows exactly who her mama is.”

--- --- ---

The emergency department was busier than usual during morning handover. Jack leaned against the counter at the Hub, looking exactly like someone who’d been awake for the last twelve hours, survived on too much caffeine and hadn’t had a single bathroom break. He clutched his travel mug like a lifeline, listening to Robby who skimmed over staffing for the day.

“... two residents called in sick, radiology’s backed up and we’re also a little short on the Dana front today.”

Jack tilted his head. “The what?”

Behind them Dana looked up from her tablet. “The what now?”

Robby looked over his shoulder, shrugging. “The Dana front.”

Dana exchanged a look with Jack. “I’m sorry but what the fuck does that even mean?”

Jack took another sip of his coffee, his brain trying to catch up - then realization dawned. “Oh! The Dana front!”

He pulled out his phone, unlocked it and scrolled through his gallery. When he found the video he handed the phone over. “Look for yourself.”

Dana frowned and started it. She watched Lizzie sitting on the living room floor, a toy stethoscope around her neck.

“Daddy sick.”

Jack’s voice came from behind the camera. “And who helps Daddy when he’s sick?”

Lizzie looked at him with big green eyes, her thumb already in her mouth.

“Does a doctor help Daddy when he’s sick?”

Lizzie shook her head. “No.”

“Who helps?”

“Dana.” The answer came immediately.

“A nurse?”

Now she was nodding. “Dana.”

“And who has more medical knowledge? Daddy or the nurses?”

“Dana” she whispered.

The recording ended. 

Dana covered her mouth. “Oh my God…” She looked over at Jack. “That is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Jack grinned. “Figured.”

For a beat there was silence then Dana’s face changed. She put her hands on her hips and frowned. “But - that child knows I have an entire personality outside this hospital, right?”

Robby chuckled. “No, I don’t think she knows that.”

“She looks at me and thinks - yes, that’s the blueprint for a nurse.” She let out a breath. “I’m not sure if I’m flattered or horrified.”

Jack grinned.

“Okay, it’s settled - I’m taking her for a day.”

Jack’s smile faltered. “What?”

“I’m serious, Abbot.” She counted on her fingers. “The zoo. The aquarium. The playground. A museum. Ice cream. I don’t fucking care. So she learns that Dana’s are actual people and not just a job description.”

“I’m not sure this will convince her” Robby said thoughtfully.

“Well” Dana said with a shrug. “At least she has some respect for our profession. That’s a nice change of pace around here.”

Now Robby and Jack both looked equally offended. Before they could say anything Princess’ head appeared in the door of Central 7. “Dana?”

“Dana?” Robby said without missing a beat. “Another Dana needs the Main Dana.”

He ducked just in time before Dana’s pen hit his head.

--- --- ---

You wanna keep reading? - Next part is coming soon, I promise.

--- --- ---

“Um. Excuse me?”

He shrugged. “What did you do before you ended up at the PTMC? What made you pursue that job and not something useful? What do you hope to achieve with… that?” He gestured toward the notebook stuffed into your scrubs pocket.

You took another tiny sip. “Um, okay, well…” You blushed a little, suddenly nervous. “I have a Bachelor of Science in Business Administration and a Master of Science in Business Process Management, both from the University of Pittsburgh.”

“You’re from here?”

“Yeah, born and raised. A real Pittsburgher.” You gave him a small smile.

“Steelers or Ravens?”

“Steelers” you shot back without missing a beat.

The smallest smile showed on his lips. “Good.”

“Why? Would that have changed anything?”

“No.” He shrugged. “It’s not like I have a lot of respect for you as it is.” There was the faintest hint of amusement in his eyes.

You swallowed hard, taking another sip from your coffee - and regretted it immediately when you actually had to swallow the bitter, slightly burnt liquid.

“Where did you work beforehand?” He uncrossed his arms and put them into his scrubs pockets.

You counted that as progress. At least he was asking questions now instead of dismissing yours.

“At Hertz.”

“... Hertz.” He blinked slowly - once, twice - then his eyebrows raised. “The rental car company?”

You nodded.

He let out a humorless laugh, dragging a hand across his face. “You worked at a fucking rental car company and now you’re trying to optimize the processes in a highly-complex emergency department?”

You blushed again - but not because you were embarrassed but because you felt a pang of anger rising in your chest. You narrowed your eyes. “Yeah. You got a problem with that?”

He shook his head, laughing with no humor in it. “I can’t fucking believe it. That has to be a fucking joke. Is this some kind of prank? Because that can’t possibly be real.”

You set the mug down harder than you intended and crossed your arms. “I genuinely don’t understand why you’re so hostile.”

“Because that whole thing is a fucking joke. You have no medical background. You have no experience working in hospitals. You probably couldn’t tell a medical student from a resident or an attending. And you’re here to tell me how to run my department? Yeah… no. I think we’re done.”

You swallowed hard. “No.” You shook your head. “No. That’s not how this is going. And yeah, you’re right - I can’t tell a med student from a resident. But one thing you have taught me is that there’s no difference between an asshole and the head of this department.”

There went your professionalism.

The silence that followed was heavy. He stared at you for a long moment while his expression had gone completely still.

You regretted it almost immediately. But for one glorious second it had felt good. So good.

He let out a long breath. “Do you want to apologize?” His voice was icy.

“Depends.” Your jaw tightened. “Do you want to apologize first?”

He let out a short, disbelieving laugh through his nose. “What for? I wasn’t the one being unprofessional here.”

“Seriously?” You glared at him. “You’re constantly dismissing me, you don’t hide your contempt for my profession  and you didn’t even ask for my name. And you’re going to lecture me about professionalism? Do you ever actually listen to yourself talk or do you only tune in every now and then?”

He narrowed his eyes. You could practically see his brain working to come back with a callback - any kind of callback - but he… couldn’t. He let out a breath. “Yeah, fine, you might have a point there. But still - you can’t run around and call people assholes.”

You were still angry - but shrugged. “My mom taught me not to lie.”

“Jesus.” He rolled his eyes then glanced at his watch. “Drink your coffee.”

“Yeah, another thing I’m dying to tell you - I drink my coffee with milk and sugar. That’s a violation of the Geneva Convention.” You poured the rest into the sink and put your mug into the dishwasher.

He watched you then walked out without another word, you following him. Outside of Central 10 he stopped and pushed the door open without knocking.

“How’s Mr. Lincoln?”

The doctor standing inside at the computer seemed to be in his early to mid twenties with soft features. His light brown hair was slightly wavy and cut short on the sides and left a little longer on top. He had an almost boyish appearance.

He looked up when Robby entered without a greeting, then smiled. “Stable. I’m waiting for him to come back from CT.”

“Good.” Robby nodded once, walking up to him and leaning slightly over, glancing at the screen. “How’s his pain?”

“Pain’s a three after two milligrams of morphine” he answered immediately, then glanced at you. “Who’s that?”

Robby didn’t even look at you. “Apparently my shadow.”

“I’m Dennis. Whitaker.” He gave you an easy smile. “Welcome to the Pitt.”

“Don’t.” Robby held up his hand. “Ignore her. That’s for the best, trust me. I wish I could” he added, quietly.

You stared at the back of his neck, regretting, for the first time since you were a teenager, that telekinesis wasn’t real.

Dennis gave you a confused look, then turned back to the computer.

The door pushed open again and a transporter backed into the room with a stretcher. An older man lay on it, looking tired but otherwise comfortable.

“Fresh out of the oven at Radiology” the transporter said with a smile.

You stepped toward the wall to make room - even though the stretcher still came within inches of you. You didn’t notice the very full Foley catheter bag hanging from the side of the stretcher. You didn’t notice the plastic hook slipping free. And you certainly didn’t notice that the catheter bag dropped to the floor - and the rear wheel rolled directly over it.

CRACK.

RRRIP.

A warm wave splashed across the floor - straight over your loafers. It soaked your feet in seconds. You stared down in horror and complete silence. The transporter stopped dead - stared down. Robby and Dennis stared down.

The patient slowly lifted his head. “Did something happen? I felt something ripping.”

“Oh fuck” the transporter whispered. “Sorry, I didn’t notice.”

Robby glanced at your shoes before looking back at the patient. “I think those shoes are done for. Suede was an optimistic choice for an emergency department.”

You closed your eyes for a second. “That… I… I…”

“What happened?” the patient asked again.

Dennis cleared his throat then reached for the phone. “I think we need someone from environmental services here.”

“Good call.” Robby nodded and scrolled through the chart, completely unbothered. He only wheeled the computer a little bit to the side. Then he grabbed a stack of absorbent pads and dropped them over the spreading puddle to stop it from reaching the hallway.

You looked down again. Your socks were wet. Your shoes were wet. “I…” You swallowed hard. “I need new shoes.”

Dennis nodded slowly. “Yeah, probably.”

A beat later the door opened again and Dana walked in, holding a clipboard. “Boss, there’s a code stroke coming in. ETA 5 minutes. Langdon’s on the case but if you wanna supervise…” She looked up - and her eyebrows raised. “What the fuck happened here?”

You gestured toward the torn catheter bag, still at a loss for words. Dennis was still on the phone, raising his hands. 

Robby didn’t even look up. “Just a happy little accident.”

“Thanks for that, Bob Ross” she shot back before turning toward you. “I think you need some new footwear, huh?”

You nodded miserably. “... yeah.”

“Okay, stay put. I’m going to help you here.” Dana shot Robby a look. “And Robinavitch, stop smiling or I’m going to suspect you had something to do with… this.”

She disappeared only to come back a minute later, holding a plastic bag and plastic overshoes. “Okay, honey, just step over here for me please. Don’t worry - your shoes are ruined as it is, so just… walk here.” 

You did as you were told. Your socks were soaked in a strangers urine. Every step produced another miserable squelch. It was all a little too much.

You stopped in front of Dana. “Okay. We’re going to put these over your shoes, alright?” She snapped on gloves, then crouched down and pulled the overshoes over your ruined shoes. “Okay, and now let’s get you cleaned up.”

Robby gave you a wave. “Just come find me when you’re done” he said with far more amusement than the situation warranted.

Morning settled quietly over Robby’s house.

You woke before Carter, slipped out of the guest room, and padded downstairs in sleep shorts and an old T-shirt. Pale sunlight stretched across the kitchen floor, and for the first time since you had arrived, the house was completely still.

You filled the coffee maker, pressed the button, and leaned against the counter while it sputtered to life.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway behind you.

You glanced over your shoulder and found Jack standing in the kitchen doorway.

His gray hair was flattened on one side, his glasses sat low on his nose, and a dark T-shirt hung loosely over a pair of sweatpants.

You looked him over.

“You look comfortable,” you said.

Jack dragged one hand through his hair as he entered the kitchen.

“That sounded judgmental,” he replied.

You reached into the cabinet and pulled out two mugs.

“It was observational,” you corrected.

Jack’s mouth curved as he stopped beside the island.

“I’m glad you’re learning,” he said.

You poured the first mug and pulled the creamer from the refrigerator.

Jack watched you add it to your coffee.

“So I remembered correctly,” he observed.

You glanced at the bottle before looking back at him. “You seem very proud of yourself.”

Jack reached for the second mug and slid it toward you.

“I value accuracy,” he replied.

You held the coffee pot above his cup.

“Still black?” you asked.

Jack nodded.

“Still,” he confirmed.

You filled his mug and returned the pot to the machine.

“That remains deeply unpleasant,” you said.

Jack lifted the coffee and took a careful sip. “It’s coffee.”

You carried your mug toward the island.

“It’s punishment,” you corrected.

Jack followed and took the stool beside yours. For a moment, neither of you spoke.

The silence was not awkward. It was simply noticeable without Carter filling it with questions, schemes, or increasingly suspicious observations.

Jack rested both hands around his mug.

“Did you sleep okay?” he asked.

You tucked one leg beneath you on the stool.

“Better than expected,” you answered. “How was the futon?”

Jack stared into his coffee.

“Hostile,” he said.

A laugh slipped out of you.

“You said you’d slept in worse places,” you reminded him.

Jack turned his head toward you.

“I have,” he replied. “That doesn’t make the futon good.”

You smiled into your mug.

“You once slept three hours in a lawn chair with a paperback over your face,” you reminded him.

Jack’s brows lifted.

“That was different,” he said.

You leaned one elbow against the island. “How?”

Jack took another sip of coffee. “I was comfortable.”

You stared at him. “Your neck was bent at a ninety-degree angle.”

Jack lowered the mug. “I was twenty.”

You grinned. “You also had the book stuck to your forehead when you woke up.”

Jack’s mouth tightened as he tried not to smile. “It was hot.”

You laughed softly. “You had the words printed across your face.”

Jack looked at you over the rim of his mug. “And you still took a picture.”

Your smile widened. “Of course I did.”

Jack shook his head. “You were a menace.”

You lifted your mug toward him. “You liked me.”

Jack held your gaze for a beat.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I did.”

The photograph from the night before slipped into your thoughts.

Jack with dark hair. Your head resting on his shoulder. Every letter you had written still sitting somewhere inside his house.

You traced one finger around the edge of your mug.

“You really kept all of them?” you asked.

Jack lowered his coffee. The amusement softened out of his face.

“Yeah,” he answered.

You looked down at the pale swirl of cream inside your cup. “Even the terrible ones?”

Jack leaned his forearms against the island.

“Especially the terrible ones,” he replied.

You looked back at him. “Why?”

Jack held your gaze. His lips parted, but a door opened down the hallway before he could answer.

Small footsteps shuffled toward the kitchen.

Carter appeared in the doorway with his blanket wrapped around his shoulders and his hair sticking up in several directions.

He stopped when he saw the two of you sitting together.

Then he smiled. You narrowed your eyes.

“Don’t,” you warned.

Carter’s smile disappeared with suspicious speed.

“I didn’t do anything,” he replied.

Jack lifted his mug toward him.

“You woke up,” he pointed out. “That’s something.”

Carter crossed the kitchen and climbed onto the empty stool beside you.

“What were you talking about?” he asked.

You lifted your mug toward Jack.

“The time Uncle Jack fell asleep in a lawn chair with a book over his face,” you answered.

Carter’s face lit with recognition. “I saw that picture.”

Jack closed his eyes. “Of course you did.”

Carter pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders. “It was in the box in the garage.”

You smiled into your coffee. “It’s a good picture.”

Jack opened his eyes and looked at you. “You let me sleep like that.”

You shrugged. “You looked tired.”

Carter looked between you. “How long was he asleep?”

“Three hours,” you answered.

“It was not three hours,” Jack argued.

You turned toward Carter. “He missed dinner.”

Carter’s eyebrows rose. “You didn’t wake him up?”

You took another sip of coffee. “I put a towel over his legs.”

Jack gave Carter a solemn look. “That was the extent of her compassion.”

You bumped your shoulder against his. “You survived.”

Jack’s gaze lingered on you. “Barely.”

You glanced toward your nephew. “What do you want for breakfast, bud?”

Carter pulled the blanket tighter around himself.

“Pancakes,” he answered.

Jack looked toward the pantry.

“Do we have pancake mix?” he asked.

Carter nodded.

“Dad keeps it above the cereal,” he explained.

You started to slide off the stool, but Jack stood before you could.

“I’ve got it,” he said.

Jack crossed to the cabinet and reached above the cereal boxes.

You watched him pull down the box.

“You know how to make pancakes?” you asked.

Jack glanced back at you.

“I’m a grown man,” he replied.

You lifted your mug. “That wasn’t an answer.”

Jack set the box on the counter. “I can follow directions.”

Carter leaned forward on the island.

“Can we go to the pool today?” he asked.

You glanced toward the bright sunlight filling the kitchen.

“That could be fun,” you answered.

Carter turned toward Jack. “Will you come too?”

Jack opened the box and studied the instructions.

“I thought that was implied,” he replied.

Carter’s face brightened. “All three of us?”

You looked across the kitchen at Jack. Jack met your eyes over the top of the box.

“Looks like it,” you said.

Carter threw off the blanket and slid from his stool.

“I’m getting my swim stuff,” he announced as he hurried toward the hallway.

You watched him disappear.

“He’s very invested in all three of us doing everything together,” you observed.

Jack pulled a mixing bowl from the cabinet.

“He’s subtle about it,” he replied.

You laughed as you carried your coffee toward the counter. “Painfully.”

Jack measured the pancake mix into the bowl.

“Pool, then your date tonight?” he asked, keeping his attention on the box.

You leaned your hip against the counter beside him. “That’s the plan.”

Jack added water to the bowl. “What time?”

You watched him begin stirring the batter. “Seven.”

Jack nodded once. “You know this guy well?”

A smile tugged at your mouth. “You’re asking a lot of questions.”

Jack glanced at you over the top of his glasses. “I’m allowed to be curious.”

You took a sip of coffee. “About my date?”

Jack returned his attention to the bowl. “About your evening.”

You smiled slowly. “That sounded careful.”

Jack kept stirring. “It was meant to.”

Carter’s footsteps thundered down the hallway before you could push any further. He returned carrying his swim trunks, goggles, and one flipper. You looked down at the collection in his arms.

“Where is the other flipper?” you asked.

Carter glanced at the single flipper. “I don’t know.”

Jack set the whisk down.

“We haven’t even finished breakfast,” he said. “How have we already lost equipment?”

Carter looked toward the hallway. “It might be in my room.”

You pointed after him with your mug. “Go find it before breakfast.”

Carter turned and hurried away again.

Jack watched him disappear. Then he looked back at you.

“Seven?” he asked.

You smiled into your coffee. “Still curious?”

Jack picked up the whisk again. “Apparently.”

By the time you reached the pool, Jack had been turned into a pack mule.

He carried the cooler in one hand and a canvas bag stuffed with towels in the other. Carter’s goggles dangled from two fingers, and the inflatable basketball had been wedged beneath his arm. You walked beside him carrying the sunscreen. Jack glanced down at the bottle in your hand.

“Glad we divided the responsibilities evenly,” he said.

You held the sunscreen up between two fingers.

“This is essential equipment,” you replied.

Jack adjusted the cooler against his leg. “I’m carrying everything we own.”

You looked him over. “You seem capable.”

Jack caught the way your gaze moved over him. “Careful, Robinavitch.”

You smiled as you followed Carter through the gate. “Just appreciating the help, Abbot.”

Jack watched you walk ahead of him.

“That didn’t sound like appreciation,” he muttered.

Carter chose a cluster of chairs near the shallow end and immediately dropped his bag onto the concrete.

“I’m going diving,” he announced.

You caught the back of his shirt before he could escape.

“You’re putting on sunscreen first,” you told him.

Carter’s shoulders slumped. “I put it on at home."

Jack deposited the cooler beside one of the chairs.

“That was almost two hours ago,” he reminded him.

Carter looked between the two of you. “You both sound like Dad.”

Jack lowered himself onto the edge of a chair. “That is the most hurtful thing you’ve said to me all weekend.”

You squeezed sunscreen into your palm. “Stand still, bud.”

Carter reluctantly turned his back to you.

While you rubbed sunscreen over his shoulders, Jack removed his sunglasses and placed them carefully inside the cooler bag’s front pocket. Then he caught the hem of his T-shirt and pulled it over his head. You looked up at exactly the wrong moment.

The years had changed him, but not nearly enough to make looking harmless. His shoulders were still broad. His chest was still solid, his body carrying the natural strength of someone who used it rather than sculpted it for display.

You dropped the sunscreen bottle. It struck the concrete beside your foot.

Jack looked toward it. “You okay?”

You bent quickly and picked it up. “Slippery.”

Jack glanced at the dry bottle in your hand. “Right.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Put your sunscreen on.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “Yes, ma’am.”

You finished with Carter before straightening and slipping your cover-up over your head.

Jack had just opened the cooler. His hand stopped inside it.

You pretended not to notice his gaze catch on you.

Jack cleared his throat and looked deeper into the cooler as though something critically important had happened among the water bottles.

“We have water,” he announced.

You placed your cover-up over the back of the chair. “Excellent work.”

Jack pulled out one bottle. “And juice.”

You nodded once. “Remarkable.”

Carter pushed his goggles over his eyes and looked between you. “Why are you both acting weird?”

Jack twisted the cap off the water bottle.

“Heat,” he answered.

You nodded gravely. “Very dangerous.”

Carter studied you for another second before apparently deciding the pool was more interesting than either of you.

“Come watch me dive,” he ordered.

Jack pointed toward the walkway. “No running.”

Carter immediately slowed to an exaggerated march.

“I’m not running,” he replied.

“You were about to,” Jack said.

Carter continued his dramatic march toward the deep end. “You can’t prove that.”

Jack followed him. “I saw you.”

Carter glanced over his shoulder. “That’s not proof.”

You fell into step beside Jack. “He might have a future in law."

Jack looked down at you. “He has a future in prison.”

Carter climbed onto the diving board and turned to face you both.

“Watch this!” he called.

You raised one hand. “We’re watching.”

Carter bounced twice before jumping, tucking his knees against his chest and hitting the water with an enormous splash. He surfaced several feet away.

“Did you see it?” he asked.

Jack folded his arms over his chest. “No. Do it again.”

Carter’s mouth dropped open. “You were looking right at me!”

Jack shrugged. “I blinked.”

Carter scrambled toward the ladder. “You can’t blink that long.”

You leaned closer to Jack. “That was cruel.”

Jack watched Carter climb from the pool. “He needs the exercise.”

Carter performed the same dive three more times before deciding he needed a new audience activity. He swam toward the edge and pushed his goggles onto his forehead.

“Race me,” he told Jack.

Jack looked down at him. “That seems unfair.”

Carter gripped the edge. “Because you’re old?”

You pressed your lips together. Jack slowly turned his head toward you.

“Don’t,” he warned.

“I didn’t say anything,” you replied.

Jack looked back at Carter. “I meant unfair to you.”

Carter pushed away from the wall. “You’re scared.”

Jack stepped into the pool. “I’m reconsidering every nice thing I’ve ever done for you.”

Carter paddled toward the lane markers. “First one to the other side and back wins.”

You sat on the edge and lowered your feet into the water. “Try not to humiliate him.”

Jack looked over his shoulder. “Which one?”

You smiled sweetly. “Dealer’s choice.”

Carter and Jack lined up against the wall.

You lifted one hand. “Ready?”

Carter lowered his goggles. “Ready.”

Jack braced one foot against the wall. “Whenever you are.”

You dropped your hand. “Go!”

They launched forward. Jack stayed beside him for the first few strokes before gradually pulling ahead. He touched the opposite wall, turned smoothly, and started back while Carter scrambled into his own turn behind him. Jack reached your side of the pool first and caught the edge beside your knee. Carter arrived several seconds later, slapping one hand against the wall before surfacing with a gasp.

“That didn’t count,” he declared.

Jack wiped water from his eyes. “You lost by half the pool."

Carter pushed his goggles onto his forehead. “You have a secret robot foot.”

Jack stared at him.

“I have a prosthetic,” he corrected. “It does not make me swim faster.”

You slipped into the pool and moved to Carter’s side.

“Can you prove that?” you asked.

Jack turned toward you. “You’re encouraging him.”

You studied Jack’s prosthetic beneath the rippling water. “I’m asking important scientific questions.”

Carter pointed toward Jack’s leg. “It could have a motor.”

Jack looked down at it. “Where would I put the batteries?”

Carter considered the question. “In your pocket,” he answered.

Jack spread both hands. “I’m wearing swim trunks.”

Carter nodded with complete confidence. “A waterproof pocket.”

A laugh escaped you. Jack looked between the two of you. “This is ridiculous.”

You shifted closer to Carter. “We may need to inspect the equipment.”

Jack immediately backed through the water. “You’re not inspecting anything.”

Carter grinned. “That sounds suspicious.”

Jack pointed toward him. “You lost the race.”

Carter lifted his chin. “Because of the robot foot.”

You held out your hand. “I think we have grounds for an appeal.”

Carter slapped his palm against yours.

Jack stared at your joined hands. “I’m surrounded by criminals.”

Carter’s attention shifted toward the basketball hoop at the other end of the pool.

“Let’s play basketball,” he suggested.

Jack glanced at the floating hoop. “Fine.”

Carter retrieved the ball and tucked it against his chest.

“Me and Auntie against Uncle Jack,” he announced.

Jack lifted his eyebrows. “Two against one?”

You moved decisively to Carter’s side. “You have the robot foot.”

Jack closed his eyes. “I’m never going to hear the end of this.”

Carter smiled. “Probably not.”

Jack opened his eyes and pointed between you. “No holding. No scratching. No trying to drown me.”

You took the ball from Carter. “You take all the fun out of sports.”

Jack moved backward toward the hoop. “I know how both of you operate.”

Carter leaned closer to you. “I’ll distract him,” he whispered.

Jack stopped. “I can hear you.”

Carter lowered his voice further. “No, you can’t.”

Jack rubbed one hand over his face. “This is going to be a disaster.”

It was. Carter attached himself to Jack’s right arm while you slipped around his other side with the ball. Jack tried to free himself without sending Carter underwater, giving you enough time to shoot. The ball struck the rim and bounced back toward Jack. Jack caught it one-handed.

“That was holding,” he said.

Carter continued hanging from his arm. “No, it wasn’t.”

Jack looked down at him. “You are currently holding me.”

Carter released him. “Not anymore.”

You snatched the ball from Jack’s hand and swam away.

Jack stared after you. “That was theft.”

You cradled the ball against your chest. “You were distracted.”

Jack’s eyes widened. “By the child physically restraining me.”

Carter swam to your side. “That sounds like an excuse.”

Jack pushed his wet hair away from his forehead. “You two deserve each other.”

You passed the ball to Carter. “Thank you.”

Carter threw it toward the hoop. The ball bounced against the rim before dropping through. Carter shouted and threw both arms into the air. You caught him around the middle and lifted him partly out of the water.

“That’s my nephew!” you cheered.

Carter pumped one fist. “We’re winning!”

Jack looked toward the nonexistent scoreboard. “You have one point.”

You lowered Carter into the water. “And you have zero.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Fine.”

You recognized the expression immediately. Carter edged closer to you.

“What does that face mean?” he whispered.

You kept your eyes on Jack. “It means we made a mistake.”

Jack took the ball from beneath the hoop. “You have.”

The next several minutes were ruthless. Jack blocked Carter’s first attempt, stole the ball from you, and scored before either of you reached the other end. When Carter tried to hang from him again, Jack lifted him beneath the arms and deposited him several feet away.

“You can’t move players,” Carter protested.

Jack caught the returning ball. “I just did.”

You lunged for it. Jack moved the ball out of reach.

“You’re cheating,” you accused.

Jack held it above his head. “I’m taller.”

You frowned. “That’s not a skill.”

Jack shrugged a shoulder. “It’s working.”

You splashed water directly into his face.

Jack recoiled and brought one hand to his eyes. “That was a foul.”

You stole the ball from his other hand. “Prove it.”

Jack glared at you. “It was water in my eyes.”

Carter swam beside you. “It’s a pool.”

Jack wiped his face. “That doesn’t make it legal.”

You backed toward the hoop. “Are you going to complain or defend?”

Jack began moving toward you. “I can do both.”

You twisted away, but Jack caught you around the waist before you could reach the hoop.

Your back met his chest.

His arm settled firmly across your middle, warm even beneath the cool water. The laughter caught somewhere inside your throat. For one suspended second, neither of you moved. Jack’s breath touched your temple.

“Got you,” he said quietly.

Your fingers curled around his forearm. “That feels like holding.”

Jack loosened his grip, but he did not release you immediately.

“You were cheating,” he murmured.

You turned your head enough to catch the edge of his profile. “You were losing.”

A wave of water hit both of you. Jack released you as Carter surfaced beside you.

“Are we still playing?” Carter asked.

Jack blinked and cleared his throat. “Apparently.”

You passed the ball directly to Carter. Carter shot while Jack was still recovering. The ball sailed neatly through the hoop. You and Carter erupted.

Jack stared at the basket. “That shouldn’t count.”

You slapped your palm against Carter’s. “It counts twice.”

“Why would it count twice?” Jack demanded.

Carter grinned. “Because you were holding her.”

Jack looked at you as though this were somehow your fault.

You shook your head. “He has eyes.”

Jack pointed toward the stairs. “Both of you. Out of the pool.”

Carter laughed as he swam away. “You’re not the boss.”

Jack followed him. “I have delegated authority.”

You trailed behind them. “Not at the pool.”

Jack looked over his shoulder. “Especially at the pool.”

By the time the three of you returned to the chairs, Carter was exhausted, and Jack had accepted that he had officially lost under whatever rules you and Carter had invented. Carter dropped onto the end of one lounger and reached for a towel.

“We won,” he announced.

Jack handed him the towel. “You committed multiple crimes.”

Carter dried his face. “Still won.”

You sank onto the neighboring chair. “Scoreboard, Abbot.”

Jack picked up his water bottle. “There was no scoreboard.”

“Then you can’t prove we lost,” you replied.

Jack stared at you. “I watched it happen.”

You smiled. “That isn’t proof.”

Carter looked toward you with open admiration. “That’s what I said earlier.”

Jack lowered himself onto the chair between you and Carter. “This alliance needs to end.”

An older woman passed with a small girl walking beside her. She slowed when Carter leaned across Jack to steal a bottle of juice from the cooler. She smiled warmly at the three of you.

“You have a beautiful family,” she said.

You went still. Jack’s hand stopped halfway to his water bottle.

“Thank you,” Carter answered brightly.

The woman continued toward the shallow end before either adult managed to speak. Silence settled over the chairs. You looked toward Jack. Jack stared straight ahead. Carter pushed the straw into his juice pouch.

“She thought we were a family,” he observed.

Jack finally picked up his water. “We heard her.”

Carter took a drink. “She said we were beautiful.”

You reached for your towel. “She was being polite.”

Carter looked at Jack. “She didn’t have to say anything.”

Jack unscrewed the cap from his bottle with unnecessary focus. “Drink your juice, Carter.”

Carter leaned back against the chair, entirely too pleased with himself.

You glanced toward Jack again. His sunglasses hid his eyes now, but the faint color climbing the side of his neck was much harder to conceal. You rubbed the towel over your arms.

“She probably says that to everyone,” you said.

Jack took a long drink. “Probably.”

Carter looked between you. “You’re both being weird again.”

Jack lowered the bottle. “Heat,” he replied.

You nodded solemnly. “Very dangerous.”

The three of you smelled like chlorine by the time you made it back to the house.

Carter abandoned his pool bag just inside the door and started toward the hallway. Jack caught the strap before it hit the floor.

“Absolutely not,” Jack said.

Carter turned around. “What?”

Jack lifted the dripping bag. “You are not leaving this here.”

Carter looked toward you for support. You removed your sunglasses and pushed them onto the top of your head.

“He’s right,” you told him. “Take it to the laundry room.”

Carter’s mouth pulled into a pout. “You’re both bossy.”

Jack handed the bag back to him. “You had plenty of opportunities to choose less responsible adults.”

Carter dragged the bag toward the laundry room. “I didn’t get to choose.”

Jack watched him go. “That explains a lot.”

You laughed and carried the empty water bottles toward the kitchen. Jack followed with the cooler.

“Go get ready,” he said as he placed it beside the sink. “I’ll deal with this.”

You glanced toward the clock above the stove. “I have time.”

Jack opened the cooler and began pulling out the remaining drinks. “You also have pool hair.”

You touched the damp strands near your neck. “Are you saying I don’t look good?”

Jack’s hand paused inside the cooler. You waited. Jack slowly turned his head toward you.

“I’m saying you have somewhere to be,” he answered carefully.

You smiled. “That was not the question.”

Jack looked back into the cooler. “Go shower, Robinavitch.”

You laughed as you headed for the hallway. “Coward.”

Jack pulled out a melting ice pack. “Correct.”

By the time you came back downstairs to retrieve your purse, freshly showered and wrapped in a robe, Carter was lying across the living-room couch with his arms folded. You stopped at the bottom of the stairs.

“What’s wrong with you?” you asked.

Carter looked toward you. “You’re leaving.”

You crossed the room and sat beside his legs. “For a few hours,” you reminded him.

Carter shifted farther into the cushions. “We were supposed to hang out.”

“We spent the entire day together,” you reminded him.

Carter frowned. “That was before.”

You lifted his feet and placed them across your lap. “Before what?”

Carter frowned at the television. “Before you had to go somewhere.”

You rubbed one hand over his shin. “You’re going to be here with Uncle Jack.”

Carter looked toward the kitchen, where Jack was rinsing the cooler in the sink. “That’s not all three of us.”

Something pinched softly inside your chest. You squeezed Carter’s ankle. “I’ll be back tonight.”

Carter remained unconvinced. “How late?”

“I don’t know yet,” you answered.

He studied your face. “Where are you going?”

You glanced toward the kitchen. Jack had his back to you, one hand braced against the counter while the faucet ran.

“Bellini’s,” you answered.

Carter’s pout eased. “The Italian place?”

You nodded. “The one downtown.”

Carter sat up. “The one with the breadsticks?”

You laughed. “Yes, the one with the breadsticks.”

Carter hugged the cushion against his stomach. “Can you bring me some?”

You rose from the couch. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Carter followed you toward the stairs. “And dessert?”

“You’re not coming upstairs,” you told him.

Carter’s brow furrowed. “I’m not.”

You looked at him over your shoulder. “You’re following me.”

“I’m going to my room,” Carter answered.

You stopped. “Your room is downstairs.”

Carter stopped at the first step.

Jack leaned against the kitchen doorway. “She’s got you there.”

Carter looked back at him. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

Jack dried his hands and shrugged.

You started up the stairs. “Stay down here, bud.”

Carter watched you disappear around the landing before moving to the living room. Jack stood near the kitchen island, sorting through the takeout menus Robby kept shoved into one of the drawers. Carter sat on the couch with his knees pulled up beneath him.

“Can we go to Bellini’s?” Carter asked.

Jack looked over. “Why?”

Carter shrugged. “I like the breadsticks.”

Jack studied him. “You’ve been there?”

Carter nodded. “With Dad. They have really good breadsticks.”

 He paused, then added, “And cheese pizza.”

Jack narrowed his eyes slightly. “You are making a very passionate case for bread and cheese.”

Carter lifted one shoulder. “I’m hungry.”

Jack looked toward the ceiling, then back at him. “Maybe.”

Carter brightened. “Really?”

Jack pointed one finger at him. “I said maybe.”

Carter settled back into the couch, visibly pleased with the progress he had made. Jack returned his attention to the menus.

“You’re being weird,” he said.

Carter picked up the remote. “I’m being hungry.”

Before Jack could answer, footsteps sounded on the stairs. Carter turned first. You came down with your purse over one shoulder, your phone in your hand, and your shoes clicking softly against the floor. Carter’s face lit up.

“You look really pretty, Auntie,” he said.

Your expression softened. “Thank you, bud.”

Jack looked up. For one quiet second, he forgot what he was doing. His hand remained pressed against the open drawer, one menu caught beneath his fingers. The dress fit you in a way that made looking away feel strangely difficult. Your makeup was finished, your earrings caught the light when you moved, and you looked entirely too good to be leaving with someone else. You glanced toward him. Jack lowered his gaze to the menu. Then immediately looked back at you.

You adjusted the strap of your purse. “Everything okay?”

Jack cleared his throat. “Yeah.”

Carter watched him with open interest. You crossed the room and bent to kiss the top of Carter’s head.

“I’ll be back later,” you told him.

Carter looked up at you. “Bring back dessert.”

You straightened. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Carter grinned, satisfied. Jack closed the drawer and carried the menus into the living room while you adjusted your purse and started toward the door.

Carter lifted one hand. “Bye, Auntie.”

You reached for the doorknob.

“Hey, Robinavitch,” Jack called from the living room.

You paused and looked over your shoulder. Jack stood beside the couch, one hand resting on the back cushion. This time, he let himself look at you without pretending otherwise. The corner of his mouth lifted.

“You still got it,” he said.

The words landed low and warm beneath your ribs. You rolled your eyes before either of them could see it. “Devastatingly romantic, Abbot.”

Jack’s smile deepened. “I wasn’t trying to be romantic.”

“Good,” you replied as you opened the door. “Because you failed.”

Carter looked up at Jack from the couch.

“I thought it sounded romantic,” he said.

Jack glanced down at him. Carter held up one hand. Jack hesitated for only a second before slapping his palm against Carter’s.

You stared at them from the doorway. “Really?”

Carter grinned. “It was romantic.”

You shook your head as you stepped onto the porch. “Goodnight, boys.”

Carter waved from the couch. “Bye, Auntie.”

Jack’s expression softened. “Have fun.”

You looked back at him. “I’ll try.” You closed the door behind you.

Carter waited until your footsteps faded down the walkway. Then he looked up at Jack. “So Bellini’s?”

Jack kept his eyes on the closed door for another second.

“You are really committed to this,” he said.

Carter nodded. “The breadsticks are really good.”

Jack studied him. “You’ve mentioned.”

Carter leaned forward on the couch. “And the cheese pizza.”

Jack sighed and looked down at the T-shirt he had worn home from the pool. “Let me clean up first.”

Carter’s face brightened. “So that’s a yes?”

Jack pointed toward him. “That is a ‘go put your shoes on while I shower.’”

Carter jumped from the couch. “That sounds like a yes.”

Jack watched him hurry toward the hallway. “It sounded like instructions.”

Carter called back from around the corner. “I’m getting my shoes!”

Jack glanced once more toward the front door. Then he rubbed one hand over his face and headed upstairs. “This better be exceptional pizza.”

Bellini’s was warm, busy, and louder than you expected for a Saturday night.

The dining room carried the low hum of conversation beneath soft music, punctuated by silverware against plates and the occasional burst of laughter from the bar. Strings of small lights glowed above the exposed brick walls, making the restaurant feel intimate without trying too hard. David had arrived before you and was already waiting near the host stand when you walked in. He smiled as soon as he saw you.

“You look beautiful,” David said.

You adjusted the strap of your purse and returned the smile.

“Thank you,” you replied. “You clean up pretty well yourself.”

David glanced down at his button-down shirt.

“I wore the one without a hospital logo,” he said.

You nodded approvingly. “A bold choice.”

The host led you toward a booth near the center of the dining room. David waited for you to slide in before taking the seat across from you.

So far, there was nothing wrong with him. That was almost the problem. David was kind. He was easy to talk to. He asked questions and listened to the answers instead of waiting for his turn to speak. He had a pleasant smile, a stable job, and apparently no secret history involving your brother, a summer twenty years ago, or a box of letters hidden inside his house.

It should have been relaxing. Instead, you kept thinking about Jack standing beside Robby’s couch. You still got it. You reached for your water. David glanced up from the menu.

“Have you been here before?” he asked.

You shook your head. “No, but my nephew seemed very invested in the breadsticks.”

David smiled. “Smart kid.”

A server appeared beside the table carrying a basket lined with white paper.

“These are dangerous,” she warned as she placed it between you.

David reached for one. “I’m willing to take the risk.”

You laughed and tore a piece from another.

“I promised to bring some home,” you explained. “So I’m going to need a second basket before we leave.”

David lifted his eyebrows. “Already making demands?”

“My nephew is nine,” you said. “His disappointment can be devastating.”

“I have nieces,” David replied. “I understand.”

The conversation moved easily from there.

David told you about a scheduling disaster involving three departments reserving the same conference room. You told him about Robby leaving you in charge of Carter for the weekend and conveniently failing to mention that Jack would be there too. David paused with his glass halfway to his mouth.

“Jack?” he asked.

You reached for another piece of breadstick. “Old family friend.”

The description felt technically accurate and completely inadequate.

David took a drink before setting the glass down. “The uncle your nephew kept mentioning at work?”

You looked at him. “Carter mentioned him to you?”

David smiled. “When I stopped by the unit last week, he was waiting for your brother. He gave me a detailed ranking of every adult in his life.”

You leaned back against the booth. “Should I ask where I placed?”

David shook his head. “You were first.”

You smiled. “That’s correct.”

David reached for another breadstick. “Uncle Jack was a very close second.”

You exhaled a laugh. “That sounds right.”

David studied you for a moment. “He seems important to him.”

“He is,” you replied.

The answer came without hesitation. David nodded, but something thoughtful passed over his expression before he looked down at the menu again. The server returned to take your orders. David chose chicken parmesan. You ordered pasta and asked for an extra basket of breadsticks to take home.

When the server walked away, David rested his forearms against the edge of the table.

“So your brother left you with his son and Uncle Jack for the weekend?”

You smiled. “Carter arranged the Uncle Jack part.”

David’s eyebrows rose. “He arranged it?”

You tore off another piece of breadstick. “He’s nine and apparently developing a dangerous interest in logistics.”

David laughed. “Should I be worried?”

You looked across the table at him. “About Carter?”

David nodded. “He sounds formidable.”

You reached for your water. “Only when he wants something.”

The conversation moved on, but it never quite found the rhythm it had before. David was still easy company. You still enjoyed talking to him. But there was a carefulness now, a quiet awareness sitting between you that neither of you named. You were telling him about a ridiculous argument you and Robby had once had over a family recipe when a familiar voice carried across the dining room.

“Auntie!”

Your eyes closed. Across the table, David stopped with his fork suspended above his plate.

You slowly turned your head.

Carter stood several tables away, his entire face glowing with a level of surprise no child had ever performed convincingly. Jack stood behind him. He had changed into clean jeans and a dark button-down with the sleeves pushed to his forearms. One hand rested firmly on Carter’s shoulder. Jack looked directly at you. Mortification spread across his face.

Carter lifted one hand and waved with enormous enthusiasm.

“Auntie! Hi!” he called. “I didn’t know you were here!”

Jack closed his eyes. You stared at your nephew. David looked from Carter to Jack, then back to you. You did not take your eyes off Carter. Carter slipped free of Jack’s hand and hurried toward the table. Jack caught the back of his shirt after two steps.

“No,” Jack said firmly.

Carter looked over his shoulder. “I’m saying hi.”

Jack shook his head. “You said hi.”

Carter frowned. “She might not have heard me.”

“The entire restaurant heard you,” Jack replied.

Several people at nearby tables were now openly watching. Carter smiled at them. Jack tightened his grip on the back of Carter’s shirt and gave you a helpless look across the room. You knew that look. I swear I did not know.

Carter twisted in Jack’s hold. “Can I go hug her?”

Jack stared down at him. “You can sit at our table and reconsider your choices.”

Carter pointed toward you. “But Auntie’s right there.”

Jack looked toward your table again. “Yes,” he said. “I am painfully aware.”

David pressed his lips together, but you caught the beginning of a smile. Carter ducked beneath Jack’s hand and made it three more steps before Jack caught him around the middle.

“Carter,” Jack warned.

Carter’s legs continued moving uselessly above the floor. “I just want to say hi.”

You finally lifted one hand. “Let him come over before you dislocate something.”

Jack looked at you. “I am trying to remove him.”

“You’re carrying him through a restaurant,” you replied.

Carter grinned as Jack reluctantly set him down. The second his shoes touched the floor, Carter hurried toward you.

“Auntie,” he said brightly as he reached the booth. “What a surprise.”

You looked at him. “Is it?”

Carter’s smile faltered. “A little?”

Jack arrived behind him and shoved both hands into his pockets.

“Hi,” he said.

You held his gaze. “Hi.”

Jack glanced toward David. Then back at you. “For the record,” he said carefully, “I was promised exceptional breadsticks.”

Carter nodded. “They are exceptional.”

You looked down at your nephew. “You knew exactly where I was.” Carter’s mouth opened.

Jack pointed toward him. “Think very carefully before you answer.”

Carter closed his mouth again. David set his fork beside his plate.

“You must be Uncle Jack,” he said.

Jack’s expression tightened almost imperceptibly before he held out one hand.

“Jack Abbot,” he introduced himself.

David shook it. “David Mercer.”

Jack nodded once. “Nice to meet you.”

The words were polite. His grip, you suspected, was equally polite. Carter looked between the two men.

“David is the date,” he explained.

You closed your eyes. “Thank you, Carter.”

David’s smile returned.

Carter turned toward Jack. “Uncle Jack used to be Auntie’s boyfriend.”

Your eyes opened. “No, he didn’t.”

“That was a long time ago,” Jack replied at the same time.

David looked between you. Carter brightened. “See?”

You stared at Jack. “You are not helping.”

Jack rubbed one hand over his face. “I’m sorry.”

David leaned back in the booth. “This is significantly more interesting than the conference-room story.”

Jack looked toward him. “I am so sorry.”

David smiled. “I’m not.”

Carter rested both hands on the edge of the table. “They kissed too.”

Jack placed one hand over Carter’s face. “That’s enough.”

Carter’s voice came muffled beneath his palm. “I’m just explaining.”

Jack looked down at him. “You have explained nothing useful.”

You glanced around at the neighboring tables. Several people were still listening.

“Take him to your table,” you told Jack.

Jack nodded immediately. “That was the plan.”

Carter pulled Jack’s hand away from his mouth. “Can Auntie sit with us?”

“No,” you and Jack answered together.

David laughed. Carter frowned. “Why not?”

Jack placed both hands on Carter’s shoulders and turned him around. “Because she is on a date.”

Carter looked back at you. “Still?”

Jack began steering him away. “Keep walking.”

Carter twisted enough to call over his shoulder. “We’re over there!”

You watched Jack guide him between the tables. Jack glanced back once. He mouthed, I’m sorry. You shook your head, but you could not stop the smile pulling at your mouth. Across from you, David picked up his water.

“So,” he said, “I shouldn’t be worried?”

You looked toward the booth where Carter was already pointing excitedly at something on the menu while Jack stared at him with the exhausted expression of a man reconsidering every decision that had led him there. Then Jack looked up. His eyes found yours from across the restaurant. You turned back toward David.

“It’s complicated,” you admitted.

David’s expression softened. Not offended. Not surprised, either. Just understanding. He glanced once toward Jack’s table before returning his attention to you.

“I had a feeling,” David said.

You looked down at your hands. “I’m sorry.”

David shook his head. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

You gave him a small, apologetic smile. “I went on a date with you while apparently being emotionally complicated.”

David leaned back against the booth. “That describes most adults.”

A laugh escaped you. David smiled, then looked toward Jack again.

“He matters to you,” he said.

You followed his gaze before you could stop yourself. Jack was listening to Carter explain something with both hands, but his attention kept drifting toward your table.

“He’s been part of my life for a long time,” you answered.

David nodded slowly. “That sounds complicated.”

“It is,” you admitted.

David reached for his water. “For what it’s worth, I’ve had a good time.”

“So have I,” you told him honestly.

David smiled faintly. “But there isn’t any chemistry.”

You exhaled in relief. “No. There isn’t.”

David’s mouth curved. “Good.”

Your eyebrows rose. “Good?”

David laughed. “I was trying to find a polite way to say it.”

You pressed one hand to your chest. “And here I was preparing to feel terrible.”

“You can still feel a little terrible,” David offered. “For my ego.”

You smiled. “I’ll schedule five minutes.”

David lifted his glass toward you. “Appreciated.”

You raised your own glass and tapped it lightly against his. “To absolutely no chemistry.”

David nodded solemnly. “To a very pleasant administrative dinner.”

You laughed, and the last of the tension left the table. By the time the server returned with the check, the date had shifted into something easy again. David paid for your dinner despite your attempt to argue, and you gathered the bag of extra breadsticks and the boxed slice of chocolate cake you had promised Carter. David stood beside the booth and reached for his jacket.

“Do you need me to walk you out?” he asked.

You glanced toward Jack and Carter’s table. Carter was already watching you. Jack noticed him watching and followed his gaze. His eyes landed on the takeout bag in your hand, then moved to David standing beside you. You looked back at David.

“I took a car here,” you explained. “I’ll order another one.”

David nodded toward the other booth. “I suspect you may have transportation.”

You followed his gaze again. Carter immediately waved. Jack caught Carter’s wrist and lowered his hand.

You sighed. “I suspect you’re right.”

David smiled. “Good luck.”

You exhaled. “With the nine-year-old or Jack?”

David considered the question. “Yes.”

You laughed as you stepped away from the table. David leaned in and gave you a brief hug.

“It was nice getting to know you,” he said.

“You too,” you replied.

David pulled back and nodded toward the takeout bag. “Protect the breadsticks.”

You held the breadstick bag against your side. “With my life.”

David headed toward the front doors. You watched until he disappeared into the crowd, then turned toward the other side of the restaurant. Carter immediately sat up straighter. Jack looked as though he would prefer to be anywhere else on earth.

You crossed the dining room and stopped beside their booth. Carter looked up from his plate. The breadstick in his hand slowly lowered toward his plate.

“Hi, Auntie,” Carter said carefully.

You folded your arms. “Having a nice dinner?”

Carter glanced toward Jack. Jack immediately shook his head.

“Do not involve me,” Jack warned him. “You did this entirely by yourself.”

Carter turned back toward you. “The pizza is really good,” he offered.

You looked pointedly across the restaurant toward the table you had just left. “What an incredible coincidence that it happened to be here.”

Carter took a small bite of his breadstick. “Pittsburgh isn’t that big.”

Jack stared at him. “That is your defense?”

Carter chewed slowly. “It’s true.”

You held out one hand. “Move over.”

Carter blinked. “You’re sitting with us?”

“For a minute,” you clarified.

Carter immediately scooted toward the wall. Jack watched you slide into the booth beside him, his expression shifting from mortification to cautious curiosity.

You looked toward Jack. “You really didn’t know?”

Jack’s expression shifted immediately. “No,” he said. “I swear.”

You studied him for a moment. The mortification on his face was too genuine to fake.

You let out a breath. “Okay.”

Jack’s shoulders loosened slightly. Then his gaze moved toward the front doors.

“Is David waiting for you?” he asked.

You shook your head. “We had a nice time, but there wasn’t any chemistry.”

Jack went very still. For one brief second, relief threatened to show on his face. Then he pressed his lips together, lowered his eyes to the table, and reached for his water with the careful focus of a man attempting to conceal excellent news. Carter watched him over the top of his breadstick. You watched him too.

“You’re working very hard not to look pleased,” you observed.

Jack lowered the glass and arranged his expression into something sympathetic.

“I’m sorry it didn’t work out,” he said.

You stared at him. “That was terrible.”

Jack’s mouth twitched before he could stop it. “I’m doing my best.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Your best looks suspiciously happy.”

Jack glanced toward Carter. “I’ve had a difficult evening.”

Carter bit down on his breadstick to hide his grin.

You sighed and let your gaze move over Jack. “Looks like you’re taking me home, Abbot.”

Jack’s hand stopped halfway to the check. Carter’s eyes moved immediately to him. Jack cleared his throat and picked up the check.

“Apparently I am,” he said, working very hard not to look pleased for the second time in under a minute.

You caught the faint pull at the corner of his mouth. “Try to contain yourself.”

Jack looked at you. “Robinavitch, I’m exercising extraordinary restraint.”

Carter smiled into his breadstick. You pointed toward him. “Not one word.”

Carter swallowed and lifted both hands. “I didn’t say anything.”

Jack reached for his wallet. “He doesn’t have to,” he muttered.

You looked down at Carter. “You knew exactly what you were doing.”

Carter lowered his hands and studied the remains of his pizza.

“I really did want to eat here,” he said.

Jack slid his card into the check holder.

“That does not make bringing me here under false pretenses acceptable,” Jack told him.

Carter twisted his napkin between his fingers.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

You held his gaze. “For what?”

Carter sighed. “For bringing Uncle Jack here because I knew you were here,” he answered.

Jack lifted one finger. “And?”

Carter frowned at him. “There’s more?”

Jack raised his eyebrows.

Carter sighed again. “And for yelling across the restaurant.”

You nodded. “Thank you.”

Carter studied your face. “Am I grounded?”

Jack picked up the check holder. “That is a conversation for your father.”

Carter’s expression brightened. “So no?”

Jack slid from the booth. “That was not what I said.”

You picked up the breadstick bag and balanced the cake box beneath your arm. Jack immediately held out one hand.

“Give me that,” he said.

You tightened your grip on the bag. “I can carry bread.”

Jack looked at the purse hanging from your shoulder, the cake box balanced beneath your arm, and the bag in your hand.

“Clearly,” Jack said.

You surrendered the bag. “Bossy,” you muttered.

Jack tucked it against his side. “Efficient,” he corrected.

Carter climbed out of the booth and glanced toward the front of the restaurant.

“So you’re done with the date?” he asked.

You looked down at him. “Yes.”

Carter nodded slowly.

“Because there wasn’t a spark?” he asked.

You stopped walking. Jack’s hand went still between Carter’s shoulder blades. You and Jack looked at him.

“Where did you learn that?” you both asked at the same time.

Carter glanced between you.

“TV,” he answered.

Jack resumed guiding him toward the exit.

“You have reached your question limit,” Jack told him.

Carter walked reluctantly beneath his hand.

“I only asked one,” he argued.

Jack steered him around another table. “You’ve asked enough for the entire restaurant.”

You followed them through the dining room and out onto the sidewalk. Carter hurried several paces ahead and began searching the rows of cars.

“Where’s the truck?” he called.

Jack pointed toward the far end of the lot. “Under the light.” Carter started to run.

“Walk,” Jack ordered.

Carter slowed without turning around.

“I am walking,” he called back.

You and Jack continued across the parking lot behind him. After several steps, you glanced at Jack’s clean shirt and dark jeans.

“You cleaned up nicely,” you said.

Jack looked down at himself. “You sound surprised.”

“You spent the afternoon being accused of swimming with a motorized foot,” you reminded him.

Jack nodded.

“It was a difficult recovery,” he said.

You smiled.

“The button-down helped,” you added.

Jack looked toward you. His gaze lingered for one quiet beat.

“That dress helps too,” he said.

The teasing response you had prepared disappeared. You looked ahead.

“Careful, Abbot,” you warned.

Jack opened his mouth, but Carter tugged impatiently at the rear door handle.

“It’s locked!” Carter called.

Jack lifted the keys. He unlocked the truck, and Carter climbed into the back seat. Jack reached the passenger side before you did and opened the door. You stopped beside him.

“I can open a door,” you said.

Jack kept one hand on the handle. “I know.”

You looked at him. “Then why are you doing it?”

Jack glanced toward the open cab.

“Because I got here first,” he answered.

You narrowed your eyes but climbed inside. Jack placed the breadsticks carefully on the floor near your feet before closing the door. By the time he rounded the hood and slid behind the wheel, Carter had already leaned forward between the seats.

“Can I have a breadstick now?” Carter asked.

Jack inserted the key into the ignition.

“No,” Jack answered.

Carter looked toward you. “Auntie?”

You buckled your seat belt. “You heard him.”

Carter dropped back against the seat.

“You’re supposed to be nicer,” he complained.

Jack started the engine.

“She’s learning,” Jack said.

You looked toward him.

“I am not,” you replied.

Jack pulled out of the parking space.

“Denial is the first stage,” he said.

Carter was quiet for a moment in the back seat. Then he leaned forward between the seats.

“I’m sorry I ruined your date, Auntie,” Carter said.

You turned slightly in your seat to look at him.

“You didn’t ruin it,” you assured him.

Carter frowned. “I yelled across the restaurant.”

“You definitely did that,” you agreed.

Jack glanced at Carter through the rearview mirror.

“At an impressive volume,” Jack added.

Carter sank lower against the seat. “So I did ruin it.”

You shook your head. “No. David and I probably weren’t going on a second date anyway.”

Jack’s mouth curved before he could stop it. You caught the smirk from the corner of your eye.

“Don’t,” you warned him.

Jack looked toward the road with exaggerated innocence. “I didn’t say anything.”

Carter leaned forward again. “You look happy.”

Jack checked the mirror. “You have lost your observation privileges.”

Carter smiled. “That’s not a real thing.”

Jack adjusted his grip on the steering wheel. “It is now.”

You settled back into your seat. “He’s right, though.”

Jack glanced toward you. “Whose side are you on?”

You smiled. “The truth.”

Carter lifted one hand from the back seat. You reached behind you and slapped your palm against his.

Jack stared straight ahead. “Unbelievable.”

Carter dropped back into his seat, apparently satisfied. The truck grew quiet as Jack drove away from the restaurant. Several minutes passed before Carter spoke again.

“Can I have one of the breadsticks when we get home?” he asked.

You looked over your shoulder. “Tomorrow.”

Carter groaned and rested his head against the window. “That’s forever.”

Jack glanced at him in the mirror. “You’ll survive.”

“I might not,” Carter mumbled.

“You’ve had pizza and three breadsticks,” Jack reminded him.

Carter closed his eyes. “I’m still growing.”

By the time Jack turned onto Robby’s street, Carter’s breathing had evened out. You glanced behind you.

“He’s asleep,” you said softly.

Jack checked the mirror. “Scheming is exhausting.”

You nodded. “He had a busy evening.”

Jack pulled into the driveway and switched off the engine. You reached for the breadstick bag and cake box while Jack looked toward the sleeping child in the back seat.

“You’ve got the food,” Jack said as he opened his door. “I’ll get Carter.”

You looked pointedly toward his prosthetic. “Good plan. You do have a secret robot foot.”

Jack stared at you over the roof of the truck. “Get out, Robinavitch.”

You laughed as you climbed down. Jack opened the back door and carefully unbuckled Carter. Carter stirred as Jack lifted him, one sleepy arm winding around Jack’s neck.

“Did Auntie come home?” Carter mumbled.

You stepped around the truck. “I’m right here, bud.”

Carter’s eyes barely opened. “Good.”

Jack adjusted Carter against his chest. “Glad we cleared that up.”

Carter rested his cheek against Jack’s shoulder. “Uncle Jack took you home.”

You met Jack’s eyes over Carter’s head.

“He did,” you confirmed.

A faint, sleepy smile crossed Carter’s face before his eyes closed again. You unlocked the house and held the door while Jack carried him inside. The two of you moved through the quiet hallway without needing to discuss what came next. You switched on Carter’s bedside lamp. Jack lowered him onto the mattress. You pulled back the blanket while Jack removed his shoes.

Carter stirred when you covered him.

“Breadsticks,” he murmured.

You brushed one hand over his hair. “Tomorrow.”

“And cake?” he whispered, his eyes still closed.

“Tomorrow,” you repeated.

Carter sighed against the pillow. “Okay.”

Jack switched off the lamp, and you followed him into the hallway. You pulled Carter’s door nearly closed behind you.

“He’s going to wake up at six demanding carbohydrates,” Jack whispered.

You started toward the kitchen. “That sounds like your problem.”

Jack followed with the restaurant bag. “How did this become my problem?”

You shrugged. “You agreed to the breadstick expedition.”

“I was deceived,” Jack replied.

You clicked your tongue. “You were outsmarted by a nine-year-old.”

Jack set the bag on the kitchen counter. “I preferred deceived.”

You placed the cake in the refrigerator while Jack leaned one hip against the counter. For the first time since leaving the restaurant, the house was completely quiet. You closed the refrigerator.

“Thank you for bringing me home,” you said.

Jack folded his arms. “We were coming here anyway.”

You nodded, suddenly unsure what to do with your hands. “Still. And thank you for handling Carter.”

Jack glanced toward the hallway. “I’m not sure handling is the word I’d use.”

You smiled. “You tried.”

Jack looked back at you. “I’m sorry he put you in that position.”

“I know,” you said. “It’s okay.”

Jack held your gaze. The silence stretched just long enough to become noticeable.

You stepped toward the hallway, then paused beside him.

“For the record,” you said.

Jack turned his head. “What?”

You let your gaze travel deliberately over the clean button-down before returning to his face.

“You still got it too.”

Jack went very still.

You smiled before he could recover. “Goodnight, Abbot.”

You walked toward the stairs.

Behind you, Jack cleared his throat. “Goodnight, Robinavitch.”

At the foot of the stairs, you glanced back.

Jack stood where you had left him, one hand resting against the counter and the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

Heat climbed into your cheeks. You shook your head and continued upstairs.

Jack remained in the kitchen beside a bag of contraband breadsticks.

The evening had not gone exactly according to Carter’s plan.

He had been caught. He had been lectured.

He was almost certainly going to hear about it from his father.

But Auntie’s date was over. Uncle Jack had been jealous. And they had come home together.

Carter would have called the breadstick incident a success.

--- --- ---

Jack peeked outside the window, frowning. The weather had become a real problem - it was typical February weather: cold, windy, rainy and - just fucking unpleasant. Especially if you had a highly active toddler running around who wanted to go to the playground no matter what. He was glad he only had five toes left to potentially lose to frostbite - even though he’d had a nightmare just yesterday where his prosthetic leg had frozen onto his knee. In his dream he had to thaw it out with a hairdryer before he could get it off.

His brain was weird.

He shook his head slightly then looked back at the laptop screen. He was just scrolling through his email account - and then he stopped.

An email from the PTMC. Subject: Your Test Results Are Available

He clicked on it:

Dear Mr. Abbot Your laboratory results from your recent Post-Vasectomy Semen Analysis are now available. Please log in to your patient portal to review your results. If you have any questions, please contact your healthcare provider. Kind regards, Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center Department of Urology

He swallowed hard. 

Uh-oh. 

The moment of truth.

He didn’t want to think too hard about that appointment - him, alone in that sterile room, a specimen cup in front of him and just the sheer pressure to deliver - but he was really interested in the results. He was just fucking hoping all the pain had been worth it.

He logged into his patient portal and clicked on the attached report. He scanned the numbers.

Interpretation: No sperm identified (azoospermia). Findings are consistent with a successful vasectomy. Recommendation: Based on this specimen alternative contraception is no longer required unless otherwise advised by your treating physician.

Jack stared at it for a moment longer. He felt - weird. In a good way. Mostly. He knew that this was the result he had been hoping for. And still - it felt weirdly strange to know that he wouldn’t be able to get anyone pregnant now - especially not you.

He took a long breath, rolled his shoulders and looked up. “HONEY!”

“Yeah?” You stood in the bathroom, getting ready for the day - later than usual because you had been exhausted, sleeping for ten hours straight.

“I’m officially shooting blanks now!”

That was met with silence. A moment later you appeared in the doorframe, looking confused. “Um - what now?”

He gestured toward the screen. “I got the lab results. It’s official. The vasectomy worked.”

You started to smile. “Oh, wow, that’s great news. So we officially can get rid of the condoms then?”

“Fuck yes” he breathed out, his eyes shining. “We really need to celebrate that properly.”

“Oh, wow.” You laughed. “Let’s see how I feel tonight. My back’s still killing me.”

He immediately frowned. “No wonder, you carried these big-ass shopping bags yesterday - I told you you could just leave them in the car and I’d fetch them.”

You waved it off. “Anyway. I need a couple of minutes and then I’m ready. We could probably go outside for a bit? Maybe just the park? I can’t stomach an indoor playground today - the thought of fifty kids screaming and running around would probably trip me over the edge.”

Jack grinned. “Yeah, get this. Get yourself ready and we’ll see. Where’s Lizzie?”

“Playing in her room” you said with a shrug then walked back into the bathroom.

Jack looked back at the screen. 

Azoospermia.

He let out a sigh then opened the next mail. It was from your mom, which immediately made him sit up straighter on the sofa. It was a very detailed question catalog - he counted seventeen questions - about the wedding. He pinched the bridge of his nose.

He was halfway through reading it when Lizzie waddled into the living room. She was unusually quiet - normally she arrived like a tiny hurricane. Loud. Fast. Carrying at least one object in her tiny hand which she’d smack against the floor, the wall or him.

Now she just climbed onto the couch beside him with a tiny serious face and leaned against his side. That alone was enough to make him look up. He put the laptop away immediately and took a look at her. 

“Hey Bean.” He brushed a hand over her curls. “You okay, princess?”

She looked up at him with big green eyes. “Izzie sick.”

Jack froze. “What?”

She nodded once. “Izzie sick.”

Immediately every emergency physician instinct in his body activated. He sat up straighter, turned fully toward her, already scanning her over and placed a hand on her forehead. “Okay, baby, what hurts?”

Lizzie blinked at him. “Izzie very sick.”

“Okay. You’re sick. I hear you. But what hurts, Bean?” He placed a hand on her stomach. “Does it hurt here?”

She continued to stare at him.

Jack cleared his throat. “HONEY?”

“Yeah?” Your voice came muffled from the bathroom.

“LIZZIE SAYS SHE’S SICK.”

You appeared in the doorway almost immediately. “Sick?”

Lizzie looked between both of you now, suddenly receiving the attention of two parents. She put her thumb into her mouth.

Jack touched her forehead again. She didn’t feel warm. No fever, he added to his mental checklist. “Bean, tell Daddy what hurts.”

She frowned like she was thinking hard about it, then leaned against him more dramatically. “Izzie sick.”

He let out a quiet, frustrated sigh. “Okay” he murmured mostly to himself, then glanced over at you. “Any vomiting? Diarrhea? Did she eat normally? Bean, do you have a headache?”

“Jack.” You really tried to hide your smile.

“She’s quieter than usual.”

“Jack.”

“Do you have a stomach ache, Bean?” He rubbed his own stomach. “Does your tummy hurt?”

“Husband.”

“She said she’s sick but it’s impossible to give a proper diagnosis if she doesn’t say what hurts.”

Lizzie watched him closely now. Her hand flew to her stomach, her brows furrowed and her lip started to wobble. “Izzie sick?” Her eyes got shiny.

“Oh, baby.” Jack pulled her onto his lap immediately. “Hey, Bean, princess, sweetheart, it’s okay. Don’t cry. Daddy is taking care of your ouchie, okay?”

Her face crumpled completely and a moment later she was crying - actual devastated sobs and big tears, her face pressed against Jack’s chest.

You had to turn away for a second because the situation was becoming absurd. Jack was too absorbed with in doctor mode that he didn’t notice what Lizzie was clutching in her tiny fist.

Instead he rubbed her back, looking mortified. “No, no, no, Bean, hey, tell Daddy what’s wrong, huh?”

She just sobbed harder into his shirt.

Jack swallowed hard. “Maybe we should bring her to the Pitt, get her checked out.”

You finally stepped in. “Jack.”

“What? Is she bleeding somewhere?” He leaned forward, checked the back of her shirt, looking alarmed.

“No.” You shook your head. “She just wanted you to play doctor with her.”

“She’s crying.” He stared at you like you had three heads.

“Yeah, because you panicked.”

That left him stunned. You pointed to the toy stethoscope clutched in her tiny hand.

Jack looked from you, to the stethoscope, back to you - and finally to Lizzie. “Bean, do you want to play doctor with Daddy?”

She wailed loudly. “Izzie siiiiiick.”

You sat down beside them, stroking her back. “Baby, are you hurting anywhere?”

She shook her head, hiccuping. “... no.”

Jack stared at her. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

You lost the fight and laughed outright. Lizzie peeked up to you, her crying slowly fading. 

You pressed a kiss onto her head. “You’re fine, baby. You’re not sick. You just want Daddy to be the doctor, right?”

She hiccuped again, then nodded. “Daddy Dana.”

Jack dropped his head back against the couch with a groan. “Oh my god, Bean, I was worried sick.”

She turned her head to him immediately. “Daddy sick?” Her eyes widened.

You nearly choked on your laughter.

When Jack didn’t answer right away she scrambled from his lap and ran out of the room. A moment later she appeared again, holding her little doctor kit, half-open, with the contents leaving a trail behind her. She put it on the ground and picked up a bandage. She climbed back onto his lap and smacked it right on his cheek. “Izzie Dana.”

Jack looked deeply betrayed by the entire situation for a moment - then his face softened. Apparently he couldn’t stay mad at his primary physician - especially when she was his daughter who just stuck a bear-shaped bandage right on his face.

“No, Bean” he muttered. “Daddy’s not sick. He’s just stupid apparently.”

She stared at him and touched his face sympathetically. “‘kay.”

“Maybe you lost some of your intelligence with your sperm?” you suggested, still laughing. “Maybe you’re just a little stupid now?”

He shot you a nasty look. “You’re a minx.”

Lizzie cuddled him. “Daddy dupid.”

That started the next laughing fit. “Lizzie, no, you can’t say that.”

“Daddy dupid” she repeated, nodding along.

Jack cradled her head, still shaking his head. “Five minutes ago I was worried we’d end up in the Pitt again with her. Now I’m only worried she’ll run around daycare telling anyone her dad is stupid.”

You shrugged. “It could be worse.”

“How?”

“She could run around telling people you’re shooting blanks.” You grinned.

He groaned.

Lizzie looked up. “Banks.”

You started laughing again. “Close enough, Bean. Close enough.”

--- --- ---

You wanna keep reading? - Next part is coming soon, I promise.

--- --- ---