#pittcember

dividers by @ strangergraphics

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“Mom would never do that to Dad,” Nate huffs. “She wouldn’t.” Maybe he’s trying to convince himself more than his little brother. He’s not even sure that he believes in Santa anymore. But he certainly doesn’t believe someone as cool as Santa would do something like that.

Noah is talking a mile a minute, the way his dad does sometimes. “I know I wasn’t supposed to go downstairs but I just wanted some water and I didn’t wanna wake up Mommy. I thought I heard somebody talking in the living room so I had to stick my head in on the way to the kitchen.” Noah’s chin starts to wobble. “And there he was!”

“Did you get a good look at him?” Nate asks, trying to head off the five-year-old’s tears.

“His back was turned toward me but he had a red shirt on. And the hat!” He wails in response, and Nate shushes him harshly.

“Go to sleep. I’m sure they weren’t actually kissing,” Nate whispers.

“Can I stay with you?” The question is an afterthought. Noah’s already tucked up under the covers and his little slippers fell to the floor when he climbed in.

Nate sighs. “Fine. You baby.”

The little boy with the auburn-tinted curls ignores this slight and is fast asleep within minutes. Nate stares at the ceiling for a while, watching the headlights from cars dance across the plaster, and thinks.

Downstairs, Jack has you pinned to the couch, and his stubble is especially scratchy where he let it grow out. It’s bitterly cold outside and he told you he wanted to really lean into the whole Santa thing, especially now that his curls are fully gray. He’s tracing his lips across the side of your neck and pressing his knee up between your legs.

The two of you just stuffed the boys’ stockings with candy and trading cards and everything else boys their age could want. (Jack has always said you spoil them, but he’s in charge of the stockings, and that’s when the truth comes out.) You added the few presents that are from Santa specifically and were about to make your retreat.

Then Jack had tempted you onto the couch.

“Jack, we need to go back to bed,” you hiss, but he bites lightly at your pulse point, and you gasp. “You’re so evil.”

“But I’m Santa and this is how I’m choosing to enjoy Christmas,” he hums, coming up to bite your earlobe. Heathen. 

“You stole the hat from the holiday party bin at the hospital and you’re wearing a red shirt and gray sweatpants.”

Jack chuckles into your collarbone and wraps his arms around your back so he can squeeze you to him. His casual strength will never cease to surprise you, you don’t think. “You love me in gray sweatpants.”

“You’re going to wake up the boys,” you giggle.

“They’ll think I’m Santa Claus. Let me show you what a good girl you’ve been this year.”

You hear a rustle in the direction of the staircase in the hall. It’s the sound that the string of garland makes when it scratches against the wood. With your heart in your throat, you push Jack back, and he lets out a little frustrated grunt. When you can finally see beyond your husband’s shoulder, you realize with horror that staring back at you is Nate, in the doorway to the living room.

Jack, his hair a little wild, finally turns and sees his older son standing there.

“Hey, baby,” you say cautiously.

He’s grown so much that his Spider-Man pajamas are a tad too short for his legs. He’s in the middle of a spurt at nine years old and is going to have the build of his dad. Right now, his wide eyes remind you so much of Jack’s that your heart twists.

“Mom?” He’s looking between the two of you curiously. He takes one step into the room, his plush Spider-Man slippers sliding across the hardwood. You can practically see the pieces fall together in his head

“What is it, baby?” You hold open your arms and your not-so-little boy runs around the couch, dodging Jack’s wheelchair, and up into your lap. He burrows his head into your shoulder and you and Jack share a very serious look.

“Santa doesn’t exist, does he?”

His voice is so small against your shirt that you almost don’t hear him. But you do. And it makes you realize how much your baby boy has grown up. Jack looks ready to make up some excuse, but you cut in.

“No, sweetheart. I knew you were going to figure it out pretty soon.” You brush some of his curls back and kiss him on the temple. “You’re so smart.”

“Jackson and I were talking about it at school and it just didn’t make any sense,” he says, perking up with new enthusiasm. “All the houses in the world in one night? And now Noah thinks you were kissing Santa instead of Dad.” 

You raise your eyebrows. “Huh?”

“He came down to get some water and saw you.” Nate eyes the hat still on Jack’s head and giggles. “He thinks Dad was Santa.”

Luckily both you and Jack are very practiced in the parental art of not meeting each other’s eyes when the kids say something hilarious, because otherwise, you would be howling with laughter. Jack takes Nate from your arms and tickles him.

“I am Santa. I have been all along!”

“That’s true,” you hum, while you look between your husband and your son, remembering when he was a toddler and never wanted to leave Jack’s hold. “We’ll break the news to him after Christmas is over so he doesn’t think I’m being mean to Dad. You could never keep a secret from him, Nate.”

Nate squints at you but his ears are turning pink—he knows you’re right. He dotes on his little brother and the Santa secret would eat him up inside.

After some hot chocolate (following a good ten minutes of pleading), Nate finally calms down enough to fall asleep, and you tuck him in some blankets on the couch. Jack hops from the cushions and into his wheelchair. You follow him down the hall and help him into bed, even though he insists he doesn’t need you to pull the covers back. It’s not about needing the help, you tell him.

“Merry Christmas, Santa Claus,” you whisper once the two of you are snuggled in. “I love you.”

“Can I get an additional gift this year? I’ve been so good.” He returns to nipping at the supple skin under your ear.

You roll your eyes, even though in the dark he can’t see it, and scoff. “Fine, fine.”

Your shift is barely an hour in when the clerk knocks on the break room door.

“Hey, uh… someone’s here for you.”

Your stomach drops. Parents don’t get called out of shifts unless something’s wrong.

You push through the ED doors and see your babysitter standing at triage, coat still on, hair dusted with snow, looking frazzled and apologetic.

She’s holding Dottie (your two year old daughter)  who is bundled like a burrito in two blankets, cheeks red, eyes tired.

Your babysitter sighs as soon as she sees you.

“I’m so, so sorry to bring her here, but… your apartment is freezing. I can see my breath in the living room. I’m not getting paid enough to keep her warm in a walk-in freezer. Respectfully.”

You blink, stunned. “I— I had the thermostat up when I left. It shouldn’t be—”

“It’s not working,” she says firmly. “I called maintenance twice. Nothing. She started shivering, and I’m not sitting with a toddler in a twenty-degree apartment.”

Dottie lifts her head from the blanket. Her lower lip trembles.

“Mommy…”

You take her immediately, tucking her against your chest.

Her hands are ice-cold even through the sleeves. Her little fingers are so cold they feel wet, like she’s been holding ice cubes.

Your heart cracks.

“Oh, baby. You’re so cold.”

She presses her face into your scrub top, making a tiny noise that sounds half-whimper, half-relief.

Your babysitter adjusts her bag, still apologizing.

“I really am sorry. If it was just me, I’d tough it out, but she’s little. And she kept asking for you.”

You shake your head quickly. “No, you did the right thing. Thank you for bringing her here.”

“She ate dinner,” the sitter adds. “But she refused to go to bed. She kept saying she didn’t like the cold.”

Your throat tightens.

“Thank you,” you say again, softer this time. “Get home safe.”

She leaves with a sympathetic grimace. You carry Dottie toward an empty family room near the waiting area and settle into a chair with her in your lap. The warm ED air is already helping, but she’s still trembling under the blankets.

You smooth her hair back from her forehead.

“It’s okay, honey. I’m here now. We’re warm. You’re okay.”

Dottie shakes her head, eyes glossy.

“Cold,” she sniffles. “No like cold, Mommy.”

You pull the blanket up around her ears. “I know, sweetheart. Mommy’s got you.”

But inside, panic churns. Heat outages happen, but never like this.Never when you’re not home. Not when she’s this little.

You try calling maintenance. Straight to voicemail.

You try the emergency line. The emergency line picks up, finally. A bored voice says, “Yeah, we know about the building. Boiler’s shot. No update yet. Have a good weekend.”

Dottie shifts in your lap and whispers, voice tiny and hoarse:

“Want Mikey…”

Your chest squeezes painfully.

“I know, baby. He’s working too. We’ll see him soon.”

She burrows closer into you, her breath warm on your collarbone.

Then, in that sleepy, unfiltered toddler way, she mumbles:

“Papa… wanna Papa…”

You freeze.

Your heart jumps into your throat.

She doesn’t know what she said. She’s half-asleep, overwhelmed, cold, seeking comfort.

But the word lands with the weight of a hundred unspoken truths.

You kiss the top of her head, breathing through the ache.

“It’s okay, baby,” you whisper. “You’re safe.”

She curls tighter against your chest.

And that’s when a familiar voice calls your name from the hallway sounding  urgent, breathless, scared.

Michael.

You hold Dottie a little closer as his footsteps get louder.

​​Michael’s cutting through the ED hallway, warm blanket in hand, when he glances into the family room and stops dead.

You’re there. Sitting stiffly on one of those awful plastic chairs, shoulders curled protectively around a bundle in your lap.

His heart stutters.

That’s Dottie.

Blankets wrapped around her. Face blotchy and tired. Little hands red from cold.

He pushes the door open without thinking.

“Hey,” he breathes. “Are you—?”

You look up and he sees it instantly: You’re not okay.

Before he can say another word, Dottie stirs at the sound of his voice.

Her eyes blink open, unfocused, heavy with exhaustion… and then she recognizes him.

Her whole face crumples.

“Paaapaaa…”

It’s not loud. Not excited. It’s a broken, tiny, relieved cry, a toddler’s instinctive reaching for the safest person in the room.

Michael’s lungs seize.

She reaches her trembling arms out toward him.

He drops the blanket he was holding.

“Oh— sweetheart,” he murmurs, falling to his knees beside you, hands already moving. “C’mere, baby. C’mere.”

You shift her toward him and she immediately latches onto his scrubs, burying her face in his neck like she’s been waiting for this.

Dottie is plastered to his chest, tiny face buried under his jaw like she’s trying to hide from the entire world. Her sniffles are quiet, exhausted, trembling little things that hit Michael harder than any trauma alarm ever has.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, rocking her gently. “You’re safe now.”

But she’s still shaking.

Still cold.

And still clinging to him with both fists twisted in his scrub top, refusing to loosen her grip even for a second.

He turns to you.

“What happened?”

You wipe at your eyes, shoulders tight with guilt and fear.

“I had Natalie pick her up from daycare,” you say weakly. “She was supposed to watch her while I worked tonight. I didn’t—God, Michael, I didn’t know the heat was out. When I left, it was a little chilly but— I didn’t know.”

Michael’s stomach twists.

Of course you didn’t. You work twelve-hour shifts. You weren’t home. You had no reason to suspect your apartment was turning into a refrigerator.

But Dottie whimpers again, a soft, broken, “Mmm… cold…”and that’s when something old and dangerous wakes up inside him.

He steps toward the warmer.

“We’re heating her up,” he says, tone snapping into medical mode before he can stop it.

You follow closely, wringing your hands.

He sets out a pediatric blanket from the warmer, checks the temperature against his cheek, and nods. “Okay. Warm enough.”

He tries to peel back the cold blanket she’s wrapped in—

And she LOSES it.

“No!” Dottie cries, clutching the blanket with both hands. “No, Papa! No take it! Mine!”

Michael freezes.

Her voice is panicked. Not bratty. Not stubborn. Scared.

“Hey, hey…” he soothes, heart twisting. “I’m not taking it away forever. I’m giving you a warmer one, sweetheart.”

But she shakes her head violently and tries to crawl even further into him, actually tries to burrow into his coat, tiny fingers clawing at the fabric like she’s searching for a place to hide.

Michael’s chest cracks open.

He gathers her in tighter, one hand splaying protectively over the back of her head.

“Oh baby… I know. I know you’re scared.” His voice trembles. He doesn’t even try to hide it.

You choke back a sob.

“She’s never acted like this,” you whisper. “She never clings like this. Not even when she’s sick.”

“She’s cold-stressed,” Michael says softly, rubbing her back in slow circles. “She’s confused. She thinks the blanket is what kept her safe, so she doesn’t want to lose it.”

You nod, crying quietly now.

“I should’ve known,” you whisper. “I should’ve texted Natalie, or checked the thermostat at lunch, or—”

“Stop.” Michael’s voice is gentle but firm. He steps closer to you, Dottie still curled into him like a trembling little koala.

“You didn’t know,” he says. “You weren’t there. And you trusted the heat in your own home—like anyone would. You did nothing wrong.”

“But she was freezing—”

“And she’s WARMING now.” He angles Dottie slightly so he can slide the warm blanket between her and the cold one, layering them instead of removing the first.

The second the heat touches her back, she gasps softly, then melts into full-body relaxation, head limp on his shoulder, fingers unclenching just enough for him to adjust the blankets.

He exhales shakily.

“There you go, sweetheart,” he whispers. “That’s better, isn’t it? Papa’s got you.”

Dottie nods against his throat, tiny voice hoarse:

“Papa warm…”

Michael’s eyes close.

He doesn’t correct her. He couldn’t if he tried.

He looks at you, your blotchy cheeks, your shaking hands, your guilt, your love for your daughter twisting inside you like a knife….

Dottie lifts one little hand from his collar… and reaches blindly toward you.

Not to go to you. But to pull you in.

She wants both of you. Together.

Your breath stutters as you step closer, pressing your forehead to Dottie’s back, your hand braced against Michael’s arm.

He wraps that arm around you too.

Because in this moment, there’s no distance. No maybe. No hesitation.

Just a freezing toddler who trusts him with her whole heart and her mother who didn’t deserve to feel alone for one second.

Michael swallows hard.

“All three of us,” he murmurs. “We’re gonna get through this. Together.”

Dottie is finally warm.

Finally calm.

Finally breathing soft, steady little breaths against his neck.

But she hasn’t loosened her grip for even a second. Not one.

She’s fused to him, little arms hooked around his collar, tiny fingers curled in his scrubs, legs locked around his waist like she’s anchoring herself to the safest place she knows.

You’re watching them with a complicated look of guilt, relief, exhaustion, something else tangled beneath it.

That’s when Michael says it:

“You’re not going back to the apartment tonight.”

Your stance stiffens. “Mikey—”

“Nope.” He cuts you off, tone low, controlled, but edged. He shifts Dottie higher against his chest when she whines sleepily.

“You’re not sleeping in that place until the heat is fixed.”

“It’ll get fixed,” you insist. “Maintenance always—”

He actually laughs. A short, humorless sound.

“Maintenance left a two-year-old in a twenty-degree apartment.”

You flinch.

He steps closer. Not aggressive but certain.

“You’re going to work a twelve-hour night shift,” he says quietly, “and then what? Go home to a meat locker?”

You open your mouth.

“And don’t,” he warns, “say you’ll ‘bundle up.’ Don’t insult both of us like that.”

Your breath hitches from the shock of his tone, from the truth in it, from the way it hits you square in the chest.

“Mikey, I’m not helpless,” you whisper.

“And I’m not asking you to be,” he snaps back with soft volume, sharp words. “I’m asking you not to be reckless.”

You blink hard, stung.

“I’ve been doing this alone for a long time,” you whisper. “I know how to take care of us.”

Michael’s jaw works, face flashing with anger, fear, heartbreak, all of it tightening under his skin.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “You have. And it’s killing you that you still think you have to.”

Your eyes go wet.

He shifts Dottie again, one hand splayed protectively across her back, the other hovering like he wants to touch you but isn’t sure you’ll let him.

His voice softens but the sternness stays.

“I’m not telling you to depend on me,” he says. “I’m telling you to stop pretending you don’t need anyone.”

Your breath catches.

“Michael…”

“No,” he says, firmer now. “Listen to me.”

He closes the distance between you, Dottie’s warm little body pressed between your chests as he leans down enough to look you dead in the eyes.

“If you go back there,” he says, voice low and rough, “you’re putting yourself and her in danger. And I will not sit here and watch you do that because you’re afraid letting me help means you’re weak.”

A tear slips down your cheek.

He wipes it before you can.

“You’re not weak,” he murmurs. “You’re exhausted. And proud. And stubborn. And doing your best alone when you don’t have to anymore.”

You open your mouth to argue and nothing comes out except a sound that’s half-sob, half-laugh, because he’s right and you’re so fucking tired, and you hate that he can see it

You swallow hard.

“And I’ve been asking you,” he continues, quieter now but no less intense, “to move in with me for months. Not because I want control. Because I want you. I want her. I want a life where neither of you ever has to choose between independence and survival.”

Your breath shakes.

“Mikey…”

He takes a slow breath, then lays it out plainly:

“You are not going back there tonight.”

You open your mouth, but Dottie lifts her head just enough to whimper:

“Papa house…. wanna Papa house”

Both of you freeze.

Michael closes his eyes like the words hit him directly in the heart.

When he opens them again, his voice is softer but still unwavering.

“Come home with me tonight,” he says. “Both of you.”

You stand there, trembling with the weight of everything,  your pride, your fear, your instinct to protect her, your instinct to protect yourself.

Finally, voice small:

“Okay. Just tonight.”

He nods once, but you see the disappointment flicker.

So you add carefully:

“If maintenance fixes the heat before the weekend… we stay at our place. Just until it’s safe.”

His jaw tightens.

“And if they don’t?”

You meet his eyes with something braver, something steadier:

“Then Monday ,our next day off, me and Dot come make your house a home.”

Michael’s breath leaves him in one shaky exhale.

“…You mean that?”

You nod.

“I mean it.”

He steps forward, forehead touching yours, Dottie sandwiched warm and safe between you.

His voice is barely a whisper.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “We start tonight.”

The shift ends with Michael still carrying Dottie.

Still.

Like the entire twelve hours were just one long, continuous toddler-wearing endurance challenge.

You push through the employee exit with him, rubbing your eyes. “Okay, seriously,” you mutter, “how did she get away with being held your whole shift? Anyone else would’ve gotten yelled at by charge.”

Michael’s mouth curves slowly, smug, infuriating.

“Being an attending has its perks,” he says lightly.

You snort. “Michael.”

“What?” He shrugs like it’s obvious. “She didn’t want to be put down. I wasn’t going to traumatize a toddler on a cold-stress night because someone might complain I’m rounding with a barnacle attached to me.”

You roll your eyes, but your mouth softens.

“She really wouldn’t let go?”

“She screamed if I even leaned forward.” He shifts her gently, her small body still melted against his chest. “I think my spine fused to hers at some point.”

“She loves you,” you whisper.

He looks at you for one lingering second, too long, too tender, before he unlocks the car.

By the time you reach his house, Dottie is still asleep and still clinging, one fist knotted in his scrub top like a tiny hostage-taker with no intention of negotiating.

Michael steps inside first.

You follow and stop cold.

Because there’s a room.

A whole room.

Lights dimmed, decorated softly. A toddler bed with a quilt. Stuffed animals arranged neatly. A nightlight casting warm gold across the walls. A bookshelf with board books.

And on the dresser?

A framed picture of you and Dottie at the pumpkin patch.

And another of Dottie on Michael’s shoulders at the zoo.

Your breath leaves your lungs.

“Michael,” you whisper, “this is… when did you do all this?”

He adjusts Dottie on his shoulder, refusing to meet your eyes.

“I—had time,” he mutters. “I started it the week you told me you were keeping separate places ‘for now,’” he admits, not meeting your eyes. “Figured if I finished it… maybe you’d never leave.”

But the tips of his ears flush pink. He’s embarrassed. Scared. Hopeful.

God.

You step into the doorway, unable to stop staring.

“Mikey… this is beautiful.”

He finally lays Dottie on the bed as gently as human fingers can manage.

She curls instantly into the quilt, body seeking warmth, still clutching his finger.

And when he tries to pull away, her little voice cracks in a barely-there whine:

“No go… stay…”

He sinks to one knee beside the bed again.

“I’m right here,” he murmurs.

Then soft as breath, quiet as prayer he leans down and presses a long kiss to the top of her head.

And he says it. “I love you,” he whispers. Not loud. Not meant for anyone but her. Not something performative or planned.

A truth escaping because he can’t hold it in anymore.

“Wuv you, Papa.” Dottie murmurs back half-asleep

He wasn’t supposed to hear it yet. He tears up instantly, looks at you like he’s been caught stealing something sacred. You just nod, eyes wet, and mouth: “She means it.”

His eyes widen like he’s just realized he stepped off a cliff.

“I—” he stammers, voice cracking. “I didn’t mean— I mean, I did, but— I shouldn’t have said that without— I don’t know if that’s crossing a line— I didn’t mean to overstep—”

“Mikey,” you say softly.

He swallows hard, terrified now.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I know she’s yours. I know I’m just— I didn’t want to confuse her or make you feel like I’m trying to take a place that isn’t mine.”

You step up beside him.

Not touching him yet. Just close enough for your voice to reach him without the room hearing.

“You didn’t cross a line,” you say softly.

He looks up at you, he’s uncertain, raw, hopeful in a way that hurts.

“She loves you,” you continue. “She chose you. Today of all days? You’re the person she clung to.” You gesture gently at the toddler burrito still gripping Michael’s finger. “She feels safe with you. That’s not something you forced. That’s something you earned.”

His breath catches.

“And,” you add softly, “I knew you loved me. But hearing you say it to her… Michael, that’s different.”

Now his expression shifts entirely. Not embarrassed. Not scared.

Just vulnerable.

“I do,” he whispers.

You blink. He steadies himself.

“I love you,” he says, voice shaking. “And I love her. I didn’t know if I was allowed to say it yet, but… I do.”

And then, finally, you touch him, fingertips brushing the side of his face, slow and unsure and perfect.

“Of course you’re  allowed,” you whisper.

His eyes close.

He leans into your hand.

And behind him, half-asleep, Dottie sighs contentedly, like she’s been waiting for this moment longer than either of you.

You don’t remember falling asleep.

One minute Michael was covering you with a throw blanket on the couch, his voice soft as he said, “Sleep. I’ll keep an eye on her.”

Hours have passed.

The house is dim. The nightlight from Dottie’s room spills a warm glow into the hallway. And the faint sound of toddler giggles pulls you awake.

You stretch, disoriented, until memory hits.

Heat outage. Cold apartment. ED. Dottie clinging like she’d drown without Michael. Michael’s room. Michael whispering I love you to your daughter.

You sit up slowly.

And that’s when you see them.

Michael’s living room has turned into a toddler Olympics arena.

Dottie is in pajama pants and one sock (one… WHERE is the other?), hair sticking up from her nap, cheeks flushed from sleep and mischief.

Michael is on all fours on the rug, letting her climb on his back like a very tired, very patient jungle gym.

He makes an exaggerated groan as she tries to stand.

“Whoa, that’s a big jump, Dot. I’m not a trampoline—”

“YES PAPA TRAMPOLINE,” she declares, bouncing.

You snort.

Michael looks over at you and his entire face softens.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just gives you that quiet, relieved smile like seeing you awake is the final confirmation that you’re all actually here, safe, warm, together.

“Hey,” he says softly. “How’d you sleep?”

You rub your eyes. “Like someone tranquilized me.”

He laughs warmly, “Good. You needed it.”

Dottie spots you from atop Mount Michael and shrieks:

“MAMA YOU AWAKE!!!”

Then she tries to leap off Michael’s back toward you.

He catches her mid-plummet with a reflex so fast it’s practically medical instinct.

“Whoa! No flying, Dot. Mama doesn’t have trauma gear on.”

She wiggles in his arms, full-body excitement.

“Come play!”

Your heart stutters, because this, THIS right here, is the moment you always told yourself you couldn’t have.

Quiet. Domestic. A man who loves your child like she’s his entire universe. A home that feels like home.

Imperfect and alive.

You clear your throat. “Give me two seconds. I have to call maintenance.”

Michael groans. Dottie imitates him dramatically.

“Papa do it,” she says, patting his cheek.

You raise a brow. “He’s not calling to yell at my landlord.”

Michael mutters, “I absolutely am.”

You pull out your phone and dial. Three rings. Four. Five.

A tinny voicemail recording picks up:

‘You have reached Ridgeview Apartments Maintenance Office. Leave a message.’

You let out a laugh that isn’t humorous at all.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Michael stands, shifting Dottie onto his hip like it’s second nature.

“They didn’t call you back?”

“Nope.”

He stares at you for a long, steady beat. Then he says, confidently:

“They’re not fixing it tonight.”

You exhale. “Probably not.”

“Or tomorrow.”

“Probably not,” you admit again.

“Or by the weekend.”

Your shoulders drop. “Yeah.”

“So,” he says, stepping fully into your space , but not close enough to trap you, just enough for warmth to bridge the inches between you, “that gives us one option.”

You lift your chin. “You’re really gonna hold me to that deal?”

Michael glances at Dottie, who has started chewing on his collarbone for absolutely no discernible reason.

He sighs again. “Yeah. I am.”

Dottie pats his cheek. “Papa home.”

And it hits you again how effortlessly she loves him. How effortlessly he loves her. How effortlessly you could all slip into this life.

He lowers his voice.

“You two stay here. All week. No going back there until heat is fixed. And Monday…” He swallows once. “Monday we make this official.”

Your stomach flips.

Not with fear.

With relief.

With want.

With the truth you’ve been running from.

Dottie wiggles, reaching for you now. “Mama sit. Mama read book!”

You laugh tired, warm, heart aching in a good way.

Michael watches you both with something soft and terrified and hopeful in his eyes.

You settle onto the couch with Dottie in your lap, her curly head tucked under your chin. She hands you a board book upside down.

Michael flops onto the rug dramatically.

“Fine. I’ll be the floor parent. Again.”

You roll your eyes affectionately. “You like being the floor parent.”

“Yeah,” he says, grabbing a stuffed elephant and making it dance for Dottie. “I really do.”

Dottie shrieks with laughter.

You look at her. Then at him.

And the truth settles in your chest like something warm finally thawing.

This isn’t perfect. This isn’t planned. This isn’t easy.

But it’s real.

It’s home.

You flip open a board book and settle in. 

“Alright, circle time,” you announce. “Who’s ready for a story?”

Dottie raises both hands like she’s at a concert.

Michael raises one.

“This feels targeted,” he mutters. “Why do I have to sit crisscross applesauce?”

“You’re the one who agreed to floor parent duty,” you remind him.

He grumbles something that sounds like, “Attending doesn’t cover this,” but Dottie pats his cheeks and he melts instantly.

You begin reading in your best cheerful storyteller voice.

Dottie is laser-focused.

Michael pretends he isn’t, but you see him mouthing the words with you by page three. At some point, Dottie crawled into Michael’s lap. 

Twenty minutes pass like this cozy, silly, and peaceful.

And then, without warning 

Dottie freezes mid-bounce.Blink.Blink.

She slumps backward into Michael’s chest like a puppet with cut strings.

He catches her automatically.

“Oh—?” Michael glances down. “Dot? You alive?”

No response.

Just a toddler who has achieved instant REM sleep.

Completely limp. Mouth open. One arm dangling dramatically. Head on his shoulder. Dead to the world.

You snort.

Michael stares at her in disbelief.

“She was JUST yelling,” he whispers. “Was this… was this a power failure?”

“It’s called being two,” you say. “Their battery goes from 100% to ‘system shutting down’ without warning.”

He shifts her carefully, her arms flopping like a ragdoll.

He softens immediately, brushing a thumb over her cheek.

“Hey, baby girl…” he murmurs. “You tired?”

She snores softly in answer.

You press your hand over your mouth, choking on how cute  and how heartbreaking  it is.

Michael gently lowers her off his lap to the rug, laying her on the blanket you spread earlier.

He adjusts her the way only someone who has watched you parent and learned every move by heart knows how to do, tucks her hair behind her ear, fixes her pajama leg, sets her elephant toy beside her.

Then he sighs deeply. He yawns so wide his jaw cracks. “I’m not tired, I’m—”

Thud.

He’s out cold mid-sentence, still in his work clothes..

Face-first.

Next to her.

Right on the rug.

He doesn’t even try to get up onto the couch. Doesn’t adjust. Doesn’t say anything witty.

He’s down.

And one second later?

He snores.

Loudly.

Like someone turned on a chainsaw inside a bear.

You cover your mouth again to keep from laughing out loud.

“Hopeless,” you whisper.

He snorts mid-snore. Like he’s arguing in his sleep.

You slide off the couch and sit on the rug between them.

Dottie is curled on her side, thumb in her mouth, one tiny foot resting on Michael’s ribs.

Michael is starfished on his back like a man who has accepted defeat. One hand still lightly touching Dottie’s arm — even unconscious, he’s making sure she’s close.

You pull the throw blanket over both of them.

The room is warm and dim and quiet.

And looking at them , your daughter safe and warm, the man you love snoring like a dying tractor, their bodies touching even in sleep….

You feel something settle deep in your chest.

Something like peace. Something like belonging. Something like home.

You whisper, barely audible:

“My family.”

And from the floor, in the middle of a snore cycle, Michael mumbles something that sounds like:

“Mmh… ours…”

Your heart flips.

You lean down, kiss the top of Dottie’s curls, then Michael’s temple.

He stirs just enough to mumble, eyes still closed, “Stay.”

You whisper back, “We’re not going anywhere.” 

dividers by @ strangergraphics

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dividers by @ strangergraphics

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