But then Finn shifts against me, his small body warm and trusting, and it feels so natural, soright, that for a moment I can almost forget this isn’t my real life.
Almost.
My gaze drifts to the mantelpiece, where a new photo sits: Leanne holding tiny Finn’s hand, steadying him as he wobbles on chubby legs. Finn and I have been busy recently—more crafting sessions, more trips to the beach for decorating materials—and Lachlan has filled the new frames with photos of his late wife.
But looking at the photo, I can’t help but think,What am I doing?The question hits me like a cold wave. I’m snuggled up with this woman’s husband and son, playing house like I belong here.
Earlier, when Lachlan told me Finn knew about us, I said it was fine. And maybe it is. But ithaschanged things. Made this whole situation feel more real, more serious. More like something that matters instead of just a summer fling with convenient accommodation.
Then a hand slips across the back of the sofa—Lachlan’s, reaching over his son like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His hand comes to rest on my shoulder, its warmth melting away the chill left by the photo.
By the time the credits roll, Finn is practically boneless against his father, eyes heavy-lidded and blinking slowly.
“Someone’s sleepy,” Lachlan observes. He leans in and theatrically sniffs his son. “Hmm... not too bad. All right, if you’re tired, you can skip your bath tonight, but you absolutely have to have one tomorrow. Deal?”
“Deal.” Finn yawns hugely then turns those drowsy brown eyes on me. “Blair? Will you tuck me in tonight?”
The question catches me off-guard. I glance at Lachlan, unsure about the boundaries of this new dynamic. He gives a small shrug, leaving the choice with me.
“Okay, sure.” I pat Finn’s knee with a smile. “I’d love to.”
Upstairs in Finn’s bedroom, I settle into the chair beside his bed withThe Day the Crayons Quitin my lap. We picked it up from the library yesterday. I thought it’d be perfect for a kid who’s always drawing.
“This one’s about crayons going on strike,” I tell him as he pulls the blanket up to his chin.
“Mmm,” he murmurs, already sounding half-asleep after our cosy evening on the couch.
I open the book and begin reading through the funny complaint letters Duncan finds from his crayons. Red Crayon is overworked from colouring fire engines and strawberries. Yellow and Orange have fallen out because both think they should be used to colour the sun.
Normally, Finn would be giggling at their silly gripes, but tonight he just looks at the pictures with heavy-lidded eyes, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. By the time I get to Pink Crayon lamenting about being underused (except by Duncan’s little sister), his breathing has gone slow and even.
I close the book softly and lean forward to smooth the covers. “Sleep tight.”
I’m about to stand when his eyes open again and he says, “Are you staying in our house tonight?”
“Oh. Um . . . I think so, yes.”
A sleepy smile spreads across his face. “I like the idea of you being here with us rather than all by yourself in the granny flat.”
Something warm and complicated unfurls in my chest. This little boy, who’s already lost so much, wants me here. Wants me to be part of his small family unit instead of the outsider looking in.
“Love you, Blair.”
His words zing straight past my defences, right into the softest part of me. Love. For a six-year-old, it’s simple: you care about someone, they make you happy, so you love them. No complications. No questions. Just love.
But I’m not six. And yet, looking down at this sweet boy who’s somehow claimed a piece of my heart without me even realising it, I can’t bring myself to deflect or downplay his words.
“Love you, Finn,” I whisper back.
His smile lingers for a moment before his eyes drift closed again. Soon his breathing evens out into the deep rhythm of sleep.
I find Lachlan in his bedroom, sitting on the edge of his bed, waiting for me.
There’s no sneaking around tonight. No tiptoeing through the house or slipping out before dawn. For the first time since this started, I can just walk down the hallway and into his room like I belong here.
The thought should feel liberating. Instead, it makes something flutter nervously in my chest. Because without the secrecy, this feels dangerously close to... well, to real life. To being part of this family instead of just visiting it.
He stands and moves closer, his hands framing my face, his thumbs brushing over my cheekbones. I lean into the touch despite the warning bells in my head.This is going too fast.Getting too complicated. I’m supposed to be here temporarily, figuring out my life, not falling for a widower and his son.
