“No scorekeeping,” she says into my hoodie.
“Just hockey,” I say, and she huffs a laugh into my chest.
We stand there for a minute, the three of us in the triangle of island, sink, and human, breathing like it’s a sport we trained for. Then practical life taps our shoulder.
“Sign it?” she asks, nodding at the printout Julia sent of the revised protections, now thick with redlines and signatures. “If you still mean it.”
“I mean it,” I say. I lay the baby in the bassinet, kiss Riley’s temple—always—and pick up the pen. Ink on paper. Not romance, just reinforcement.
When I’m done, we look at each other and then at Oliver and then at the stupidly domestic disaster of our counter. It’s not pretty. It’s partnership. I’ll take it.
The pen scratches my name across the last line with a sound that feels like closing a door gently but firmly. I slide the packet back to Riley; she adds her initials where counsel asked for acknowledgment, because she’s not just the reason this exists, she’s a partner in how it works.
“Julia wants a photo of the signature page for the file,” I say, holding it up. “No socials.”
“No socials,” she echoes. “And while we’re here—comments?”
“Off,” I say. We move like a two-person tech support team that only handles our own lives. I open the app with the blue icon that eats hours and tap through the settings.Comments: Limited → Off.The confirmation pop-up asks if I’m sure. “Yes,” I tell it out loud, like it’s a bouncer who thinks I’m bluffing.
Riley mirrors me on her phone, then glances up. “DMs?”
“Auto-reply,” I decide, thumbs flying.Thanks for reaching out. I’m focused on my family and team. Contact PR for media.I add a heart and delete it. Add a period. Better.
She grins at my punctuation crisis and posts a single locked-down story: a photo of our kitchen table chaos—bottle, policy packet, two cold coffees—with the caption:Building quiet. See you after eight.Then she sets her phone face-down like it’s a sleeping cat.
“After eight,” I repeat, nodding at the microwave clock like it’s a ref I respect. “Phones in the bowl.” I power mine down anddrop it into the ceramic with a clink. She does the same. The room changes shape. Oliver sighs like he approves.
“Help?” she asks, and the question is bigger than chores.
“Yes,” I say, because I meant it at three a.m. and I mean it at three p.m. “Yes to help when offered. Julia’s assistant for calendar triage. Sophie for meals and door duty. Your mom for…select missions under supervision.”
Riley laughs, hand over her mouth like she’s trying not to wake a sleeping dragon. “We’ll give her shifts,” she says. “Short ones.”
I text Sophie from the iPad we keep on the counter for recipes and weather.Okay to lean on you for a grocery drop + two hours of Riley-nap enforcement this week?The typing bubble appears before I put the tablet down.ON IT. Already at the store. Don’t buy diapers—I cleaned you out last night to force the lesson. Love you both.
Riley cackles. “She booby-trapped our supplies.”
“She respects pedagogy,” I say, solemn. “And chaos.”
We stand shoulder to shoulder, scanning the printedProtections With Actual Teethpacket one more time like it’s a piece of gear we need to trust under pressure. The clauses look back at us with the right kind of weight—hotline, enforcement, signatures that mean something more than public relations. It won’t fix the world. It will make the next person’s hallway shorter.
“Thank you,” Riley says, not for the paper, but for staying on it when the adrenaline wore off.
“I’m doing it for selfish reasons,” I admit. “I like living with you when you’re not bracing for the next blow.”
She tilts her head. “Selfish looks good on you.”
Oliver stirs and I sway without thinking, the old rink habit translated to a kitchen. Riley leans into my shoulder, and for aquiet minute we are a still life: policy, pen, pacifier. Boundaries in ink and pixels and practice.
The bowl on the counter holds our phones like a lighthouse keeps its own light. After eight, we’ll let the world exist without us. Right now, we exist without it.
By late afternoon the apartment looks like a stage set breaking down—half-packed boxes, a roll of tape that keeps vanishing and reappearing like a trick coin, Post-its that say things likeTOILETRIESandWHY DO WE OWN THREE TOASTERS. Sophie texts a photo of a key on a lanyard with a sparkly hockey puck charm.New place: keys on hook. I labeled things. Do not fight me.
“Do we have it in us?” Riley asks, eyeing the stroller like it might judge us for ambition.
“We have ten minutes of good energy and a car with a trunk,” I say. “We make the ceremonial run. It’s bad luck to let keys sleep alone.”
She smirks. “Superstition from the man who will tape his stick with whatever’s closest?”
