Murphy nodded as he absentmindedly ran his hand through her hair.
“Third option, we meet it head-on and do an interview. We deal with all the questions head-on, ya know, rip off the band aid.”
“How do you feel about that?”
She took a deep breath. “I hate it . . . but it is also our best option.”
Murphy didn’t hesitate. “We should come clean. Do the interview.”
She blinked, then nodded slowly. “I agree.”
His brow furrowed in surprise. “You do?”
“I wasn’t sure if you would want people to know.”
Hillary pushed herself up, turning to face him fully. The seriousness in her expression made his chest tighten. “Murphy, I’m in this. All the way in. If you want to do the interview, then so do I.”
For a second, he just stared. Then her grin broke through the weight of it all, and she tugged him down with her, pressing her mouth to his in a kiss that tasted like relief and love all at once.
The old twin bed creaked as they settled in. He lay on his side holding her back to his chest, nowhere near enough room between them, and neither of them minded.
It had been a whirlwind of a day from hospital halls, hard truths, midnight tacos, to emotions wound tight then released. But now, lying tangled together in the room that had shaped so much of who Murphy was, the world finally quieted.
Hillary let her head rest against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. His arm curved protectively around her, holding her close as if he never meant to let go.
It felt too small, too messy, too much . . . and somehow perfect.
58
MURPHY
Murphy stretched, his hand skimming across cool sheets. Empty. He blinked awake, reaching again, but the bed beside him stayed bare. A quick glance at the clock on his phone told him it was just after seven, late enough that he should already be moving if he wanted to catch the doctors during rounds at the hospital.
Dragging himself out of the narrow bed, he padded into the hallway, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. That’s when the smell hit him, bacon, rich and salty, curling through the air. His stomach growled on instinct, even though his nerves were tight as wire.
For half a second, he was fourteen again, waking up in this same house after long nights at the hospital with Patrick, the sound of his mom clattering pans downstairs the only reassurance that things would be okay. Now, years later, he was back in the same hall with the same smell, and Hillary somewhere in the middle of it.
Murphy followed the scent of bacon into the kitchen and stopped short in the doorway.
Hillary was there—barefoot, hair pulled back, sleeves rolled, moving easily at the stove like she belonged. A bakery box sat open on the counter, the sweet glaze of donuts mixing with the savory smell of sizzling bacon. She flipped eggs onto toasted English muffins with quick, efficient movements, assembling breakfast sandwiches one after another. Beside them was a row of takeout cups filled with coffee, lids neatly snapped on.
“Morning,” she said without looking up, her voice soft but steady. “I figured everyone could use something quick to grab on the way.”
Murphy’s chest tightened. She wasn’t just here. She wasin it.
Before he could answer, Maddie padded in, her hair still sleep-mussed, and her eyes lit up at the sight of the boxes. “Donuts?” she squeaked. “You bought donuts?”
Hillary finally glanced over her shoulder, smiling as she reached into the box and held one out. “I got an assortment. Hopefully you can find your favorite.”
Maddie all but launched herself across the room to take it, grinning so wide Murphy thought her face might split. He leaned against the doorframe, watching his sister laugh, watching Hillary laugh with her, and the knot of tension inside him loosened just a fraction.
Maybe things were still hard. Maybe Patrick was still in that hospital bed. But right here—in this kitchen, with donuts, bacon, and Hillary—he felt something like hope.
Hillary slid a coffee across the counter toward Maddie. “I got you my order, but . . . ” she hesitated, her tone almost shy, “without the double shot. You’re still technically a minor.”
Maddie’s brows arched, a smirk tugging at her lips, but she took the cup anyway. “Fair enough.”
Hillary reached for another and held it out toward Murphy. “And for you. Black, just the way you like it.”
