He mumbles something unintelligible through toothpaste foam, stuffing a hoodie into his already bulging arms.
"I know, but I need my charger, my Switch, my hoodie?—"
Lane kneels beside him, that maternal efficiency taking over as she reorganizes his chaos. He's spending the night fifty feet away for a few hours, and suddenly it's a full relocation.
Her fingers work deftly, zipping compartments while Sanders bounces off the walls. She brushes hair from his forehead in that absent, automatic way she's always had, a gesture so small but so essentiallyLanethat my chest tightens watching it.
"Brush your teeth again," she says, inspecting his face. "You barely touched them."
Sanders rolls his eyes dramatically but trudges back to the bathroom. The water runs in quick, performative bursts.
I stand awkwardly by the door, hands in pockets, suddenly hyperaware that I'll be alone with Lane in a hotel suite. In New York City. At Christmastime.
The hum of city traffic filters through the windows, filling what might otherwise be uncomfortable silence.
When Sanders emerges, I seize the opportunity for movement. "Ready, Squirt? I'll walk you down there."
His small hand slips into mine as we walk the carpeted hallway. The soft pile muffles our footsteps, lending everything a dreamlike quality. Or maybe that's just the surreal situation. New York, Good Morning America, viral sensation, sharing space with Lane again.
"Dad? You think Luke's kidney doctor will let him swim after he gets a new one?"
"I think so, eventually. It takes time to heal, though."
"Like when you fixed my arm?"
"Much longer than that, Bud. But yeah, like that."
We reach Carly's door, and Sanders knocks with far more enthusiasm than necessary. "Not so loud, Squirt. People are sleeping."
"Sorry," he offers with a sly grin.
Carly answers, looking less exhausted than earlier. Behind her, I hear Luke and Leigh already giggling about something.
"All set?" she asks.
Sanders nods, dropping my hand to rush inside. Just like that, he's gone, absorbed into their little temporary family unit. "Don't hesitate to call either of us if you need us. We're about ten doors down. If they're being too wound up, send him packing."
"They'll be fine. Get some rest, see you in the morning."
"Good night."
The door clicks closed softly, and Istand there for a moment, listening to the muffled sounds of children's laughter fade. The hallway stretches empty in both directions.
For a moment, the silence presses in, a reminder of how often I've missed these small, ordinary moments. Bedtime rituals. School mornings. The rhythm of parenthood that Lane navigates daily.
She's right. I get to be the fun dad, while she handles the mundane. But it's the mundane that I crave.
I tell myself this is good. Sanders is happy. Lane is calm. Everything's fine.
But it doesn't stop the hollow ache that creeps in.
I exhale slowly, run a hand through my hair, and head back toward our room, telling myself that distance is the safer choice tonight.
The suite door clicks shut behind me, muffling the distant elevator hum. The room is still. Lane's bedroom door stands closed, a sliver of light seeping beneath it. My steps slow as I pass, fingers almost brushing the wood before I catch myself.
What am I doing?
I shake my head, moving toward my own room. The living area sits between us is neutral territory. The city's glow dances through half-drawn curtains. It's best we don't go there at this point.
