It’s perfect.
Everything is coordinated in shades of deep blue and cream, from the duvet on the king-sized bed to the curtains framing the windows. There’s a sitting area by the fireplace with two armchairs and a small table, the kind of space where you could curl up with a book on a cold night. Built-in bookshelves line one wall, filled with hardcovers and framed photos. A thick rug covers the hardwood floor, and everything —everything— looks intentional. Chosen. Loved.
It’s the kind of room that belongs in a magazine. The kind of room someone spent time creating.
I’m staring and not just into space. I’m staring at his bed. At the neatly made covers, the stack of pillows, the way the morning light slants across it, and I can’t seem to stop. There’s somethingintimate about seeing where he sleeps, where he’s vulnerable and comforted. Something that makes my stomach flip in a way that has nothing to do with the leftover cinnamon roll I ate.
“My ex decorated it,” Jonah says quietly.
I snap my attention back to him, feeling heat creep up my neck. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to?—”
“It’s fine.” But his jaw is tight, and he’s not looking at the room. He’s looking at the hallway, at anywhere but the space his ex-wife created. “She was good at that kind of thing. Making things look... nice.”
There’s so much weight in that pause. So much pain packed into the wordnice, like it means something else entirely. Likenicemeansempty, fake… not enough.
“It’s a beautiful room,” I say carefully. “Very cozy.”
“Thanks.” He runs a hand through his hair, and I notice for the first time that it’s still slightly damp from the shower he took. “She did the whole house, actually. Picked out all the furniture, the colors, everything. I keep meaning to change it, but...”
He trails off, and I can fill in the rest.
But I’m too busy.
But I don’t know where to start.
But it reminds me of her and I don’t know if I want to erase that or if keeping it is just another way of punishing myself.
I’ve seen that look before. Derek had it sometimes, when he talked about his parents’ divorce. That raw, uncertain expression of someone who’s had something—someone—removed from their life when least expected and doesn’t quite know how to stop feeling like it was their fault.
“You don’t have to change it,” I say quietly. “Not if you don’t want to. It’s your house. Your space. It should be whatever makes you comfortable.”
Jonah finally looks at me, and there’s surprise, maybe, or gratitude in his eyes. Like he expected judgment and got understanding instead.
“I should probably change it,” he says. “The twins don’t need to grow up in a shrine to someone who didn’t stay.”
The bitterness in his voice is sharp enough to cut, and I have to resist the urge to reach out, to touch his arm, to offer some kind of comfort that I have no right to give.
Instead, I lean against the doorframe, studying him. He’s wearing jeans and a Henley that’s seen better days. He looks tired —God, he looks exhausted— but there’s a strength in the set of his shoulders, in the way he holds himself together even when talking about things that clearly hurt.
“For what it’s worth,” I say, “I think you’re doing an amazing job. With the girls. With all of this and the bakery.”
His eyes snap to mine, dark and intense. “You’ve known us for just a few hours.”
“So? Sometimes a few hours is enough.” I shrug, trying to keep my tone light even though my heart is suddenly beating faster. “Ava and Mia are happy. They’re loved. They’re cared for. That’s what matters.”
“They spilled an entire bag of flour on the living room floor.”
“Kids do that. Trust me, I’ve seen worse, a lot worse.” I think about the third-grade classroom where I subbed last year, the day Tommy Martinez decided to see if he could flush an entire roll of paper towels down the toilet and we all went running into the hallway when the tsunami of water… and other stuff… came gushing out. I shiver. “Way worse.”
Finally —finally— Jonah smiles. It’s small, just a hint of amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes, but it transforms his face. Makes him look younger. Less burdened.
“Worse than flour?”
“So much worse.” I decide not to share the poopy story. “There was glitter involved. An entire jar of it. On picture day.” I shake my head at the memory. “The teacher cried. I’m pretty sure some of those kids are still finding glitter in their hair. The pictures were kinda cute, though everyone looked like an exotic dancer. The parents weren’t very amused.”
He laughs. And it’s an actual laugh, low and rough like he doesn’t do it often enough. And the sound does something strange to my chest. Makes it feel too tight and too full at the same time.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says. “Next time the twins stage a disaster, I’ll remember it could be worse.”
