“What’s that?” he asks.
She thinks for a moment. “Goodnight full belly,” she decides. “No more bear.”
I feel it then, sharp and sudden, the way moments like this sneak up on you and ask to be kept.
Faulker closes the book and sets it on the nightstand. He looks at me, a silent question.
I nod.
We sing quietly, barely above a whisper. I start it, steady and familiar, and he follows, careful not to rush it. Lucy hums along for a line or two, then her voice fades, her fingers curling into the blanket as sleep finally settles in.
Home. Oh, home. Let me come home.
By the time the song ends, she’s gone, the day released completely. Faulker stands slowly, reverent again, and I smooth Lucy’s hair back once before turning off the lamp.
I begin tidying up the kitchen when he comes down the hall from the bathroom and begins helping me without thought. “I’ve been off work for 4 days, I can do this, it’s our mess.”
“You’ve been taking care of Lucy, and sick, that’s hardly a vacation.” He states. “And this is a family mess,” he quips as he playfully hip checks me while rolling up his sleeves and turning on the faucet. I wonder if his pulse kicks up like mine when we’re alone and close like this. “I’d like to do the dishes, since the two of you cleaned all day.”
He opens the dishwasher, glances at my system, then proceeds to ignore it entirely and loads the plates in his own deliberate, Tetris-winner fashion.
“You’re going to jam the sprayers,” I giggle at his obvious lack of doing a simple task like this. “Um, that’s how you get mystery rice glued to the glassware.”
He makes a show of examining his work, then the faucet, then the glass, like he’s consulting with a panel of experts, expecting a play-by-play. He shrugs, not even remotely chastened. “I like the challenge. Give me a real mess, and I’ll show you a masterpiece.”
I flick a drop of water at him. He flicks two back, smirking and never breaking eye contact. He’s close enough that I can smell him over the lavender from Lucy’s bath.
“It’s our mess, I’ll clean it up. Go relax.”
He leans across me, almost pinning me to the counter, to grab a damp towel. “You know what they say about teams that play together?”
I arch an eyebrow. He’s waiting for me to ask what, so I don’t. I just keep scrubbing the pan that rice is still clinging to.
“They win together,” he says, dead seriously. Then he flicks the towel at my hip and grins. “Or lose together. The theme is together.” He smiles. “This looks like a win to me.”
I can’t help it—I laugh, the kind of laugh you can’t have unless you’re off-guard and a little tired and completely unafraid of who’s watching you.
We fall into a rhythm, two people who used to orbit with maximum distance now finding the places they can touch, even if it’s just hands brushing in the soap suds or elbows bumping as we reach for the same plate. He’s careful with the breakables, meticulous in a way that’s almost reverent, and I remember what Anna said about him: he only seems offhanded because he’s thinking five moves ahead.
He laughs softly, “I like that you don’t pretend this is normal,” he says, voice quieter now, “because it’s not. You and me, we’re going to have a family that is far beyond any dream we’ve ever dared dream. We’re going to be extraordinary.”
I stand there looking at him, guarded, expecting to be let down the moment I put all my trust in believing that it’s possible. A smirk, a laugh, anything, but there isn’t one thing, not one that leads me to believe he doesn’t fully imagine it’s possible.
I clear my throat and hand him the pan, that is now mostly clean to load in the dishwasher, “And what does extraordinary look like, if you dared to imagine it?”
He takes the pan from me, pauses before sliding it into the rack and taking his time adjusting it like he’s considering the question with the seriousness it deserves.
“Quiet,” he says finally.
I blink. “Quiet?”
He nods, eyes still on the dishwasher as he adjusts the pan, making sure it fits just right. “Not empty. Not boring. Just… steady. Mornings that don’t feel like emergencies. A table that gets used. A house that knows who belongs in it.”
He glances at me then, searching my face like he’s checking whether I’m still with him.
“Extraordinary doesn’t mean loud,” he adds. “It means no one’s afraid to go to sleep.”
Oh God.
