"You're doing something," he says.
"Replicating my earlier research."
"Into what."
"Into whether you have an actual jaw under all that clenching, or whether it's been structural tension this entire time."
"Inconclusive," he says.
"I'll need to run the study again."
His chest moves in the way that isn't quite a laugh but is the closest Beck gets to one when he's not ready to admit he finds something funny. In the Beck metric, that's a standing ovation.
I settle back. His arm is a warm weight.
Through the wall, the nightlight holds its amber glow. Steady, small, exactly the color Ivy informed us wascorrectfor sleeping purposes because T-Rex's vision was adapted to low-light conditions and she has done the research.
Then, from the dresser — the baby monitor Beck still keeps because Ivy went through a sleepwalking phase and he'd rather know — there's a rustle and a small shuffling sound. Then a voice, thick with sleep and absolute authority:
"Dino. Moveover."
A pause.
"I said move over."
Beck's chest goes completely motionless under my hand. He has stopped breathing entirely. Managing, apparently.
More rustling. Then, with the certainty of a person who has reached a satisfying conclusion at three-quarters asleep:
"Gemma's staying forever. Daddy said so."
I go still.
Beck goes very still.
On the monitor: one more shuffle, and then the deeper, steadier rhythm of sleep. She's out. T-Rex has, apparently, complied.
Something presses up behind my sternum. I press my face into Beck's shoulder and just breathe for a moment, because my eyes are doing something they don't have authorization for and I'd like to manage that without an audience.
"Forever's a big word," I say. It comes out less steady than I'd like.
Beck's arm tightens around me. Just that. No fanfare.
"She's not wrong," he says.
The nightlight glows amber through the wall.
I said it first, into the wrong moment, without the right context or the appropriate segue, the way I do everything I actually mean — clumsy and scared and not quite able to stop myself.
And I would do it again.
I don't want to exit. Not because it's easy or leaving is hard. Because it's this. This room, this arm, this amber light throughthe wall, this child who has announced her conclusions to a stuffed dinosaur with complete conviction and gone back to sleep.
Because it's this.
I close my eyes.
The house holds us, and I stay.
