“Here, give her to me. I want to try something.”
Gabriel hesitates for a moment before handing her to me. The baby feels warm from crying and fragile. I sing “You Are My Sunshine,” gently bouncing her, and after the first verse, she quiets down. Her little eyes lock on mine, and for a moment, I forget everything else.
“How did you do that?” Gabriel asks, his voice tinged with awe. “I’ve tried singing to her. She kept crying.”
I shrug, smiling. “I guess I have the magic Beanie touch. My brother calls me that too.”
Gabriel stands to finish getting ready, walking up the stairswith an expression that suggests he’s both relieved and surprised. “I started calling her that before she was born. She looked like a bean when Haley first got pregnant.”
There’s something in his voice when he says Haley’s name. A quiet ache. Not sharp, but lingering—like something he’s folded away and doesn’t plan to unfold soon. I want to ask, but I don’t. I just hold the silence for him.
I set Aura down on her play mat and head to the kitchen to put away the macaroni bake I made earlier. As I’m putting it away, I remember I brought an extra container for Gabriel. I grab it just as Gabriel walks down the stairs.
He walks over to Aura and whispers goodbye to her. Then, he makes his way toward the kitchen island where I’m standing.
“You didn’t have to make me anything, Bumper,” he says flatly, glancing at the container of macaroni in my hands.
I hand it to him without a word at first, and when our fingers brush, I swear something flickers in his expression—like he’s surprised I’m real. Or maybe surprised I’m still here.
I shrug my shoulders, holding it out to him. “Have a good shift, Gabby. Be careful.”
He gives a small nod—almost imperceptible. And then he’s gone.
And just like that, he’s out the door, leaving me standing there with a small smile on my face and my heart thudding a little harder than it probably should.
The Line Between Work and Home
GABRIEL
Be careful?What is that supposed to mean? I nod my head and say, “Always, Bumper.”
As I slip into my car, a familiar sense of routine settles over me. I say a prayer, whispering the same words I’ve said a thousand times before. “Please bless this car and keep me safe during my shift tonight. Keep my family happy and safe too.”
It’s not just a superstition—it’s a grounding ritual, a way of soothing myself when the weight of the world seems like it might crush me.
Ma used to say a prayer like it when I was a kid, and I picked it up the moment I got my license. A little something to carry with me, like a shield. I know the roads can be unpredictable, but I do what I can to control the things I can.
The drive to the station is short, barely ten minutes, but I make the most of it by listening to my audiobook. It’s barely become a routine—just me, the road, and a story that sweeps me away from the reality of my job.
On the outside, I’m all business. A big grump with a heart of steel, or at least that’s the impression I like to give. But deep down, I’m a book nerd. Always have been. I’ve lost track of howmany times I’ve devoured the same stories, but they still bring me comfort.
My guilty pleasure.
It’s easier to live inside a story than deal with the one I’m in sometimes. Fiction always makes sense. People don’t. Not in the real world when you’re raising a kid alone. Not when your heart’s taken more hits than you let anyone see.
I think about Millie and Aura as the miles click by. Wondering what they’re doing tonight. Is Millie still up with her? Did Aura settle down okay?
It’s stupid how often my mind wanders to them lately. Not Aura. She’s always on my mind—but Millie. There’s a brightness she carries with her. I swear she doesn’t know she lights up a room just by walking in. I hate how aware I’ve become of it. In the two times she’s been in my house, she’s made it feel less like a shell and more like a home.
It’s silly, but every night when I leave, there’s this gnawing worry in my chest. Sometimes I forget how much my world has changed since my baby girl came into my life. But now I can’t imagine a different life.
Pulling into the station parking lot, I park in my usual spot. It’s one of those little things that feels like it belongs to me. The same way the rhythm of my shift feels like it’s mine. It might be small, but it gives me something solid to hold on to.
I get out of the car and hit the lock button on my keys. Tossing them in my duffel bag, I feel that familiar tug on my chest—a tightness that comes with the weight of my responsibilities, knowing that I’m walking into another night of uncertainty.
Some of the other guys don’t bother bringing extra stuff. They just show up in their uniforms and go home in them. But I’m different. I like to be me when I’m off the clock—comfortable clothes, no uniform, no badge. Just me. It’s not about being a rebel or anything—it’s about drawing a line between my work and my personal life. It’s the only way I can feel like I’m still me, even when I’m expected to be someone else at work.
That line? It’s gotten blurrier since Millie stepped into my world. She doesn’t just babysit. Somehow she has been filling the cracks in the foundation I didn’t even know were there.
