And I can’t help teasing Ivan as we pull out of the underground lot and merge back onto the highway…
“Perfect choice,” I say, keeping my voice light. “You’re definitely the right age for a place like this. Knitting on the porch, early-bird specials, complaining about the young people these days…”
Ivan shoots me a sidelong glance, one eyebrow raised.
“Keep sassing me, boy,” Ivan warns, voice low and deliberate. “Keep it up and there will be another spanking. And this time I’ll do it in broad daylight.”
I press my lips together to hide the smile, but the warning sends a familiar flutter through my stomach—half nerves, half anticipation. I settle back in the seat, cross my legs carefully, and let the radio fill the silence for the rest of the drive.
Whispering Pines turns out to be even prettier in person than the website photos promised. A two-story Victorian painted soft sage green, white trim, gingerbread detailing along the eaves. A porch swing creaks gently in the breeze. Flower baskets hang from the railing, overflowing with pansies even though it’s early March. The sign out front is hand-painted, welcoming, unthreatening.
The owner—an older man named Michael with silver hair slicked back—greets us at the door with warm smiles and the smell of fresh-baked shortbread drifting from somewhere inside. Michael doesn’t ask for ID, just takes Ivan’s cash for two nights and hands us an old-fashioned brass key attached to a wooden fob shaped like a pine cone.
“Your room is upstairs,” Michael says. “The Rose Room. Breakfast at eight sharp. Tea and cookies are always out in the parlor if you get peckish.”
We thank our sweet host and climb the creaky staircase.
The Rose Room is exactly what the name suggests: pale pink walls, a four-poster bed draped in a white eyelet quilt, rose-patterned wallpaper on a single strip of wall above a small fireplace—unlit but stacked with logs—and a deep window seatoverlooking the back garden. It feels like stepping into someone else’s grandparent’s house…cozy, safe, a world away from blood and bullets and burner phones.
Ivan drops our bags by the dresser and locks the door behind us.
I kick off my shoes and flop backward onto the bed with a dramatic sigh.
“This is perfect,” I declare. “Ineverwant to leave.”
Ivan chuckles—low, quiet—and comes over to stand beside the bed, looking down at me.
“Don’t gettoocomfortable,” he says, but there’s no real warning in it. “We’re only here to breathe for a minute. You know we have to stay alert, not get complacent.”
I reach up and tug his hand until he sits on the edge of the mattress. Then I scoot over and pat the space beside me.
Ivan hesitates for half a second before stretching out, propping himself on one elbow so he can face me. I curl into his side, head on his chest, listening to the steady thud of his heart.
We stay like that for a while—quiet, breathing together—until I remember the small flat-screen television mounted on the opposite wall.
“Movie?” I ask hopefully.
He sighs like a man who knows he’s already lost the argument.
“Movie.”
We pick something fun, an old buddy copy movie from way back when. Ivan rolls his eyes at the premise but doesn’t complainwhen I hit play. We pile pillows behind us, pull the quilt over our legs, and settle in.
Halfway through the final action set-piece, I turn my head and rest my chin on his shoulder.
“Tell me a story,” I whisper. “To help me get to sleep later.”
He glances down at me, surprised.
“A story? What about the movie?”
“I’m tired,” I concede. “I’ve probably had enough action, Daddy. Both on the screen and off.”
Ivan considers for a long moment, then nods.
“Once upon a time,” my Daddy begins, voice low and steady. “Once upon a time there was a knight who lived on the edge of a dark forest. He wasn’t young anymore, and he’d fought in too many wars, but he still carried his sword and his shield because that was what he knew.”
I close my eyes and listen.
