I just… liked being here.
And I was so wrapped up in that tiny bubble that I didn’t notice the doorway until Jazz, lounging opposite me, juggling brightly colored cubes, lifted his chin.
“Morgan’s here,” Jazz murmured.
My head snapped up.
Morgan stood just inside, one hand braced on the frame, his expression something I couldn’t immediately read. Tired. A little stunned.
How long he’d been there, I didn’t know.
But his eyes weren’t on the kitten. Or the toys. Or even Gabbi.
They were on me.
And the way he looked at me—as if he didn’t know what to do with the sight of me on the floor, suit rumpled, tie chewed on, baby and kitten climbing me like a human playground—did something warm and slow and terrifying to me.
“Hi,” I said, then lost my thread.
Morgan stepped in and knelt beside me, holding out his arms.
“Bah!” Gabbi exclaimed, reaching for her dad. He chuckled and helped her, holding her close and then sitting crisscross, his back to the wall, as she burrowed into his arms.
“She finished her bottle,” I said. “And I burped her like Jazz showed me.”
Morgan nodded, but the movement was too quick. His lips pressed to Gabbi’s hair, his eyes shutting as if the feel of her was the only thing holding him together. A tremor went through him—barely there, but enough that my heart skipped.
Across from us, Jazz froze mid-juggle, his expression softening. He whistled low for Rascal, scooped the kitten up, and rose without a word. He didn’t make a joke, didn’t fill the silence the way he usually did. He just gave me one quiet look—stay with him—then slipped out, the door gently shutting behind him.
The room felt smaller without him. Quieter. More exposed.
Morgan drew in a shaky breath, another, and then… he broke. His face crumpled, the tears hitting fast and hot, silent at first, like he was ashamed to make a sound. He hunched over Gabbi protectively, as if he could cry without her noticing, as if hiding it made it less real.
He tried to swallow it down. Tried to apologize through it.
“I’m—sorry—” he choked, the words barely audible, raw and cracking. “I don’t—I didn’t mean to—I’m just tired, and I can’t—I can’t seem to?—”
“Hey,” I murmured, already shifting closer without thinking. “No. You don’t owe me an apology.”
Gabbi wriggled in his arms, confused by the tension, so I reached out and steadied her, my hand brushing Morgan’s. He flinched—not away, just startled—and then, slowly, he turned his palm up and reached for me.
I let him take my hand.
His fingers wrapped around mine, desperate, grounding himself with that small grip as though he thought he might fall apart if he let go.
“Cole…” His voice cracked again, his breath stuttering as he tried to get control. “I’m sorry—I shouldn’t be—falling apart like this. Not in front of you. It’s stupid.”
“It’s not stupid,” I said as firm as I could. “It’s human. And you don’t have to hide from me.”
He squeezed my hand harder, head bowed, tears hitting the back of Gabbi’s tiny shirt.
He dragged in a shaky breath, trying to get the words out. “Group was… hard today,” he whispered. “They wanted us to talk about the things we keep pretending don’t hurt anymore—the stuff from before. I keep telling myself I’m okay—that I don’t need to think about back then—but I’m not okay, Cole. I’m not.”
“I’m listening.” It felt important to say that.
“They asked us to share one memory,” he whispered, voice thin. “Not even one of the big ones. Just… something from before everything fell apart. Something that stuck.” He swallowed hard. “I couldn’t pick. They all hurt. But then one came up, and I couldn’t stop seeing it.”
I moved closer, keeping our hands joined.
