It was about breathing room.
Guardian Hall ran at capacity more often than anyone liked to admit. Family rooms doubled as offices. Group spaces did triple duty. Staff burned out because there were never enough of them, never enough hours, never enough money that wasn’t earmarked for emergencies.
I could throw money at it. I had been throwing money at it.
But money without structure was just noise.
I set up a trust that had nothing to do with my board, butallto do with me privately. Something I could throw myself into.
Dedicated funding for staffing. Mental health professionals on retainer. Maintenance budgets that didn’t rely on panic appeals. A structure that protected Guardian Hall’s autonomy instead of swallowing it whole.
And space.
The warehouse would become transitional housing. Clean, solid units for people who were ready to leave Guardian Hall but not ready to be dropped into the world without a net.
Inspired by Morgan.
The man I loved.
It had been six weeks since he agreed to take on the apartment project and today, in the middle of summer, he and Gabbi were moving in, we said we loved each other often, and I knew he was mine, that Gabbi was mine, that they were my family, and he was relaxed with me, and the relationship we had was beautiful.
Morgan and Gabbi didn’t have much left to move on the day they left Guardian Hall because we’d slowly moved things over in the week leading up to it.
Alex had arranged a kind of farewell party, though it was really just people drifting in and out of the family room, hugging Morgan when he let them, waving at Gabbi, promising to visit. Marcus made chili. Jazz cried and pretended it was allergies. Rascal supervised from the sofa like a tiny foreman.
I loaded the car while Morgan said his goodbyes, taking my time so he could do it properly. When he finally came out, Gabbi strapped to his chest, he looked steady, and the drive was quiet apart from Gabbi’s babbling from her car seat.
The neon yellow in the second room had gone, and in its place were soft sunset colors—warm peach fading into duskier rose—and across the longest wall stretched a mural. One of the Guardian Hall guests, a quiet marine called Paul, had painted it, and it was stunning.
Morgan stood there for a second longer than necessary, eyes tracking the line where the colors met. “I had to sand the whole wall back,” he said, almost offhand. “They hadn’t prepped it properly. Paint was just… sitting on top.”
I looked at him. “You stripped it back yourself?”
He shrugged, as though it were nothing. “Didn’t take long once I figured out where they’d cut corners.”
I smiled before I could stop myself. “It’s amazing.” There was still so much to do, but this wasn’t a building site; it was tired and needed work, and Morgan had lost himself in the work. “I wonder if Paul would be up for a commission; our office lobby is looking sad.”
Morgan shrugged. “He might. Wouldn’t hurt to ask.” He unstrapped Gabbi and placed her in a small bassinet by the wonky sofa, and as he picked up his phone to order pizza there was a knock on the door.
Morgan answered it.
I didn’t know who was more shocked that my parents were standing there—him or me.
I’d told them Morgan had moved in downstairs. They’d said they would visit. Normally, that would require at least three diary confirmations and a driver, but here they were. Unannounced.
Mother wore cream wool. Father, a navy coat that probably cost more than the monthly rent on this place. They looked slightly out of place in the small apartment.
But they’d come.
“You must be Morgan,” Mother said, extending her hand.
Morgan froze for half a heartbeat before taking it. “Yes, ma’am.”
“My name is Eleanor Harrington, and this is my husband, James. We’re Cole’s parents.”
Morgan stiffened visibly. “Sir. Ma’am.” He almost stood to attention.
I crossed the room without thinking and slipped my arm around his waist. Grounding him. Or maybe grounding myself.
