Today, the cabin fever has officially set in.
Eliza and Caleb have turned into small, determined hurricanes. They sprint across the rug chasing each other, dive off the couch cushions like tiny acrobats, and shriek with laughter that ricochets through the space.
“Daddy, look! I’m a shark!” Eliza leaps onto a pillow with an impressive growl.
Her brother counters immediately. “Well, I’m a bear!”
He claws at the air, sending his coloring book flying.
Jesse catches the book, flipping it closed with the reflexes of a man who’s stopped many airborne objects in his life. “Alright, alright, no animals that can break something or eat one of your family members.”
“But bears are nice,” Caleb argues. “Sometimes.”
“That,” Jesse says, setting the book down on a side table, “is scientifically questionable.”
His kids pounce on him in response, and the three of them tumble into a heap of limbs and giggles on the rug.
Their noise is oddly comforting. A reminder that even when the world is burning, children find a way to live loudly.
I take a deep breath and retreat into the kitchen for a moment of quiet.
Except…
Someone else is already in there.
Wyatt is standing at the counter, glasses slipping down his nose, hair sticking up in half a dozen directions because he’s been running his hands through it.
In one hand, he holds his leather-bound notebook, the one he treats as a combination of scientific journal and diary. The other hand is rifling through cabinets with increasingly frantic energy.
“Have you seen it?” he mutters. “It has a blue rim. Ceramic. Not the chipped one, the chipped one is the emergency mug, not the real one…”
I blink. “Uh… seen what?”
He whirls around, notebook pressed to his chest. “My mug.”
I wait. He continues.
“My favorite one.”
Still waiting.
He sighs, exasperated with himself. “My morning tea mug.”
I smile a little. “You have a special mug?”
“Haven’t we talked about this?” he asks, already turning back to the cabinet. “I swear I’ve mentioned it. If I don’t start the day with tea in that mug, everything goes wrong. It’s like… a talisman. Except practical. And ceramic.”
“You definitely didn’t mention it,” I say gently. “But I believe you.”
He freezes, hangs his head, and mutters, “I’ve already checked this cupboard. Twice.”
I bite my lip so I don’t laugh. Wyatt Tucker—noted calm, collected, unshakeable vet—is having a small meltdown over crockery.
It’s… adorable.
“Okay,” I say, stepping into the room, “let’s find it.”
He looks up at me, hopeful and frazzled. “You’re a lifesaver.”
