The twins babbled their own version of “night-night.” I leaned down, kissed each of their foreheads, and whispered the same words I always did: “I love you. Always.” Then I pulled the door closed softly behind me, the click echoinglouder than it should have.
And in the silence that followed, I felt every ounce of nervousness, excitement, and fear pressing into my chest and reminding me exactly how much I stood to lose, and just how much I wanted to believe this could be different. I lingered a moment. The weight I carried. The reason I’d built walls so high around myself. And the reason tonight felt like such a risk.
Chapter Twenty Three
Hunter
The house was still after she disappeared down the hall, though “still” felt like the wrong word. It was the kind of quiet filled with small noises. I listened to the faintest echo of giggles and bedtime protests.
I sat on the couch, staring at the cookie box, remembering the excitement on their faces when Cami told them I’d brought them cookies. And the way she pretended not to notice when I snuck Zeke another cookie when she had turned her back.
My instincts screamed to stay put. Don’t interfere. Don’t overstep. Let her handle her world. But another part of me, the part that had been watching her juggle three kids, dinner, and conversation without ever letting herself rest, wanted to move.
I thought about the flowers in the vase on her counter, the way she’d held them to her chest like they were fragile, like she hadn’t been appreciated in too long. The way she’d whisperedthank youwith that flicker of sadness behind hersmile. I found myself needing to ease that weight, because she carried it with a strength that humbled me. So I stood there restlessly as I scanned the room for something to make her night a little lighter.
The table was still cluttered with dishes, sauce smeared where Chloe had clearly missed her mouth. Avery’s sippy cup lay dripping in her high chair while Zeke’s rocket sat proudly in the center like a flag planted on new territory. The twins’ toys were abandoned on the floor.
Without a second thought, I rolled up my sleeves and started clearing.
Plates stacked, cups rinsed, forks gathered from under the table. I moved stealthily, the way you do when you don’t want to spook anyone. It wasn’t about making it perfect. It was about her not coming back to more work than she’d already done. Halfway through loading the dishwasher, I caught myself smiling because it felt… good. Simple, but good. Just the quiet satisfaction of helping in a home that wasn’t mine, with people who weren’t mine… at least not yet.
Wiping my hands on a towel, I glanced toward the hall where she was tucking them in. I could hear her voice, low and soft, promising safety without saying the words. I thought about how much trust it took to let me sit in her living room while she whispered those promises to her kids.
By the time she’d return, I’d be back on the couch, trying to look casual, as if I hadn’t just had an epiphany in front of a dishwasher.
But in that moment, standing there in the quiet with my hands smelling of dish soap, I knew one thing for certain: This wasn’t just about her anymore. It was about all of them.
I’d just set the last fork in the dishwasher when I heard herfootsteps carefully padding down the hall.
I quickly sat back on the couch, pretending I hadn’t just been waging war on marinara stains. When she walked in, her eyes immediately flicked to the table, now clear of dishes. The counters, wiped down. The sink, empty.
She stopped mid-step. “You…” Her voice trailed off, eyes darting from the kitchen to me. “You picked it all up?”
I shrugged, forcing my tone light. “Figured I’d do my part since you wouldn’t let me help you cook.”
Her lips parted like she wanted to say more, but all that came out was a soft, almost breathless, “Hunter…”
Her face showed a mix of surprise, gratitude, and underneath it all, a solemness I didn’t think she meant to show.
“I didn’t want you to come back to more work,” I said simply.
Her eyes softened, and for a second, she just stood there, looking at me, not quite knowing what to do with what she was feeling. And in that silence, I felt the truth press in heavily. This wasn’t about grand gestures or perfect lines. It was about showing up. Picking up forks. Washing plates. Sitting on the couch while she tucked her kids in, and being here when she came back out because sometimes, that was everything.
She finally crossed the room, settling onto the couch beside me with a soft sigh. Close enough that I caught the faint floral scent of her shampoo. But not so close that we were touching. A careful middle ground.
“You didn’t have to do all that,” she said, nodding toward the kitchen.
“Maybe not,” I admitted. “But I wanted to.”
She glanced at me then, and I saw the wall she always kept up slipped just a little. Her lips partedas if forming words, but it was as if they got caught, wrapped in a breath she didn’t quite release. “You’re going to make it hard for me, you know,” she said finally, each word layered with an unspoken question, a pause hanging in the air that demanded gentle courage.
I raised an eyebrow. “Hard, how?”
She gave a small laugh, shaking her head like she couldn’t believe she’d said it out loud. “Hard not to get used to this. To you being here.”
That hit deeper than I expected. For a second, all I could do was stare at her, the steady, brave woman who carried so much on her shoulders and still smiled at me like I meant something.
So I went with humor, because humor felt safer. “Well, you’ve got three tiny humans who seem to think I’m pretty cool. Might be too late tonotget used to me.”
