Mila settles faster than either of us. She pulls her chair up close to the counter while Dominik cooks, asking about the knives, the burners, and why onions make people cry.
He answers like each question needs a proper reply. He keeps himself between her and the stove without saying a word about it. When she drops a spoon, he catches it before it hits the floor. When she strays too far, his hand finds her shoulder, light, steady, guiding her but never holding her back.
I watch and feel something pull tight in my chest, and I don’t like that Mila stands so close to Dominik. When she can’t get the toothpaste cap off, she goes to him. When her sock bunches inside her boot, she lifts her foot and waits for him to fix it.
He lines everything up before he begins to cook. Nothing overlaps. Nothing spills. He’s in control. He moves through steps, keeps his hands busy. The food he makes is simple and filling. Meals are routine, not experiments. I hate how fast that routine starts to feel real.
Mila learns where to leave her shoes and where the light is best in the afternoon. She stops asking if we’re staying only for the night.
I catch myself thinking about why the cups aren’t on the lower shelf.
It bothers me how quickly we fall into patterns. I know what happens when patterns set in. They get noticed. They get logged.
At the sink, my hands in warm water, I listen for a sound out of place. The lack of it makes my pulse jump. Mila laughs in the next room, carefree in a way she never was when we were moving. Instead of calming me, I wonder who else can hear her.
I tell myself this is what we wanted. Wanting never kept me safe. Being ready did. Every time I let a day repeat without interruption, I replay it to see what I might have missed.
At the table, meals fall into the same hour every night. Dominik is always there. He picks the vegetables from the plate, arranges Mila’s food, and talks about why she should eat a salad before dessert. His fork touches the plate before every bite. I look away.
“Mila, finish your food and go to bed. Now.”
“It’s only seven,” Mila says.
“Seven’s late,” I say louder than I mean to.
“She’s fine,” Dominik says with his mouth half full.
“You don’t talk when I’m speaking to my daughter,” I snap, push my chair back, and take my plate to the sink.
“Is Mommy angry?” Mila asks.
I remind myself not to snap at Dominik when Mila is in the room. It’s getting harder by the day.
“You’re worked up,” Dominik says, settling on the sofa after Mila’s been fed, brushed, and tucked in. He reads her stories now. She asks him to. I don’t interrupt that.
I take my tea to the far end of the sofa. When Mila is asleep, Dominik dims the lights and sits beside me. He asks if we’re going shopping tomorrow. I give him half an answer. He notices.
“You don’t get to disappear in the same house,” he says. “If you need space, say it.”
“I need you to stop acting like this is forever,” I say. “We came here to breathe, not to settle in.”
He watches me for a long moment. “We breathe when the doors are locked and nothing’s pushing at them.”
“I’m not a situation you manage.”
“No,” he says, steady. “You’re the reason I don’t.”
I flip through the television, letting each channel run a few seconds before moving on. I don’t look at him.
“And you,” I say, “are leaving doors unlocked.”
He blinks, then frowns. “I locked it.”
“Not this morning. You left it on the latch. You left your jacket on the hook with your badge still clipped to it. You spoke to the neighbor about your shift.”
His mouth tightens. I don’t stop.
“She knows you work day shifts. That you’re security. You think that won’t stick?”
