Blake’s grip shifts against the cane. He doesn’t argue with Maceo, but I know the stillness that comes over him when he is trying to determine whether stepping away means abandoning something important.
Luther ends the call after arranging another conference for the morning. He removes the phone from the center of the desk, then reaches for Blake’s wrist and rubs his thumb once over the skin there without turning the touch into a medical check.
“Let him finish,” Luther says. “You’ve already read the packet, and you’re exhausted.”
Blake looks from Luther to the evidence sleeves surrounding Maceo. The answer doesn’t come immediately, but he eventuallynods and eases his wrist from Luther’s hand only so he can adjust his grip on the cane.
“Wake me when you have the deadlines,” he says. He leaves the office without asking for a briefing before sunrise or trying to take any of Maceo’s files with him.
I remain in the doorway until Blake disappears upstairs. Maceo has already returned to the chronology, and Luther is preparing questions for the next call, so I close the office door and take responsibility for everything outside it.
The children need dinner, baths, and three separate explanations for why the adults keep speaking quietly. Quentin confirms Luca’s prenatal bloodwork and schedules the first scan. Blossom sends the revised resident-security plan from Ember House, and I approve additional overnight coverage without placing unfamiliar guards inside the residents’ living areas.
Luca eats half a bowl of soup before the smell turns his stomach. I replace it with toast and sliced fruit without discussing how much he left behind, then make sure the prenatal vitamins Quentin prescribed are beside the glass he takes upstairs.
Samuel watches me more closely than usual during his bath. He sits between my knees while I rinse shampoo from his hair, one hand shielding his eyes from the water.
“Why does everybody smell scared?” he asks.
The question tightens something beneath my ribs, but I keep my palm steady against his forehead. “Something happened at work, baby. The grown-ups are handling it.”
He leans back against my arm and blinks water from his lashes. “Is the baby okay?”
“The baby is okay, sweetheart.” I wrap him in a towel and rub his hair while he starts explaining where the crib should go and why the baby will need a light shaped like a dinosaur.
The answer settles him enough to carry him into his room. It does nothing to settle me.
Rosalie wants her crown placed where the baby cannot reach it. James asks whether the complaint means Luca will miss the prenatal appointment I just scheduled. I tell them the appointment is still happening, tuck each of them into bed, and return twice when Samuel remembers questions he forgot to ask the first time.
After midnight, the office door remains closed and a narrow strip of light cuts across the hallway. Luca has gone to the nest with Luther’s jacket wrapped around him, though the quiet movement upstairs tells me he isn’t sleeping. Maceo and Luther are still working, and the children have finally stopped calling down about the baby’s room.
I check the doors, confirm the appointment time again, pack enough food for Luca and Blake to have options in the morning, and return to the kitchen when I run out of legitimate reasons to move through the house.
The counter is already clean. I wipe it anyway, following the same section of granite until the cloth begins drying beneath my hand.
The office door opens once, but the footsteps that enter the kitchen don’t belong to Luther or Maceo.
I turn and find Blake sitting on the counter beside the sink with one bare foot resting against a cabinet door. My tablet is balanced across his thigh, the Welfare Board’s procedural rules open on the screen. A mug of coffee sits beside him, along with an empty plate marked by chocolate crumbs and a streak of frosting.
“You’re supposed to be resting.” I place the cloth beside the sink and walk toward him.
Blake lowers the tablet enough to look at me over the top of it. “I am resting. I’m sitting down.”
I take the mug before he can lift it again. The coffee is still warm, and the smell is strong enough to confirm what I already suspect. “That isn’t decaf.”
“No.” Blake doesn’t attempt to defend it. His gaze follows my hand as I move the mug out of reach.
“And the cake?”
He glances toward the empty plate. “Too much sugar. Too many carbs. Not enough protein.”
My hand tightens around the mug while his mouth begins to curve. The complaint is waiting in the office, everyone in the house is exhausted, and Blake has chosen midnight to sit on the kitchen counter drinking coffee and eating the cake Rosalie was promised tomorrow.
“Give me the tablet.”
He tucks it against his chest instead. “Come take it.”
I step between his knees and reach for the tablet. Blake shifts it behind himself before I can catch the edge and closes his legs around my hips, trapping me against the counter.
