“Morning,” she says. “Morning.”
The first morning settles into something I don’t recognize.
Not because it’s quiet.
The clubhouse is never quiet. There’s always something moving, something humming beneath the surface.
Doors opening and closing. Voices drifting from one room to another.
Boots hitting floors, chairs scraping, the low rumble of conversation that never fully disappears no matter the hour.
It’s alive in a way that should feel overwhelming.
Instead, it feels…steady.
That’s the word that keeps coming back to me.
Steady.
I don’t think I realized how much of my life had been built around unpredictability until I stepped into a place where people just…exist without constantly watching each other for the next shift.
Emma finds me first. Not in a way that feels like she’s been waiting. More like she knew I’d surface eventually and decided to meet me there.
I’m in the kitchen again, standing at the counter with coffee I don’t entirely need, watching Lexi sit at the table with a small pile of mismatched toys someone must’ve brought in for the kids at some point.
Bunny is there, of course, positioned just within reach, but for the first time, it isn’t the only thing she’s touching.
There’s a plastic dinosaur in her other hand.
I don’t know where it came from. I don’t ask.
Emma walks in like she belongs everywhere she steps, which, from what I’ve gathered, she does. She’s dressed simply, hair pulled back, moving with that quiet efficiency that seems to define the women here.
“Morning,” she says.
“Morning.”
She pours herself coffee, adds nothing to it, and leans against the counter beside me like we’ve been doing this for years instead of less than twenty-four hours. “You sleep okay?”
The question is gentle. Not probing. Just…there.
I nod. “Better than I have in a while.”
“That’s good.” She doesn’t push for details.
Doesn’t ask how long it’s been or why. Just accepts the answer and lets it sit. That alone makes something in my chest tighten.
Because I’m used to one of two reactions. Pity. Or curiosity dressed up as concern.
Neither of those exists here.
Mac drifts in a few minutes later, barefoot and carrying a plate of something that smells like eggs and toast. She sets it down on the table in front of Lexi without asking if she’s hungry, like she already knows the answer is yes and doesn’t need confirmation.
Lexi looks at it, looks at her, then says, “Thank you.”
Mac grins. “You’re welcome, tiny human.”
Lexi considers that, then goes back to her dinosaur and Bunny like this is all completely normal.
I watch the interaction quietly.
Trying to understand it. Trying to place it somewhere that makes sense.
No one is hovering. No one is tiptoeing. No one is treating me like I might fall apart if they say the wrong thing. And somehow, that’s harder to accept than if they were.
Because pity would be easier to manage. Pity is predictable. Pity gives me something to push against.
This?
This quiet acceptance, this lack of expectation, this way of simply making space for us without demanding anything in return?
I don’t know what to do with it.
“You’ll get used to it,” Emma says softly beside me.
I glance at her. “To what?”
“This,” she says, gesturing lightly to the kitchen, the table, the toys, the women moving through the space like it belongs to them. “It feels strange at first.”
“Strange how?”
“Like you’re waiting for someone to tell you you’re doing it wrong.”
That hits too close.
I don’t answer. I don’t need to.
She nods once like she already knows. “You’re not,” she adds.
The simplicity of it nearly undoes me.
I take a slow sip of my coffee instead of responding, letting the warmth ground me while I try to recalibrate around something that feels…safe.
Lexi shifts in her chair and slides off it without warning, dragging Bunny and the dinosaur with her.
She toddles over to the corner where a small pile of toys has appeared, just some blocks, a few stuffed animals, a couple of books.
Then she drops down onto the floor like she’s been doing it here forever.
She doesn’t look back at me.
That should worry me. It doesn’t.
Because she isn’t wandering. She isn’t uncertain. She’s just…playing.
I watch her carefully, waiting for the moment where she realizes she’s in a new place and panics. It doesn’t come.
Instead, a little boy wanders in behind Mac, rubbing his eyes and clutching a toy truck in one hand.
He can’t be more than two.
Mac looks down at him. “Morning, Jason.”
Jason grunts something that might be a greeting, then spots Lexi on the floor. He stops. Stares. Then slowly walks over and sits across from her without saying a word.
Lexi looks up. Looks at him. Then holds up her dinosaur like she’s offering a trade.
Jason considers it. Then sets his truck between them.
Deal made.
I blink.
Just like that.
No hesitation. No fear. No clinging.
Lexi leans forward, grabs the truck, and starts pushing it across the floor. Jason picks up the dinosaur. Bunny stays tucked against Lexi’s side, still important, still present, but not the only thing anchoring her anymore.
My throat tightens.
I didn’t expect that. I didn’t expect her to adjust this quickly. I didn’t expect her to feel safe enough to engage with another child without checking back in with me every five seconds.
Relief floods me so fast it almost makes me dizzy.
And right behind it—
Emotion. Sharp. Overwhelming.
Because this means something. It means she’s breathing too. It means whatever tension she’s been carrying is finally loosening enough for her to be a kid again. It means I got her out in time.
I press my fingers into the side of my mug and look down before anyone can see too much on my face.
“Other kids will be around too,” Emma says gently. “Amy and Casey will probably be down later. They’re a little older. Ten.”
I nod.
“Gio comes by sometimes,” Mac adds, glancing over from the counter. “He’s nine. Kya’s boy.”
“That’s good,” I manage.
It is good. It’s more than good. It’s something I didn’t realize I needed to see until it was right in front of me.
The rest of the morning moves around me in small, manageable pieces.
Coffee. Food. Conversation that never pushes too far.
Women who include me without overwhelming me.
Kids who move in and out of the space like they belong there.
And somewhere in all of it, I start to find a rhythm.
Not fully. Not completely. But enough that I stop bracing for impact every time someone walks into the room. Enough that I stop scanning every exit every few seconds. Enough that I let myself sit without feeling like I need to justify taking up space.
Joker appears without warning.
The first time, it’s in the hallway. I step out of the room after checking on Lexi, who is now deep into building something chaotic with blocks and Jason, and nearly run straight into him as he rounds the corner.
I stop short.
He does too.
Close enough that I feel the heat of him for half a second before we both step back at the same time.
“Sorry,” I say automatically.
His jaw tightens slightly. “You don’t gotta apologize for existing in a hallway.”
I blink. Then nod.
Right.
He looks like he’s already been outside, cut on, boots laced, moving with purpose. There’s a faint scent of fresh air and smoke clinging to him, and his eyes flick past me once, instinctively checking the room behind me before coming back to my face.
“Everything good?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
He nods once, like that’s all he needs. Then he steps around me and keeps moving.
No lingering. No unnecessary conversation. Just…presence.
The second time, it’s outside. I step out onto the porch with a cup of coffee I didn’t really need, just to get some air, and he’s already there, leaning against the railing like he’s been watching the yard for a while.
He glances at me. Takes in the coffee.
The fact that I’m barefoot again. The way I hesitate just inside the doorway before stepping fully outside.
“You get used to it,” he says, echoing Emma from earlier.
“To what?”
“This place.”
I look out over the yard, the bikes, the open space, the quiet movement of men going about their day. “I think I’m starting to.”
He doesn’t say anything to that. Just nods once and looks back out at the same view.
We stand there like that for a minute. Not talking. Not needing to. And somehow it doesn’t feel awkward.
The third time, it’s in the parking lot. I’m walking with Lexi, who is holding Bunny in one hand and my fingers in the other, when he crosses our path with Shadow.
Lexi stops. Looks up at him. Then says, “Hi, Joker.” Like she’s been doing it her whole life.
He pauses. Looks down at her. “Hey, kid.”
She lifts Bunny slightly, like she’s presenting him.
Joker nods once, serious as anything. “Good to see he made it through the night.”
Lexi smiles. Just a little.
That does something strange to my chest. Then he moves on. And we keep going.
The fourth time is in the kitchen again, later, when the light has shifted and the day has settled into something slower.
He reaches past me for a glass.
Our shoulders brush. Neither of us reacts outwardly. But I feel it. Every time. Like a spark that never quite catches but never fully dies either.
By the time evening rolls around, I stop trying to pretend it’s coincidence.
We’re orbiting each other. Not intentionally. Not in a way that feels forced. But consistently enough that I start to anticipate it.
The hallway.
The kitchen.
The yard.
The edges of every space I move through.
He’s there. And I’m aware of him.
Always.
That awareness should make me nervous. It doesn’t. Which might be the most dangerous part of all.
That night, after Lexi is bathed and fed and finally asleep again with Bunny tucked under her chin, I move around the room quietly, straightening small things that don’t need straightening, trying to settle my own restless energy.
I turn down the lamp. Check the door. Check the window.
Old habits.
Then I pause.
Because I hear footsteps in the hallway.
Heavy. Familiar. Not rushed. Not threatening. Just…there.
I go still without meaning to.
Listening. Waiting. The footsteps pass my door. Continue down the hall. Fade.
And something in my chest loosens.
I close my eyes for a second. Then open them again, annoyed with myself.
Because I just listened for him.
And worse than that?
It helped. That realization sits heavy. Uncomfortable. Too honest.
I shake it off and turn back toward the bed. And that’s when I see it.
His sweatshirt.
Folded. Waiting. Right in the center of my bed like it belongs there.
I stare at it. My pulse does something strange. Because I know I didn’t bring it back.
I know I gave it to him.
I know he took it.
Which means—
He brought it here. At some point today. Without saying anything. Without making it a thing. Just…left it.
For me.
The comfort that hits me is immediate.
Sharp. Jarring. Because it shouldn’t matter. Because it’s just a sweatshirt. Because I told myself this morning that I didn’t need it.
And yet.
I cross the room slowly. Reach out. Touch the fabric like I need to confirm it’s real. It still smells like him.
Clean. Steady. Grounding in a way I don’t fully understand.
I pick it up. Hold it for a second too long. Then, before I can talk myself out of it, I pull it over my head.
The weight settles around me. Familiar now. Comforting in a way that makes my chest ache.
I exhale slowly and sit on the edge of the bed.
This is a mistake. I know it is. Getting used to this. Getting comfortable here.
Letting small things matter. Letting him matter.
All of it is a mistake.
But as I lie down beside Lexi, the sweatshirt wrapped around me and the quiet hum of the clubhouse surrounding us, I can’t quite convince myself to take it off.
And that might be the most dangerous thing of all.