Chapter 12
One Week
Remi
The silence wakes me.
Not the sun, or an alarm, or the soft thud of feet on the stairs.
Just silence.
That bone-deep, aching kind that presses down on your chest and whispers that something is missing. I toss the blanket off and slip from bed, the hardwood cool under my feet as I pad down the hall, hoodie sleeves tugged over my hands like armor.
The door to Paige’s room is cracked.
I peek inside, but she’s not there.
My stomach clenches.
I don’t breathe until I find her in Payton’s bed, curled under the same blanket, her sister’s arm slung over her like a promise neither of them knows how to keep. My heart squeezes. I don’t close the door—just pull it a little tighter, like I can protect them from the day that’s coming.
Because they leave today.
And I hate it. I hate how much I hate it.
Downstairs, the kitchen is still and soft, the only light coming from above the stove. I move without thinking—coffee, oatmeal, toast.
I start the coffee. Because I always start with coffee.
I move like I’ve done this a hundred times even though I’ve only lived here for a week. I know where the spoons are, where Coleman keeps the oatmeal the girls like, how Payton takes her toast dry with just a little cinnamon sugar and Paige only eats the middle of the waffles.
I know things I shouldn’t.
I care more than I meant to.
And that’s the problem.
Because they leave today.
My hands go through the motions, but my chest is somewhere else. Somewhere up those stairs, trying to hold on to girls that aren’t mine.
That never will be. It’s only been a week.
One week of morning waffles and glitter explosions and Taylor Swift and storytime. One week of side-eyes from Payton and glitter lip gloss from Paige. One week of trying not to fall in love with two girls who never asked for more heartbreak.
But I am. Falling. And I don’t know how to stop.
I shouldn’t feel like this. Shouldn’t want to protect them from a woman who raised them for ten years. Shouldn’t feel like I’d give anything not to watch them walk out the door today.
But I do.
I want more mornings like this. More late-night cookies. More quiet smiles from Payton when she forgets to be mad at the world. More side hugs from Paige like I’m someone she might actually trust not to leave.
I want them. I want… this. And I shouldn’t. But I do. And the worst part?
For the first time in a long time, I don’t want the weekend free.
I just want them to stay.
The thought of handing them over—letting them go—I hate it.
I know that’s not fair.
I know she’s their mother.
I know she raised them for ten years, and I’ve been in their lives for seven days.
But that doesn’t change how it feels.
It doesn’t change the way Payton’s smile is still a fragile thing, or the way Paige flinches just slightly when she asks for something like she’s waiting to be told no.
When Payton leans her shoulder into mine on the couch. Not when Paige shouts my name when she finds the perfect nail polish. Not when Coleman—
God.
Coleman.
I close my eyes.
The way he looked at me last night, after dinner. After the movie. The way his fingers brushed my cheek like it meant something. Like I meant something.
I should’ve pulled away.
Should’ve stepped back.
Should’ve remembered that this job comes with boundaries and expectations and rules.
But when he touched me…
I forgot every one of them.
I don’t hear him until he’s already in the kitchen.
Just the low scrape of his footsteps and the rustle of fabric as he crosses to the coffee maker, his presence quiet, but impossible to ignore.
I don’t look at him right away. Just keep stirring the oatmeal like I’m not hyper-aware of him in every corner of the room.
“I figured I’d be the only one up,” he says, voice rough from sleep.
I glance over. He looks unfairly good like that—tired, yes, but relaxed in a way he never is during the day. His T-shirt hangs a little loose, sweatpants riding low on his hips, dark hair still messy from sleep.
“I couldn’t sleep,” I murmur.
His eyes soften. “Me either.”
We fall into silence. Not the awkward kind, but the kind that feels… fragile. Like one wrong move will tip it all over.
Without the girls around, there’s no buffer. No glitter or waffles or storytime to hide behind. Just me and him. And the gravity of whatever this thing is that’s growing between us.
I move to grab a mixing bowl from the upper shelf—too high for me, of course—but I stretch anyway. I always do.
Before I can grab it, his hand is already there, reaching past me.
His chest brushes against my shoulder as he leans in. Solid. Warm. Close.
Too close.
The contact sends heat straight through me, lighting up nerves I didn’t even know were waiting for him. I hold my breath, trying not to sway toward him, trying not to notice how his breath fans against my cheek as he exhales.
He hands me the bowl without a word, but his eyes linger.
Then, a small smirk tugs at his mouth.
“You really are the Chaos Coordinator, aren’t you?”
I blink. “What?”
He nods at my hoodie—the same one I was wearing the day we met. The one that says Chaos Coordinator in loopy letters across the chest.
“You’ve been here a week and I’ve had to vacuum glitter out of my coffee machine,” he says, teasing. “The title fits.”
I laugh, but it catches in my throat.
Because I’ve heard those words before.
Just not like that.
Not gently.
Not playfully.
Not with warmth.
My last boyfriend used to say it like a warning. You’re too much, Remi. Too loud. Too bright. You never shut off. Like loving me was a job he never signed up for. Like I was a temporary spark they’d get tired of when it got too hot.
Coleman’s still smiling, completely unaware of the landmine he just stepped on.
I set the bowl down a little too carefully and turn back to the stove, needing something to do with my hands. Something to quiet the sudden swirl in my chest.
He must feel the shift because the teasing fades. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I lie. “Just… tired.”
More silence.
Then, softly: “Big day.” He says while sitting back with his coffee.
I nod. “Yeah. The girls…”
I trail off, because what is there to say?
They’re leaving. I hate it. It’s not my place to hate it.
“I was thinking of heading back to my apartment this weekend,” I say, keeping my voice light. “Give you the space. I know you’ve got a routine.”
Something flashes across his face. Annoyance, maybe. Frustration.
He hides it fast, but not fast enough.
I frown. “You don’t want me to?”
He runs a hand through his hair, jaw tightening. “I just didn’t think you’d leave.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” I ask, quieter now. “The girls won’t be here. I’m not really needed.”
His eyes lift to mine. “That’s not why I want you to stay.”
I wait.
For the rule.
For the expectation.
For the practical reason he’s clearly holding back.
But all he does is step closer. Not enough to touch. Just close enough that I feel it.
The ache.
The hesitation.
The pull.
His voice is rough when he finally speaks again. “It’s because I feel less lonely when you’re here.”
My heart stutters.
He doesn’t look at me when he says it. Doesn’t give me time to react. Just turns back to the coffee, like he didn’t just break something open inside of me.
I don’t answer.
Because if I do, I might tell him the truth.
That I feel it too.