36. Harper
HARPER
Five days in, and I’m still finding new rooms.
This morning it’s a small library off the second-floor landing, shelves half full already, a window seat overlooking the drive that I claim immediately as mine, mental note made to bring a blanket up here before winter actually arrives.
Viktor finds me there, coffee in each hand, and passes one over without asking if I want it, which he knows by now.
“You’ve been quiet about the house,” he says. “Good quiet or bad quiet?”
“I keep finding things. Yesterday it was a mudroom I didn’t know existed. Today it’s this.” I gesture at the shelves, half stocked with books that look like they were chosen rather than inherited. “Did you actually pick these, or did someone do it for you?”
“I picked most of them. A few years back, before I had any real reason to expect I’d ever bring anyone here to read them.”
I don’t ask what he means by that, filing it away the way I’ve learned to file away the pieces of him that come out sideways instead of directly, and we finish the coffee together before he heads down to meet Dimitri, who’s been arriving earlier every day this week, tablet in hand, expression harder to read than usual.
I spend the rest of the morning doing what I’ve been doing most mornings since we arrived, walking the house properly, room by room, the way you learn a place you actually intend to live in rather than pass through.
The kitchen’s bigger than anything I’ve cooked in before, an island large enough that Ginger’s already claimed one end of it for homework, the other end mine for whatever I’m making that night.
The dining room connects to a sunroom I didn’t notice on the first walkthrough, glass on three sides, currently empty except for a single chair someone left behind.
However, I’ve already started picturing a reading corner there, plants, something that makes the room feel used instead of just beautiful.
Ginger’s room sits at the end of the hall upstairs, painted a soft green she picked out herself from a stack of swatches Viktor brought home the second day.
She’s already made it hers. Stuffed animals arranged by some logic only she understands, the dragon book from home propped prominently on her nightstand.
The nursery sits two doors down, pale yellow walls already dry, empty except for a crib assembled and waiting, the same one Viktor apparently ordered in secret months ago, and I stand in the doorway most mornings just looking at it, still not quite believing how close we are to actually needing it.
The grounds themselves take longer to learn than the house does. There’s the treehouse, obviously; Ginger’s now spent so many hours in it I’ve started sending snacks up via a bucket and rope system Viktor rigged for her, delighted with himself the entire time he built it.
There’s a small stable, empty for now, though Ginger’s already lobbying hard for a horse, an argument I suspect she’s going to eventually win given how thoroughly Viktor seems willing to indulge her.
There’s the pool, quieter here than at the old house, hidden behind a hedge that gives it a privacy I didn’t expect a fortress to bother with.
And there’s the perimeter itself, cameras built into the landscaping so subtly I only notice them because I know to look now, security walking the property line at intervals I’ve started unconsciously tracking without meaning to.
It’s a house first, if you don’t look too closely. A fortress if you do.
I’m hanging laundry in the mudroom that afternoon when Ginger finds me, still in her school clothes, backpack dropped somewhere in the hallway behind her.
“Why did we have to move here?” she asks, no preamble, the question apparently building all day before finally surfacing.
I set down the shirt I’m folding, giving her my full attention. “Do you not like it here?”
“I like the treehouse. And my room’s bigger.” She picks at a loose thread on her sleeve. “But we didn’t tell anyone we were moving. Not Mrs. Bennett, not Theo. We just left.”
“I know that was fast. I’m sorry it felt sudden.”
“Is it because of Grandma and Grandpa?”
The question lands the way it always does, direct in a way only a six-year-old can manage, and I choose my words with deliberate care, wanting honesty without handing her more weight than she can carry.
“Some of it’s about them, yeah. There’s been some tension, adult stuff, and Viktor wanted us somewhere safer while we figure it out. That’s really all it is.”
“Are we in trouble?”
“No, baby. You’re not in trouble. Nobody’s in trouble.” I pull her into a hug, resting my chin on top of her head. “Viktor and I are handling it. Your job is just being a kid, going to your new school, enjoying that treehouse. Okay?”
“Okay.” She accepts it the way she’s learned to accept most things lately, trusting rather than doubting, and pulls back to ask if she can have a snack before homework, already moving past the heaviness of the question entirely.
I watch her go, marveling again at how much easier this transition seems to be landing on her than the one four months ago, back when every change felt like proof adults couldn’t be trusted to keep their promises. This one, apparently, she’s just filing under inconvenient rather than catastrophic.
That evening, once Ginger’s asleep, I find Viktor in the kitchen, sleeves pushed up, actually cooking instead of just supervising takeout, something with garlic and wine that smells better than anything I’ve managed all week.
“You cook.”
“Occasionally. When I have a reason to.” He glances at me, something easy in his expression that wasn’t there a week ago, before the accident, before the guest room, before any of it. “Sit. This is almost done.”
I sit at the island instead of hovering, watching him work, and there’s no guardedness left in it, none of the careful distance I’ve been holding onto since the reveal.
Just a man cooking dinner in a kitchen I’m slowly learning to call mine, and a version of trust that’s rebuilding itself one ordinary evening at a time.
“Thank you,” I say once he’s plated the food and joined me at the island. “For the house. For today. For not pushing when Ginger needed space to ask her own questions in her own time.”
“You handled that better than I could have.”
“We handled it. Together, remember?”
“Together.” He reaches for my hand across the counter, and I let him take it, no hesitation left in the gesture at all. “How are you, actually? Not managing everyone else’s feelings for once. You.”
I consider the question honestly before answering. “Tired. Still a little scared, if I’m honest. But steadier than I expected to feel, given everything.” I squeeze his hand. “This house helps. Having you close again helps more.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“I know.” And for the first time since the reveal, I actually believe it, no guard left up against the possibility he’s wrong.
We eat dinner slowly, talking about nothing important, the house settling into its evening quiet around us, and somewhere upstairs, past the nursery and Ginger’s room and the library I’ve already claimed as mine, the property line holds steady, cameras watching, security walking their rounds, buying us whatever peace tonight’s willing to offer.