Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Korrad
The Saturday morning sun had that lazy, golden quality that promised a long, unhurried day. It streamed into the sunroom, warming the wood of my old acoustic guitar where it lay across my lap.
The air still held the ghost of our breakfast—the rich, sweet smell of maple syrup, the savory punch of bacon, the bitter note of my third cup of coffee.
Every once in a while, I heard the faint sound of Kesha’s laughter from the front yard, where she announced she was going to go try on her new rollerblades.
She was out there with Jay, giving him the competition he craved.
Every once in a while, I could see flashes of them as they rounded the far curve of the cul-de-sac—Kesha looking poured into those athletic shorts, her obvious strength and power making my Kteer drool.
Who knew I’d be into a female who looked like she might be able to kick my ass?
Jay, even at twelve, was the same size as her…and he was nonetheless being schooled. I couldn’t stop the proud, possessive curl in my gut.
My wife. The human designation shouldn’t have meaning to me—it was just a legal term on a piece of paper…
but the thought still sent a strange thrill through me.
Kesha was mine, even if she wasn’t…well, mine.
She might not be my Mate—and couldn’t ever be my Mate—but the laws of her government said we belonged together, and I still hadn’t gotten used to that.
In here, the rhythm was slower, more deliberate.
Milo sat on the drum stool, his back as straight as a ruler, his entire being focused on the pair of practice sticks in his hands. He held them just as I’d shown him weeks ago, with a careful respect that made my heart squeeze with a quiet, profound satisfaction.
This… this was peace. A kind I hadn’t known I was missing.
“Alright, buddy,” I said, my voice a low rumble in the sun-drenched quiet.
“Remember, it’s a conversation. The bass drum,” I tapped my foot on the floor, “is the question. Steady. Reliable. The snare,” I hit my thigh, “is the answer. You don’t rush the answer.
You let the question hang in the air for a beat. Feel the space between.”
It might be a stupid analogy, but it was one I’d managed to blurt out last week, and the kid seemed to connect with it, so I kept using it.
Milo nodded, his brow furrowed in intense, almost adorable concentration. His tongue peeked out from the corner of his mouth. He’d taken to the drums like a seagull took to unattended chip bags. Where Jay heard noise, Milo heard…well, heard a conversation.
He wanted to understand how the sound was built, just like the way his mom examined conversations.
“Ready?” I asked.
“Ready.”
I let my fingers find the strings, picking out a simple, bluesy shuffle.
I watched Milo’s small shoulders tense, then drop as he found the count in his head.
A moment later, the thump of the bass pedal joined me for a few steady beats.
When I nodded in encouragement—glad he’d found it so quickly—that was followed by the hesitant crack of the snare.
It was clumsy, the timing a hair off, but the heart of it was there.
“Good,” I murmured, keeping the chords flowing. “You’re listening. That’s everything. Now try adding the sprinkler.” I made the steady tss-tss-tss sound of a hi-hat with my mouth. “Just keep the time. Constant. Let the other stuff dance around it.”
I saw the effort flash in his eyes—coordinating three limbs was a mental marathon for a kid with arms as skinny as his.
He tried, I’ll give him that…but within a few bars, it all fell apart into a clatter of missed hits.
Wincing, Milo hiked his shoulders up to his ears in a gesture I’d come to recognize instantly. The frustration was a live wire in him, and he was learning, painstakingly, how not to get shocked by it.
“Hey,” I said gently, my fingers never leaving the melody. “Noise is still practice. Reset. Just the question and the answer.”
Milo took a deep, shuddering breath, his eyes closing. When they opened, the frustration was banked, smothered under that eerie, powerful focus. He started again. Kick. Snare. Solid. Steady.
Gods below, this kid.
I’d braced myself for storms. Kesha had been brutally, beautifully honest about Milo’s diagnosis, about the meltdowns that could shake her world, the rigidity that could lock him in place, the anxiety that could turn a simple grocery trip into an ordeal.
I’d read what I could, and for patience, for routine, for being a calm, immovable object in his emotional hurricane.
But the hurricane hadn’t come.
Yet?
So far, in the months of our marriage, Milo had been… perfect. Cheerful, adaptable, polite. He followed rules, ate his vegetables, and merged with Jay’s life as if he’d been carved from the same wood.
It was everything Kesha must have been praying for when she’d agreed to my suggestion to give Milo more security.
But it worried me. Because I saw the flickers.
The way his gaze would sometimes go distant and glassy, fixed on some inner horizon before he’d blink back to us.
The overly-formal “pleases” and “thank yous,” rehearsed to perfection.
The way he’d apologize for spilling a single drop of water as if he’d set the house on fire.
Kesha told me she was amazed by how well he was settling in, but I didn’t see her son that way. Milo still thought of himself as a guest. The world’s most conscientious, well-behaved guest, terrified of overstaying his welcome.
I knew that fear. I just didn’t know how to tell him the welcome mat was buried under six inches of permanent foundation.
“Okay,” Milo announced, pulling me from my thoughts. His voice was clear, decisive. “I’m gonna try the sprinkler now.”
“Go for it, little dude.”
The tss-tss-tss joined the mix, shaky but relentless. The kick and snare wavered, stumbled, then locked back in. It was rough. It had holes. But by the gods, it was a beat. A real, playable, living beat.
A grin broke across his face, so bright and unguarded it felt like a punch to my sternum.
“That’s it!” I couldn’t stop my own smile. I leaned into the guitar, weaving a little melodic riff around his sturdy rhythm. “You’re doing it. Don’t think, just live in the beat.”
We played like that for a few minutes, the music a tangible thing growing between us in the sun-warmed room.
It wasn’t anything you’d record. But it was ours. The sound of a Saturday morning, of full bellies and a safe harbor, of a bond being built not from blood but from choice, note by precious note.
As the last chord faded, Milo placed his sticks on the snare drum with a reverence that made my throat tight.
“That was cool,” he declared, a little puff of pride in his chest. “The space in between part. It’s like… the quiet isn’t empty. It’s holding the next note.”
I stared at him, utterly disarmed. “Yeah,” I managed, my voice gone gravelly. “Exactly like that.”
He swiveled on the stool, his legs kicking. “Jay says I’m getting good. For a beginner.”
“You’re getting good, period. You listen, and that’s most of the battle.
” I set my guitar on its stand and stretched, the joints in my shoulders popping.
“Jay never had the patience for this. He likes the idea of music, he likes to listen to it. But the practice…” I shook my head, smiling.
“His patience is for hockey strategies and video games, but you’re better at this than your brother. ”
That grin from a moment ago? It positively bloomed across his face. “Jay’s my brother now, for real.”
I was still staring at him, my throat tight in response to his joy. Milo’s ears stuck out a bit, his dark curls tight against his head, and his voice not yet begun to drop…and in that moment he seemed very young indeed.
“He is,” I managed to croak.
The paternal pride that swelled in me then was a different creature than what I felt for Jay. With Jay, it was a fierce, protective joy—seeing myself reflected in his strength, his competitiveness. With Milo, it was this… quiet awe. A discovery.
He offered me a new window into fatherhood, and I found myself greedy for the view.
“If Jay’s really my brother, then I want him to sleep on the bottom bunk.”
The change in topic pulled my brows down. “Jay has his own room, buddy.”
Milo nodded, his fingers tracing the metallic rim of the snare. “Yeah, but I’m supposed to move into his room with him all the time, not just when we’re gaming. We talked about sharing the bunk beds, yeah?”
I carefully picked my way through the upcoming conversation, trying to see where he was going and how to handle it. “Yes? But not until you were ready.”
His gaze jerked up eagerly. “I’m ready! I mean, I don’t know anyone who has to share a room with their mom. Even in Texas, I had my own bedroom, and Mom’s bed was in the living room. She said we could only afford one room, and I should have it.”
When had I stood up? Why were my claws digging into my palms again? The thought of my wife struggling to pay rent, or the thought of her sacrificing for her son?
“I don’t know if Jay really wants me in his room, but don’t you think it’s silly that me and Mom are sharing?” Milo waved a hand, struggling to shape the thought. “You and Mom are married. Married people share a room. My friend Ben’s parents share a room—his dad’s an orc like you, do you know him?”
Without waiting for me to say yes, I know Aswan, he continued, his voice too fast as he tried to convince me.
“In every movie, they share a room. How come Mom can’t just move in with you?
” He looked at me as if I were missing the simplest solution to a basic math problem.
“Then I could have my own room right now, and we wouldn’t have to move all my stuff later. It seems like… extra steps.”
Oh, fuck.
Sharing a room with Kesha? Sharing a bed with Kesha?