Chapter 18
Home
Hildy
Ileave Anna tucked into her room on the second floor, the door cracked just enough to let the warmth travel, air circulate, and to keep a promise to keep Lenzin away. He can’t get sick.
The bowl sits steady on her nightstand, Milchreis thick and pale, cinnamon blooming across the surface.
Lucy added the sugar and cinnamon, measured it herself.
Anna’s fever has her glassy-eyed, but she smiles anyway.
Says it smells like home. I tell her to sleep and mean it the way you mean things when care has turned directive.
By the time I make my way back down the stairs, wide steps worn smooth at the edges, rooms that hold sound differently depending on where you stand, it’s warm and feels like a home should feel.
I never saw it when it was the Puck Pad, only heard the tales.
I imagine its soft hum used to be more of a shout.
Music drifts through the first floor. I recognize the song before I see them.
Lenzin and Lucy are on the couch, Lucy half standing on the cushion, half dancing, like she hasn’t decided whether the song requires choreography or pure silliness.
Lenzin’s arm is around her, loose but secure, the way you hold someone you’re afraid will fall, and that hurt will be shared.
He’s singing softly, careful with the words. Lucy is not.
“Upside down,” she belts, spinning once before dropping back into his side.
When she spots me, she grins, wide and proud.
“This is mine,” she announces, pointing decisively between herself and Lenzin. “Mine and Faulker’s.”
I stop short.
His eyes go wide, just for a fraction of a second, like something vital has hit him square in the chest. He swallows. His hand tightens at Lucy’s back.
“That’s right,” he manages, voice steady. “Our song.”
Lucy nods, satisfied, and turns back to the music like the matter is settled for good.
“Dinner in five,” I say, smiling through the emotions it stirs. Hell, the emotions the whole day has inspired.
We eat at the kitchen island, the one that’s seen more shared meals than I think Lucy or I have ever had. Dinner is simple. Rice, vegetables, lean protein. I’ve watched what he eats in season without meaning to, the way attention sneaks up on you when care is already present.
Lucy swings her legs beneath her chair.
“I don’t like Rainbow anymore,” she says suddenly, and my chest tightens.
Lenzin stills. “Why’s that?”
She shrugs, pokes at her food. “It makes me sad.”
I wait.
“It reminds me of my old mom,” she says, matter-of-fact. “She used to sing it to me at night.”
Lenzin’s fork pauses midair. His eyes flick to me, checking, careful. I give him the smallest nod.
“So, we picked a new song,” Lucy continues, brightening. “Home.”
My chest tightens, sharp and warm all at once.
“Hildy found it,” she adds proudly. “We learned it all day. She’s gonna make it my go-to sleep song.”
“All day?” Lenzin asks softly.
“When we cleaned the sick rooms,” Lucy says. “And when we took care of Anna. Because that’s what family does.”
The word lands heavy. But the way Lenzin looks at her makes me know, without question, he wants that too.
From what Anna has said, he’s never felt it with his own, and I suspect neither has she.
Which means she is welcome to be ours too.
And that should be completely and utterly insane, to have feelings for a man and also adore his ex.
Lucy looks at him then, really looks, her head tilting like she’s considering something important.
“You’re my family now too,” she tells him.
He doesn’t answer right away. His throat works.
His eyes shine, unguarded. He reaches out, covers Lucy’s hand with his own. “I am. And you are mine now as well.”
Lucy beams and goes back to eating, chicken… unbreaded.
They watch Curious George while I go over a few emails from my classes next semester. When Lenzin hears the song, I hear him whisper-sing it in her ear. She beams, and my heart feels it open just a little bit more, without fear this time.
“Time for a bath,” I say, closing my laptop.
“Can Faulker read with us?” she asks, sliding off the couch.
“I’d love to. Let me know when you’re done with your bath.” I give her braid a gentle tug.
I run the bath while Lucy trails behind me, narrating every step. She’s memorized the routine, and I hope that she’s never afraid it could all be gone in a blink of her now soft and sweet, unbruised and less guarded green eyes.
The water fills the tub with a steady rush, steam curling up toward the ceiling, and I make sure the bag we use over her cast is secure so it doesn’t get wet.
She insists on testing it herself, dipping one finger in, then another. “Needs more warm.”
I add a little hot and she nods, satisfied.
She picks the bubbles tonight. Lavender, the soft kind that smells like bedtime instead of playtime. Then the shampoo, her current favorite, the one that smells the same.
She presses the bottle to her nose, inhales deeply. “This one. This one makes my hair happy.”
I help her out of her clothes and she steps into the tub without hesitation. She sinks down slowly, watching the bubbles climb up her stomach, then grins at me.
“My belly’s full,” she announces. “Like, really full.”
I smile, kneeling beside the tub. “That’s a good thing.”
She nods seriously. “No more bear in my belly tonight.”
The words land gently. No growl. No ache. No hunger before bed because no one cared that she was full.
I wash her hair carefully, tipping her head back, shielding her eyes with my hand. She hums while I rinse, our song, Home. When I wrap her in a towel afterward, she leans into me, warm and heavy and boneless in that way kids only are when they feel safe.
Night clothes are chosen, the soft cotton ones with the tiny stars, sleeves a little too long, pants she insists on rolling once at the ankles herself and thick soft socks, two of course and one will be found somewhere when we make the bed in the morning.
She climbs onto the stool at the sink so she can brush her teeth, watching herself in the mirror like she’s checking that everything is still where it should be.
“All clean,” she says when she’s done. “Ready for stories.”
We step out into her room and she asks, “Can Faulker come now?”
I nod and open the door.
Lucy climbs into bed on her knees, rearranging her pillows with purpose while I pull the blankets up around her. She settles back against the headboard, already reaching for the book like it belongs there, like it always has.
Faulker sits on the edge of the bed, clears his throat, glances at Lucy. “You ready?”
She nods, serious. “You gotta do the voices.”
He smiles at that and starts reading, slow and deliberate, letting the rhythm do most of the work. Lucy points as he goes, tapping the page when something feels important.
“That’s the bunny,” she says, even though no one asked.
He nods like this is critical information.
When he gets to the quiet parts, the room seems to follow along. The light is low. The house has settled. I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely, watching the way Lucy’s body softens with each page, how her breathing slows without her noticing.
“Goodnight stars,” Lucy murmurs before he can finish the line.
“And the air,” she adds thoughtfully. “And the house.”
Faulker pauses, then reads on, folding her additions in without missing a beat. When he reaches the end, Lucy sighs, long and content, like something has clicked into place.
“One more thing,” she says, eyes already half-closed.
“What’s that?” he asks.
She thinks for a moment. “Goodnight full belly,” she decides. “No more bear.”
I feel it then, sharp and sudden, the way moments like this sneak up on you and ask to be kept.
Faulker closes the book and sets it on the nightstand. He looks at me, a silent question.
I nod.
We sing quietly, barely above a whisper. I start it, steady and familiar, and he follows, careful not to rush it. Lucy hums along for a line or two, then her voice fades, her fingers curling into the blanket as sleep finally settles in.
Home. Oh, home. Let me come home.
By the time the song ends, she’s gone, the day released completely. Faulker stands slowly, reverent again, and I smooth Lucy’s hair back once before turning off the lamp.
I begin tidying up the kitchen when he comes down the hall from the bathroom and begins helping me without thought. “I’ve been off work for 4 days, I can do this, it’s our mess.”
“You’ve been taking care of Lucy, and sick, that’s hardly a vacation.
” He states. “And this is a family mess,” he quips as he playfully hip checks me while rolling up his sleeves and turning on the faucet.
I wonder if his pulse kicks up like mine when we’re alone and close like this.
“I’d like to do the dishes, since the two of you cleaned all day. ”
He opens the dishwasher, glances at my system, then proceeds to ignore it entirely and loads the plates in his own deliberate, Tetris-winner fashion.
“You’re going to jam the sprayers,” I giggle at his obvious lack of doing a simple task like this. “Um, that’s how you get mystery rice glued to the glassware.”
He makes a show of examining his work, then the faucet, then the glass, like he’s consulting with a panel of experts, expecting a play-by-play. He shrugs, not even remotely chastened. “I like the challenge. Give me a real mess, and I’ll show you a masterpiece.”
I flick a drop of water at him. He flicks two back, smirking and never breaking eye contact. He’s close enough that I can smell him over the lavender from Lucy’s bath.
“It’s our mess, I’ll clean it up. Go relax.”
He leans across me, almost pinning me to the counter, to grab a damp towel. “You know what they say about teams that play together?”
I arch an eyebrow. He’s waiting for me to ask what, so I don’t. I just keep scrubbing the pan that rice is still clinging to.