10. Ethan #2
“No, sir. If you think I’m reading the plane book and the dinosaur one, you’ve gravely misunderstood how bedtime negotiations work.”
Oliver says something I don’t catch. Addy laughs softly.
I set my keys down and move toward the sound without announcing myself.
From the doorway of Oliver’s room, I can see enough.
Oliver is already in bed, hair still damp from what was likely a bath he didn't request. He’s propped against his pillows with one of his blankets twisted around his legs.
Addy sits on the edge of the mattress beside him, the dinosaur book open in her lap, though from the look on her face, she’s already lost the argument she was trying to win.
Captain is sprawled across the rug very comfortably.
Neither of them sees me at first.
Addy turns a page and says, in the most solemn narration imaginable, “And then, tragically, the T Rex made a series of poor personal choices and was no longer invited to herbivore brunch.”
Oliver laughs again.
I remain where I am, one hand resting lightly against the doorframe.
There’s nothing remarkable about the scene in a broader sense. A nanny reading to a child, a dog asleep on the floor, a warm lamp lit against the darkening city outside. Ordinary domesticity.
And yet there’s a distinct disorientation in seeing it in my home with that particular voice filling the spaces between the furniture.
Addy glances up as she closes the book.
Her gaze lands on me and pauses.
“Hi,” she says quietly.
Oliver turns immediately. “Dad.”
I cross into the room. “You’re supposed to be asleep.”
“I’m trying,” he says with the grave patience of someone who feels the process is already underway.
Addy closes the book fully and sets it on the bedside table. “For the record, he attempted to leverage his own charm against bedtime and was moderately successful.”
Oliver looks pleased with himself.
Addy rises from the bed with more care than is strictly necessary, as though suddenly conscious of the smallness of the room and my presence in it. “He had dinner, a bath, one and a half stories, and a detailed discussion about whether planes would get lonely if nobody flew them.”
I look at Oliver. “And?”
“They would,” he says firmly.
“Of course.”
Captain lifts his head, sees me, and thumps his tail once before deciding he's far too settled to commit to full mobility.
I move to the bed and smooth a hand over Oliver’s hair. “Lights out, buddy.”
He nods. “Okay.”
I glance at Addy. “Thank you.”
Her expression shifts briefly. “It was easy.”
I suspect that isn’t entirely true, though the result speaks for itself.
I step back. “Goodnight, Oliver.”
“Night.”
Addy gives him one last look, checks that the night light is on, and slips out into the hallway with me. Captain, after a long sigh, gets up and follows at a less-than-dignified pace.
“You survived bedtime,” I say as we head to the kitchen.
She chuckles. “Barely. It was touch-and-go. There were negotiations. At one point, he implied I was oppressing him with hygiene.”
“That sounds accurate.”
She smiles. “See? This is why he keeps trying things. He knows his audience.”
I move toward the island, setting one hand lightly against the counter. “How was the rest of the day?”
She shifts her weight, and her face changes from playful to more focused. “Good. Better than good, actually.”
“Go on.”
“We needed food.”
I wait.
She lifts one shoulder slightly. “There wasn’t much in the house that made sense for him. Plenty of ingredients. Nothing child-specific.”
That tracks. Claire had handled most of those adjustments without involving me unless necessary. I rarely think about groceries unless the pantry is visibly empty.
“So we went out,” Addy continues. “There’s a café across the road. Brewed Awakening? Diane recommended it.”
“You went out?”
“Yes.” Then, before I can say anything, “And before you look like that, it was fine.”
“I don’t know what expression you mean.”
“The one where your entire face becomes a risk assessment.”
That's irritatingly close to correct.
She continues before I can respond. “He ate grilled cheese, had half a hot chocolate, and played with some other kids in the toy corner. I learned that he takes social adjustment better when food is involved, which, honestly, relatable.”
I study her. “And?”
“And what?”
“You’re leaving something out.”
Her mouth twitches. “I met someone.”
That lands oddly.
I keep my tone neutral. “At the café?”
“Yes. Sophie. She works there. Very nice. Strong opinions. Possibly clairvoyant.”
I don’t ask why that last part's relevant because I suspect the answer will be exhausting.
Instead, I say, “Oliver was comfortable?”
“Yes.” She softens a little at that. “Very. He likes routines, but he also likes knowing what comes next when the routine changes. Once I explained where we were going and why, he was good.”
Many people miss that distinction with him. They assume calm means passivity, when in fact it usually means he’s processing more than they expect.
I nod once. “Good.”
She sets the glass down. “Then we came back, did a little decompression time, and I made him something simple later because apparently grilled cheese is not, in fact, a complete dinner in this household.”
Captain appears beside her as if summoned by disagreement. She absently scratches behind his ears without breaking eye contact with me.
Dangerous.
I ignore the thought and say, “What’s the notebook?”
She glances down at the book in her hand. “Oh. Just notes.”
“On?”
“Your son. The dog. The kitchen. The fact that your pantry appears to have been stocked by someone who fears fun.”
I look at the notebook. “You’re making household notes on your first day.”
“Yes.” She pauses. “Is that weird?”
“No.”
It isn’t.
If anything, it’s exactly the sort of beyond-the-minimum instinct I’ve spent years trying and failing to hire consistently.
I look at her more directly. “Most people wouldn’t.”
She shrugs a little, suddenly less certain of the ground under the conversation. “Most people probably also wouldn’t have taken him out on day one.”
“No.”
“But he needed actual food.”
“Yes.”
The city beyond the windows is dark now, the skyline lit in fragments.
Reflections gather on the glass, turning the apartment inward.
The light above the island catches in her hair differently at night, warmer than it does in daylight.
Her cardigan has slipped slightly off one shoulder, and I hate that I notice that before the notebook in her hand or the fact that Captain has now fully stationed himself against her leg.
I look away first.
“You did well today,” I say.
“Oh,” she says. Then, quieter, “Thanks.”
“It matters,” I add, because for some reason, leaving it there feels insufficient. “Oliver doesn’t settle easily with new people.”
“I know.”
“You handled it properly.”
She looks down, then back up. “He makes it easy too.”
That’s not entirely true either, but I understand what she means.
I nod once.
She shifts the notebook in her hands. “For what it’s worth, he seems really happy.”
There are a number of responses available to that.
The simplest is the only one I trust.
“He hasn’t laughed that way with someone new in a long time.”
Her face changes at that. Her expression is gentler than humor, quieter than victory.
“I’m glad,” she says.
So am I.
More than I should probably admit aloud on the first night.
Captain yawns hugely, then leans his full weight into Addy’s leg until she stumbles half a step.
She looks down. “You're aggressively affectionate.”
“He does that when he’s decided something.”
She glances up. “And what has he decided?”
I meet her gaze. “That you belong here.”
The words leave before I can edit them.
Her breath catches very slightly.
I should correct it, reframe it, make it about the dog and nothing else.
Instead, I hear myself say, “At least according to him.”
That seems to give her somewhere safer to stand.
She smiles faintly. “Well. He’s clearly a very smart man.”
“Questionable, but enthusiastic.”
“That counts.”
More than she knows.