Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
Cole
I bought the building next to Guardian Hall on a Tuesday.
Not because I needed it. Not because it was a smart addition to my portfolio. I already owned three properties within a six-block radius, all cleaner, all easier, all guaranteed to turn a profit without me losing sleep.
I bought it because I needed to do this for Guardian Hall, and for myself.
The building had been a warehouse once—brick and steel and stubborn bones, the kind of place that had seen industry come and go and refused to fall down out of spite.
The sign out front was faded to illegibility, the windows were clouded with grime, and the loading bay sagged at one corner.
The sale went through faster than I’d expected.
Cash helped. So did not asking too many questions.
Within a week, I had builders and contractors inside.
Alex and Marcus didn’t know it was me at first, but I didn’t keep it a secret for long because I needed them to tell me what they needed.
Upgraded medical facilities, more family space, and so much more I could give.
There were no jackhammers at dawn. No blocked access.
No chaos bleeding into Guardian Hall’s carefully managed calm.
This wasn’t about expansion.
It was about breathing room.
Guardian Hall ran at capacity more often than anyone liked to admit. Family rooms doubled as offices. Group spaces did triple duty. Staff burned out because there were never enough of them, never enough hours, never enough money that wasn’t earmarked for emergencies.
I could throw money at it. I had been throwing money at it.
But money without structure was just noise.
I set up a trust that had nothing to do with my board, but all to do with me privately. Something I could throw myself into.
Dedicated funding for staffing. Mental health professionals on retainer. Maintenance budgets that didn’t rely on panic appeals. A structure that protected Guardian Hall’s autonomy instead of swallowing it whole.
And space.
The warehouse would become transitional housing. Clean, solid units for people who were ready to leave Guardian Hall but not ready to be dropped into the world without a net.
Inspired by Morgan.
The man I loved.
It had been six weeks since he agreed to take on the apartment project and today, in the middle of summer, he and Gabbi were moving in, we said we loved each other often, and I knew he was mine, that Gabbi was mine, that they were my family, and he was relaxed with me, and the relationship we had was beautiful.
Morgan and Gabbi didn’t have much left to move on the day they left Guardian Hall because we’d slowly moved things over in the week leading up to it.
Alex had arranged a kind of farewell party, though it was really just people drifting in and out of the family room, hugging Morgan when he let them, waving at Gabbi, promising to visit.
Marcus made chili. Jazz cried and pretended it was allergies.
Rascal supervised from the sofa like a tiny foreman.
I loaded the car while Morgan said his goodbyes, taking my time so he could do it properly. When he finally came out, Gabbi strapped to his chest, he looked steady, and the drive was quiet apart from Gabbi’s babbling from her car seat.
The neon yellow in the second room had gone, and in its place were soft sunset colors—warm peach fading into duskier rose—and across the longest wall stretched a mural. One of the Guardian Hall guests, a quiet marine called Paul, had painted it, and it was stunning.
Morgan stood there for a second longer than necessary, eyes tracking the line where the colors met. “I had to sand the whole wall back,” he said, almost offhand. “They hadn’t prepped it properly. Paint was just… sitting on top.”
I looked at him. “You stripped it back yourself?”
He shrugged, as though it were nothing. “Didn’t take long once I figured out where they’d cut corners.”
I smiled before I could stop myself. “It’s amazing.” There was still so much to do, but this wasn’t a building site; it was tired and needed work, and Morgan had lost himself in the work. “I wonder if Paul would be up for a commission; our office lobby is looking sad.”
Morgan shrugged. “He might. Wouldn’t hurt to ask.” He unstrapped Gabbi and placed her in a small bassinet by the wonky sofa, and as he picked up his phone to order pizza there was a knock on the door.
Morgan answered it.
I didn’t know who was more shocked that my parents were standing there—him or me.
I’d told them Morgan had moved in downstairs. They’d said they would visit. Normally, that would require at least three diary confirmations and a driver, but here they were. Unannounced.
Mother wore cream wool. Father, a navy coat that probably cost more than the monthly rent on this place. They looked slightly out of place in the small apartment.
But they’d come.
“You must be Morgan,” Mother said, extending her hand.
Morgan froze for half a heartbeat before taking it. “Yes, ma’am.”
“My name is Eleanor Harrington, and this is my husband, James. We’re Cole’s parents.”
Morgan stiffened visibly. “Sir. Ma’am.” He almost stood to attention.
I crossed the room without thinking and slipped my arm around his waist. Grounding him. Or maybe grounding myself.
“Mother. Father. This is Morgan.” I glanced at him and corrected softly, “My Morgan.”
Mother’s gaze flicked to me at that. Just a flicker. Then back to him.
“Please,” Father said evenly, extending his hand, “James is fine.”
Morgan shook it, firm but cautious. “Please, come in,” he said quickly, stepping back.
They entered, taking in the space. The scuffed floorboards. The mismatched cushions. The faint smell of baby lotion and old radiators.
“What a dear place,” Mother said, and there was no censure in it. Just observation.
Then she saw Gabbi.
“You darling child.” She moved toward the bassinet with the kind of careful grace she used at charity luncheons, bending at the knee instead of the waist. Gabbi blinked up at her, solemn for all of three seconds before grabbing the delicate gold chain at Mother’s throat.
“Oh!” Mother laughed—a real laugh. “Well, sweetheart, you’re determined.”
Gabbi squealed in triumph.
Morgan stood rigid beside me, braced for something—judgment, perhaps. I tightened my arm around him.
“Would you like a drink?” Morgan asked, voice polite but tight. “We have water. Or, um. Beer.”
Father removed his coat and folded it neatly over the back of a chair. “Water would be perfect, thank you.”
“I’ll help,” I said, but Morgan shook his head and headed to the small kitchen area.
Mother glanced at me. “Are you happy, Cole?” she asked quietly.
“More than happy,” I replied.
Morgan returned with glasses of water, hands steady now. He passed them carefully, but Mother placed hers down on a coaster and straightened. “May I hold her?” she asked, gesturing toward Gabbi.
Morgan hesitated. Just a fraction.
“She’ll probably spit up on your clothes,” he warned, but then he nodded. “Of course.”
Mother lifted Gabbi from the bassinet. Gabbi squirmed once, then settled against her, fingers immediately tangling in cream wool.
“She’s so beautiful,” Mother murmured.
“Thank you,” Morgan said automatically, moving closer without seeming to realize it, and I smiled so damn hard it hurt.
Father watched me. “You seem… happy here, son.”
“I am,” I answered. Morgan lowered himself onto the sofa and I sat beside him, our knees touching, my hand finding his without hesitation. He laced his fingers through mine.
“Hello, little Gabbi,” Mother said, rocking and bouncing her, chuckling when Gabbi spit up on her Chanel jacket.
“I’m so sorry.” Morgan began to rise, but she waved him away.
“For a cuddle with your precious daughter, I would pay any price,” she said, and my heart hurt.
“I understand you served,” Father said, and Morgan nodded.
“Thank you for your service.” There was a pause; he was probably waiting for Morgan to thank him back, but that wasn’t Morgan at all.
“Right, well, um… are you working since leaving Guardian Hall?” Father asked Morgan directly.
I knew he was only making conversation, but the question was raw.
Morgan’s shoulders tensed, but he didn’t pull his hand from mine. “I’ve applied to UC. Engineering or construction management. Waiting to hear.”
Father nodded once. “Practical. Useful.”
“I like building things,” Morgan said quietly. “Fixing them.”
Mother glanced at him over Gabbi’s head. “Cole was always dismantling things as a child. Usually, to find out how they worked. Remember the TV remote?”
“That was one time,” I muttered.
“It was not one time.”
Gabbi babbled, drool soaking into cream wool. Mother didn’t flinch.
“She’s clearly very loved,” Mother said, almost to herself.
“She is,” Morgan whispered, then he stood and paced to the kitchen and back. “I love your son. I don’t want his money.”
“We know,” Father replied, and Mother nodded.
“I met Margaret at an event a week ago, she said you refused financial support from them, apart from a trust for Gabbi. She’s incredibly proud of you and her granddaughter.” She glanced from me to Morgan. “Maybe one day she could be my granddaughter as well?”
Morgan nodded, and Mother shifted Gabbi slightly higher on her shoulder. “Cole has never looked at anyone the way he looks at you,” she said quietly. “Not once.” Morgan’s breath hitched. Mother’s gaze softened. “You make him… happier,” she said. “More than I’ve ever seen.”
Morgan glanced at me, uncertain.
“He makes me happy,” I said simply.
Mother nodded once. A small, deliberate movement.
Gabbi yawned dramatically against Mother’s shoulder, and she laughed again, softer this time. “May I sit?” she asked Morgan.
“Of course,” he said, already shifting to make space.
We ended up close on the small sofa. Morgan on one side, me pressed against him, Mother holding Gabbi at the end, Father in the armchair opposite, and we talked about Guardian Hall, and Gabbi, and engineering, and Gabbi, and some more Gabbi, and by the time they left, with promises to meet up weekly, and an offer of babysitting from Mother, Morgan and I were starving.
We ordered pizza and sat on the floor with our backs against the sofa Morgan had thrifted—slightly lopsided, but comfortable.
I shifted, testing it. “You know it tilts to the left.”
“It does not,” Morgan said automatically.
I leaned harder into the armrest. The sofa gave a tiny, guilty creak. “It absolutely does. Mother slid a good six inches when she sat down.”
He eyed it, then sighed. “Okay, maybe a little. But it was fifty dollars, and it didn’t smell weird. That’s basically winning at thrift.”
“I stand corrected,” I said solemnly. “Function over aesthetics.”
“Coming from you?” He snorted. “You have a chair in your place that looks like modern art and feels like punishment.”
“That chair is iconic,” I protested. “And you didn’t complain last week when we—”
“Not in front of Gabbi,” He fake gasped.
Gabbi chose that moment to flop sideways into the cushions, clearly unconcerned with our debate, and Morgan propped her up with cushions I’d brought down from my place. So now she sat between us on a blanket, chewing on the corner of a soft book and occasionally smacking the pages.
“Do you think they like me?” Morgan asked the question that had probably been rattling in his head since they’d left.
“They love you, because I love you, and because you’re amazing.”
He kissed me then, but I swear he was blushing.
“She’s already crawling,” Morgan said, watching Gabbi with that quiet focus he had when he was happiest. “I installed some gates, but soon she’ll be toddling.”
“You’ll need to soften all the corners.”
“I already bought the plastic things to do that.”
“It’s terrifying,” I said solemnly. “We should baby-proof everything immediately. Including the ceiling.”
Morgan snorted, mouth full of pizza. “Way ahead of you.”
“You’re going to bubble-wrap the light fixtures, aren’t you?”
“Already priced it,” he smirked. “Just kidding.” Then he shook his head, smiling, and leaned back on his hands. “I’m thinking shelves in here,” he said, nodding at the empty wall. “Low ones. For books. And toys. Lots of soft pillows she can make a nest in with things she can reach.”
“Sounds perfect.”
We ate like that for a while, talking about small things.
“Drapes,” Morgan said suddenly, pointing with the crust of his pizza. “We need them. Blackout ones for the bedroom, but not too heavy. I don’t want it to feel closed-in.”
“Of course you don’t,” I said. “Light, but practical. Very on brand.”
He smiled faintly. “And storage. Nothing tall she could pull over. Baskets maybe. Labels so I don’t forget what goes where.”
“I can already see this turning into an organizational system,” I teased. “Color-coded?”
“Don’t push it,” he said, but there was amusement there. “Also, lamps. Softer light. Overhead lighting is… a lot.”
I nodded. “I’ll cancel my dream of industrial spotlights.”
“Thank you,” he said dryly. “You can keep one ridiculous design choice. Just one.”
“Generous.”
I watched him fuss over Gabbi, adjusting the cushion under her head and my heart hurt with how much I loved this man.
“I love you, Morgan,” I murmured, and he sent me a thoughtful glance, then reached out and laced our fingers.
“I love you too,” he said simply.
“Say it again,” I demanded, and he smiled so damn beautifully.
“Do I have to?” he teased.
“Over and over,” I demanded.
“I love you, Cole.”
I kissed him then. And kissed him some more. And picked up Gabbi so we could dance around the kitchen for absolutely no reason.
He loves me. I love him.
We’re a family in the making.