Chapter 5
Grayson
The hallway smells of lavender detergent, clean pajamas, and the particular kind of trouble that usually begins when Samuel goes quiet.
I'm crouched behind a wicker laundry basket with one knee pressed into the runner, trying to negotiate with a five-year-old who's decided that pants are no longer part of his personal belief system.
Samuel's halfway to the stairs, bare feet slapping against the hardwood, curls wild from sleep, pajama shirt twisted around his narrow chest, and nothing on his bottom half.
"Samuel Keller," I call, keeping my voice bright with effort, "if you put those pants on, I'll let you choose the music in the car. The dinosaur song. Three times in a row."
He stops at the top of the stairs and looks back over his shoulder. The expression on his face says he knows exactly how much power he has. "Four times?"
I brace one hand on the floor and push myself up just enough to lunge if he makes another break for it. "Three times. And I'll do the roaring part."
His mouth opens, and for one quiet second I think I have him. Then Rosalie's voice rings out from the nursery behind me.
"I'm the boss today!"
Samuel shrieks with laughter and ducks into the linen closet before I can catch him.
My knees hit the floor with a dull thud, and the ache travels straight up my thighs.
I haven't slept more than five hours a night since Blake started this new development cycle, and the exhaustion sits behind my eyes with a steady pressure that makes the morning feel sharper than it should.
I can feel the phantom weight of my phone in my pocket even though I left it on the hall table.
Emails from Ember House. Donor questions.
Intake schedules. The quiet, constant noise of a life built around making sure everyone else has what they need before I ask whether I've got anything left.
Rosalie appears in the nursery doorway wearing a purple tutu over mismatched pajama pants, one yellow rain boot, and a cape made from a stolen dish towel. Her plastic crown's tilted over one ear, but she stands with such confidence that gravity seems reluctant to challenge her.
"I wear the sparkles, Gray-Gray," she announces. "No itchy shirt."
"It's forty degrees outside, Rosie." I reach for the sweater folded over the laundry basket, the soft pink one she chose yesterday and now apparently despises. "Your arms'll be cold."
She crosses her arms over her chest, chin lifting in a posture that belongs entirely to Luther. "Sparkles are warm."
I look toward the stairs for reinforcements and find Luca sitting on the third step with a stack of folded shirts in his lap.
His chestnut curls catch the morning sun filtering through the landing window, and he's laughing so hard he has to press the back of his hand to his mouth to keep from making it worse.
His blue eyes are bright, his sweater slipping off one shoulder, his whole body soft with amusement in a way that loosens something in my chest even before he does anything useful.
I move toward him with the sweater in my hand.
He lifts the stack of shirts in silent offering as I pass, and I take the one on top while he reaches out to straighten the collar where it's twisted in my grip.
The movement's easy and familiar. We've done this a hundred mornings now, passing clothes, children, shoes, snacks, and responsibility back and forth until the house somehow becomes survivable.
I bend close enough to press a quick kiss to his cheek.
He smells like vanilla tea and warm skin, with the faint ocean sweetness that clings to him when the house is full and no one's afraid.
His hand rises to my face as I start to pull away, thumb brushing my lower lip in a touch that lasts less than a second and says more than he'd say out loud in front of the children.
"You're doing fine," he murmurs.
I lean into him for one breath longer than I mean to. "I'm tired."
"I know."
That's all he says, and somehow it lands harder than reassurance. Luca's eyes move over my face, taking in the sweater twisted in my grip, the way I'm holding myself together by habit more than energy. Then he looks toward Rosalie, whose chin's still lifted in open defiance, and his mouth softens.
"Give me the sweater," he says. "I'll get her dressed. You get Samuel."
I pass it over without arguing. His fingers brush mine around the soft pink fabric, and for a second the hallway feels less impossible.
Luca steps into Rosalie's line of sight with the sweater folded over his arm, voice low and patient, offering her a choice between the pink sleeves and the cream ones with the tiny flowers.
I turn toward the linen closet, where Samuel's breathing too loudly for someone who believes he's successfully vanished.
At the end of the hall, James sits on a low stool by the bathroom door.
He's not running, shouting, bargaining, or refusing anything.
His tongue's caught between his teeth, his brow furrowed in concentration as he works on the stuck zipper of his navy hoodie.
He doesn't ask for help. He rarely does when he thinks he can solve the problem himself.
He studies the metal teeth, shifts the fabric, and tries again with careful, patient fingers.
From the bedroom doorway, Blake watches him.
Blake's still in sleep pants and an oversized shirt, dark curls flattened on one side, glasses low on his nose.
He looks pale this morning, one hand resting against the doorframe as if he stopped there on his way to somewhere else and forgot how to keep moving.
His phone's in his other hand, screen lit with messages he shouldn't be answering before breakfast, but his gaze is fixed on James.
His expression's gone open and fragile in a way that makes my heart pull hard behind my ribs.
He sees himself there. Of course he does. The quiet focus. The little frown. The need to fix something with his own hands before anyone can step in and make it easier.
I want to go to him. I want to take the phone out of his hand, press food into it instead, and remind him that Quentin said steady mornings, not crisis management before coffee. But before I can move, Samuel rockets out of the closet and makes a break for the kitchen.
I pivot, but Luther steps into the hall before Samuel reaches the stairs.
He's already dressed for the day, suit jacket draped over one arm, shirt cuffs buttoned, hair neat, the picture of control even in the middle of children and discarded socks.
He reaches down without looking and catches Samuel around the waist in one practiced arm.
"Pants," Luther says, voice low, steady, and carrying the Alpha weight that usually turns rooms quiet. "Now, Samuel."
Samuel dangles from Luther's arm and looks unmoved. "I'm a dinosaur. Dinosaurs don't wear pants."
Luther looks down at him for a long second. Then his gaze lifts to mine, and the silence between us says more than words could. He can stop a hostile acquisition in three phone calls, but the pants remain off.
Before any of us can escalate, Maceo appears beside the laundry basket.
He's dressed, composed, and somehow looks as if he's slept a full night despite being awake before dawn.
His silver eyes scan the hallway once, taking in Samuel's state of undress, Rosalie's crown, Blake at the doorway, Luca near the linen closet with the sweater still folded over his arm, and me still crouched with one hand braced on the floor.
He doesn't comment. He bends, reaches into the basket, and pulls out a pair of bright green socks covered in triceratops.
Samuel goes still.
Maceo holds them up.
The struggle ends without another word. Luther lowers Samuel to the floor, Maceo passes him the socks, and within thirty seconds the socks are on and the pants follow with only a moderate amount of wounded dignity.
Luca gets Rosalie's sweater over her head while complimenting the crown, which apparently makes the sleeves acceptable.
James fixes his zipper with one final careful tug, then glances toward Blake.
"Daddy," James says, holding the zipper tab between two fingers. "It was caught on the lining."
Blake's mouth softens. "You fixed it."
James nods once, proud but quiet. "It needed patience."
Something flickers over Blake's face. He lowers his phone without seeming to realize he's done it.
Luther sees. I see Luther seeing. His hand moves to the small of Blake's back, not pushing, not taking the phone, just anchoring him there while the hallway continues around us.
Maceo lifts Rosalie onto his hip as if she's always belonged there, crown, tutu, dish towel cape and all. She settles against him without question, one sticky hand landing on his shoulder. He adjusts her weight, then looks at me.
"Coffee," he says. "Then car."
I remember, suddenly, that I put my mug in the microwave ten minutes ago.
Maybe twenty. It's probably cold by now, another casualty of the morning.
I start toward the kitchen with the next twelve tasks stacking themselves in my head: shoes, bags, Ember House folders, milk, Blake's meds, spare clothes, the intake schedule, the donor notes I didn't finish last night.
The doorbell rings before I make it three steps.
The sound cuts cleanly through the hallway noise, steady and purposeful rather than rushed. Luca's head lifts at once. His whole expression changes.
I know that change. It's not alarm. It's recognition.
He moves toward the door before anyone else can. I follow a step behind him, close enough to see the way his shoulders soften even before he turns the lock.