12. Grayson #3
From the hallway, I hear the faucet running, Rosalie objecting to the amount of toothpaste Luther’s used, and Samuel announcing that he can spit farther than anybody else in the house.
Luther tells him, gently but firmly, that they’re not testing that theory tonight.
A second later, Rosalie starts laughing hard enough that I hear Luther tell her to keep the toothbrush in her mouth.
By the time the bathroom light clicks off, all three children are in bed. Luther comes out of the hallway with Rosalie’s pink toothbrush tucked into his back pocket and Samuel’s sock clinging to the shoulder of his shirt.
“How did that get there?” I ask from the chair beside James’s bed, where I finally set the folded clothes down.
He reaches up, finds the sock, and stares at it for a second before handing it to me. “I stopped asking questions about ten minutes ago.”
I laugh and catch the front of his shirt, pulling him close enough to kiss before the sock can fall between us. His hand settles at my hip automatically, and some of the tension leaves his shoulders when my mouth lingers against his.
“You did well,” I murmur.
Luther leans his forehead against mine and glances toward the children’s rooms. “Rosalie tried to convince Samuel that toothpaste’s optional. James is asleep with his book under him, and Samuel’s missing one sock.”
“They’re all in bed.”
“They are.”
I kiss him again, softer this time, before he nudges me toward the sitting room with one hand at my waist. “Go sit down before you find something else to fix.”
Luca’s in the sitting room, shifting the armchair away from the window for the second time that week.
He’s already dragged it several inches across the rug, leaving a faint line in the pile.
Two blankets lie folded across the back even though the room’s warm, and another has been tucked into the corner of the sofa beside a stack of cushions that wasn’t there yesterday.
“You moved that yesterday,” I say, leaning one shoulder against the doorway.
Luca keeps one hand on the back of the chair while he studies the angle. “It still wasn’t right.”
I don’t ask what changed. I watch him nudge it another inch, smooth one of the blankets twice, and step back to judge the room again.
The smell of coffee drifts in from the kitchen when Blake opens a cupboard. Luca’s face tightens before he turns away from it and presses the folded blanket briefly against his stomach.
I’ve seen pieces of this before: the gathering of blankets, the sudden changes in food, the sweeter edge beneath his usual scent. Recognition isn’t confirmation.
“Your scent’s changed, and coffee’s been making you sick,” I say. “It might be worth talking to Quentin.”
Luca’s hands still on the blanket. He doesn’t look at me right away. When he does, there’s caution in his expression, but no panic. “You think it could be a pregnancy.”
“I think there are enough changes to ask.”
He looks toward the kitchen, where Blake and Maceo are finishing the dishes together. Maceo dries a plate while Blake stands beside him with one hand braced against the counter and the other turning the coffee cup farther from the sitting room.
Luther passes the doorway with Samuel’s missing sock still in his hand. He slows long enough to kiss Luca’s temple and murmur, “You okay, baby?”
Luca nods and leans into him for a second before Luther continues upstairs.
After a quiet moment, Luca takes out his phone. “I’ll message Quentin.”
I nod and stay where I am while he opens the contact and types. He reads the message once before sending it, then lowers the phone into his lap.
“He’ll get back to me when he can.”
“Okay.”
Luca drops the phone onto the sofa and nudges the armchair another inch away from the window. I watch him study the light again, then reach for the blanket he’s already adjusted twice.
“You’re going to move it again tomorrow,” I say.
His mouth curves slightly. “Probably.”
I return to the bedroom with the revised room plans open on my tablet. I’ve already changed the hallway opening twice and adjusted the window-seat measurements, but the privacy-panel notes are still highlighted along the edge of the screen.
Luther’s already beneath the covers with one arm stretched across my side of the bed and the lamp beside him turned low. “You’re done for tonight,” he says.
“I only need to update the privacy panels.”
He takes the tablet from my hands and places it facedown on the nightstand. When I reach toward it, he catches my wrist and pulls me onto the mattress instead. I land against his chest, one knee between his legs, while the blankets shift around us.
“The residents will still have opinions tomorrow,” he murmurs near my ear.
I glance once toward my tablet on the nightstand. Maya wants the window seat wider. Caroline wants another foot added to the hallway opening. The privacy-panel options still need to go back to the architects.
Luther’s arm tightens around my waist before I can reach for the tablet again.
His mouth finds the place below my ear as his hand slides beneath my shirt until his palm rests warm against my stomach.
His thumb moves once against my skin while I settle more fully against him.
The plans will still be there in the morning.
For once, I let someone else decide when the workday ends.