Chapter 3
Chloe
“And this is your room,” Jonah says, pushing open a door at the end of the upstairs hallway. “It’s not huge, but it has its own bathroom, and the closet’s pretty decent.”
I step inside, immediately charmed by the space.
It’s painted a soft sage green, with white curtains that filter the late evening light into something gentle and warm.
There’s a full bed with a quilted comforter, a dresser that looks handmade, and a reading nook by the window with cushions that are calling my name.
“It’s perfect,” I say honestly. “Way better than my friend’s couch.”
Jonah’s mouth quirks— not quite a smile, but close. “That’s a low bar.”
“You’d be surprised. Sarah’s couch was basically a medieval torture device disguised as furniture.” I set my duffel bag on the bed, running my hand over the quilt. It’s beautifully made, tiny stitches forming a pattern of interlocking stars. “Did someone make this?”
“My mom.” He lingers in the doorway, hands shoved in his pockets. “She likes to keep busy.”
There’s something in his voice— affection mixed with something else. Gratitude, maybe, or guilt. Like he’s too aware of how much his mother does for him and doesn’t know how to repay it.
“It’s gorgeous,” I tell him. “Please thank her for me.”
He nods, then gestures back toward the hallway. “Of course, the twins’ room is across the hall. They’re pretty good sleepers, but Ava sometimes has bad dreams and sometimes I’m bushed, so she might need a little calming. She really just needs someone to sit with her for a few minutes.”
“Got it.” I follow him back out, and he points to the other doors as we pass.
“Bathroom’s there— you’ll share it with the girls. They have their own little step stool and toothbrushes. Linen closet. And this...” He stops at the last door, his hand on the knob but not turning it. “This is my room. You shouldn’t need to go in there, but just so you know where everything is.”
He opens the door.
And I make the mistake of looking inside.
The room is beautiful.
No…beautiful is the wrong word.
It’s perfect.
Everything is coordinated in shades of deep blue and cream, from the duvet on the king-sized bed to the curtains framing the windows.
There’s a sitting area by the fireplace with two armchairs and a small table, the kind of space where you could curl up with a book on a cold night.
Built-in bookshelves line one wall, filled with hardcovers and framed photos.
A thick rug covers the hardwood floor, and everything —everything— looks intentional. Chosen. Loved.
It’s the kind of room that belongs in a magazine. The kind of room someone spent time creating.
I’m staring and not just into space. I’m staring at his bed.
At the neatly made covers, the stack of pillows, the way the morning light slants across it, and I can’t seem to stop.
There’s something intimate about seeing where he sleeps, where he’s vulnerable and comforted.
Something that makes my stomach flip in a way that has nothing to do with the leftover cinnamon roll I ate.
“My ex decorated it,” Jonah says quietly.
I snap my attention back to him, feeling heat creep up my neck. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine.” But his jaw is tight, and he’s not looking at the room. He’s looking at the hallway, at anywhere but the space his ex-wife created. “She was good at that kind of thing. Making things look... nice.”
There’s so much weight in that pause. So much pain packed into the word nice, like it means something else entirely. Like nice means empty, fake… not enough.
“It’s a beautiful room,” I say carefully. “Very cozy.”
“Thanks.” He runs a hand through his hair, and I notice for the first time that it’s still slightly damp from the shower he took. “She did the whole house, actually. Picked out all the furniture, the colors, everything. I keep meaning to change it, but...”
He trails off, and I can fill in the rest.
But I’m too busy.
But I don’t know where to start.
But it reminds me of her and I don’t know if I want to erase that or if keeping it is just another way of punishing myself.
I’ve seen that look before. Derek had it sometimes, when he talked about his parents’ divorce. That raw, uncertain expression of someone who’s had something—someone—removed from their life when least expected and doesn’t quite know how to stop feeling like it was their fault.
“You don’t have to change it,” I say quietly. “Not if you don’t want to. It’s your house. Your space. It should be whatever makes you comfortable.”
Jonah finally looks at me, and there’s surprise, maybe, or gratitude in his eyes. Like he expected judgment and got understanding instead.
“I should probably change it,” he says. “The twins don’t need to grow up in a shrine to someone who didn’t stay.”
The bitterness in his voice is sharp enough to cut, and I have to resist the urge to reach out, to touch his arm, to offer some kind of comfort that I have no right to give.
Instead, I lean against the doorframe, studying him. He’s wearing jeans and a Henley that’s seen better days. He looks tired —God, he looks exhausted— but there’s a strength in the set of his shoulders, in the way he holds himself together even when talking about things that clearly hurt.
“For what it’s worth,” I say, “I think you’re doing an amazing job. With the girls. With all of this and the bakery.”
His eyes snap to mine, dark and intense. “You’ve known us for just a few hours.”
“So? Sometimes a few hours is enough.” I shrug, trying to keep my tone light even though my heart is suddenly beating faster. “Ava and Mia are happy. They’re loved. They’re cared for. That’s what matters.”
“They spilled an entire bag of flour on the living room floor.”
“Kids do that. Trust me, I’ve seen worse, a lot worse.
” I think about the third-grade classroom where I subbed last year, the day Tommy Martinez decided to see if he could flush an entire roll of paper towels down the toilet and we all went running into the hallway when the tsunami of water…
and other stuff… came gushing out. I shiver. “Way worse.”
Finally —finally— Jonah smiles. It’s small, just a hint of amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes, but it transforms his face. Makes him look younger. Less burdened.
“Worse than flour?”
“So much worse.” I decide not to share the poopy story.
“There was glitter involved. An entire jar of it. On picture day.” I shake my head at the memory.
“The teacher cried. I’m pretty sure some of those kids are still finding glitter in their hair.
The pictures were kinda cute, though everyone looked like an exotic dancer. The parents weren’t very amused.”
He laughs. And it’s an actual laugh, low and rough like he doesn’t do it often enough. And the sound does something strange to my chest. Makes it feel too tight and too full at the same time.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says. “Next time the twins stage a disaster, I’ll remember it could be worse.”
“Exactly. That’s the spirit.”
We stand there for a moment, him in the hallway, me leaning against his bedroom doorframe, and the silence that settles between us isn’t uncomfortable.
It’s... something else. Something more powerful.
Like we’re both noticing things we shouldn’t be noticing.
Like the space between us is charged with possibility.
I should move. Should step away from his bedroom, should stop noticing how good he smells— like cinnamon and soap and something underneath that’s just him. Should stop imagining what it would be like to wake up in that cozy room, in that big bed, with someone who looks at you like you matter.
But I don’t move.
Neither does he.
“Chloe,” he says, and my name in his voice sounds different than it does when anyone else says it. Sounds important.
“Yeah?”
He opens his mouth, then closes it. Shakes his head like he’s arguing with himself. “Nothing. I just... thank you. For being here. For helping.”
It’s not what he was going to say. I can tell by the way his shoulders tense, by the way he won’t quite meet my eyes. But I don’t push.
“You’re welcome.” I nod and smile.
A crash from the room down the hallway —something falling, followed by twin squeals of laughter— breaks the moment.
Jonah sighs. “I should—”
“Go,” I finish. “I’ll finish unpacking and be down in a few minutes.”
He nods, already heading toward their room, but he pauses with his hand on his door and looks back at me. “Chloe?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad you’re here.”
He’s gone before I can respond, his footsteps heavy as he goes to investigate whatever the twins are destroying now.
I stand there in his bedroom doorway for another moment, my heart doing something complicated and inconvenient in my chest.
Six months. I’m only here for six months.
Need to remember that.
Even as I step into his room without thinking about it, drawn by the built-in bookshelves and the photos arranged there. Even as I pick up a frame showing Jonah with two newborns —tiny, identical, wrapped in pink blankets— and see the exhaustion and terror and overwhelming love on his younger face.
Even as I realize that I’m already in trouble, and I’ve barely been here less than half a day.
“Get it together, Chloe,” I mutter to myself, setting the photo down carefully and backing out of the room.
But as I close his door and head to my own room, I can’t stop thinking about that king-sized bed. About how empty it must feel. About how it’s been three years since his ex left, and he’s still sleeping in a room she decorated, surrounded by choices she made.
About how much I suddenly want to help him change that.
And that is definitely a problem I don’t know how to solve.