Chapter 21 Less Like Surviving And More Like Living
Less Like Surviving And More Like living
Coleman
It’s too quiet.
The kind of quiet that doesn’t belong in a house with kids. The kind that settles over everything too thick, too still, too wrong.
I blink up at the ceiling, confused.
It’s light out. Not sunrise light, either. Daylight.
Shit.
I never sleep in.
Not since the girls were born. Not since the divorce. Not since my world tilted sideways and my mornings became less about waking up and more about making sure we all got through the day.
But this morning?
No soft knocks on the door.
No fighting over cereal.
No tiny footsteps tiptoeing down the hall.
Just… silence.
And I hate it.
I throw the covers off and sit up, heart thudding harder than it should.
Maybe they’re in the kitchen. Maybe Paige is already trying to sneak extra sugar in her oatmeal and Payton’s sketching at the island.
I tell myself that and head downstairs.
On the way down, I pass Paige’s door.
Cracked open.
She isn’t in her bed.
That’s not unusual. She’s always the first one up. And lately she is always climbing into bed with Payton.
Still… unease coils in my chest.
I stop at Payton’s next.
Her door’s open too.
Bed empty.
No girls.
I freeze in the hallway, the walls suddenly pressing too tight around me.
No girls.
And no Remi.
The panic that hits is instant and blinding.
Where the hell are they?
Did something happen?
Did Remi leave?
Did Stella—
No.
I don’t even let myself think it.
My stomach is in my throat as I push open Remi’s door, ready to demand answers, ready to tear the world apart if someone took my girls.
But I stop dead in the doorway.
Because there they are.
All three of them.
Asleep.
Paige curled into Remi’s side, blanket clutched under her chin. Payton sprawled on the other side, her hand resting on Remi’s arm like she’s been holding on in her sleep.
And Remi—Jesus—she looks like she belongs there.
She’s flat on her back, one arm tucked under Paige, her other hand tangled in Payton’s hair. Her face is soft in sleep, peaceful in a way I rarely see.
It’s too much.
It’s everything.
My throat tightens, a hot wave of something I can’t name crashing into me.
I’m a millionaire.
I’ve sold million-dollar homes. Closed deals most people only dream about. Built a life that should be enough.
But this?
This room—this moment—is the first time I’ve ever felt like I have everything I’ve ever needed.
I lean against the doorframe, breathing like I just ran a mile.
Because I’m not okay.
Because this… changes everything.
I’ve spent the last few months surviving really it's been fucking years. Waking up, checking off boxes, trying to raise two girls without falling apart.
But watching them sleep wrapped around the woman I haven’t stopped thinking about since the second I kissed her?
It wrecks me.
Because I want this.
Not just for a night. Not just in stolen moments.
I want Remi in my bed.
In my mornings.
In my life.
I want to wake up to the sound of Paige’s giggles and Payton’s endless commentary and Remi’s groggy voice asking where the hell the coffee is.
I want pancakes and guitar strings and bead kits and sketchpads left all over the damn house.
I want the chaos. The softness. The love.
And God help me… I want her.
All of her.
Her wild hair and her oversized band shirts. Her quiet strength. Her stupidly huge heart. The way she looks at my girls like they’re worth the world and then proves it by showing up again and again.
I want her arms to be the place they run when they’re scared.
I want her voice to be the one they hear when they doubt themselves.
I want her laugh echoing down this hallway every damn day.
I push off the doorframe slowly, dragging a hand down my face, trying to pull it together before they wake.
Because there’s no coming back from this.
Not for me.
Not now that I’ve seen exactly what life could be like if I stop being afraid and fight for it.
I close the door softly, careful not to wake them.
Then I head downstairs.
And start making pancakes.
The kitchen feels different this morning.
Not louder. Not busier. Just… warmer.
I’ve already got the bacon in the pan and the smell of cinnamon from the French toast baking in the oven is thick in the air. Coffee’s brewed. Dishes are lined up. Everything’s prepped like I’ve done it a hundred times before.
But this isn’t habit.
This is me holding onto something. Trying to ground myself after waking up to a life I didn’t know I was missing until it was wrapped up in my daughters and Remi, tangled together in sleep like a damn family.
My hands move on autopilot, flipping bacon, plating strawberries, pouring orange juice.
And I think about her.
About the way her lips parted just slightly in sleep. The way her body curved protectively around Paige. The way Payton had her fingers knotted in Remi’s sleeve like she wasn’t letting go anytime soon.
Like she finally felt safe.
Like they did.
And I’m terrified to name what that means.
Footsteps creak on the stairs.
I glance up as Payton appears first, her sketchpad tucked under one arm, her expression neutral but her eyes tracking everything—me, the stove, the extra place settings on the table.
She doesn’t say anything. Just walks to the island and sits on one of the stools like it’s normal.
Like this is how mornings are supposed to be.
“Strawberries,” I say, nudging a bowl toward her.
She gives a little nod. Picks one up and eats it slowly, flipping her sketchpad open.
A minute later, Paige comes skipping in. Literally skipping.
“Mmm, something smells good!” she says with a huge smile, grabbing a cup of juice and climbing onto the stool next to her sister.
Her hair’s still a mess and her pajamas are mismatched, and I’ve never loved this kid more than I do right now.
She doesn’t even hesitate before looking at her sister. “Are you drawing me again?”
“No.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I said no, Button.”
Remi walks in right then, barefoot and still in that ridiculous oversized band tee that makes my heart do something it absolutely shouldn’t at this hour.
Her eyes meet mine—and there’s this flicker.
A pause.
A quiet I remember in the way her gaze lingers for half a second longer than necessary.
But no one says anything.
Not about where the girls slept. Not about the fact that she was holding both of them like she belonged to all three of us.
It’s like the night never happened.
Only it did.
And my chest aches with the weight of it.
She crosses to the counter and grabs a coffee mug—her mug, the one with the guitar and the music notes—and fills it without a word.
Paige is chatting about glitter pens now. Payton's sketching. Remi leans against the counter with one leg crossed in front of the other, sipping her coffee and occasionally brushing her hair behind her ear.
I keep cooking, pretending I’m not watching her.
Pretending my heart isn’t pounding in my chest.
Because this moment—this breakfast—this ordinary little pocket of a morning feels like everything I’ve ever wanted.
And I don’t want to scare it away.
So we sit.
We eat.
We don’t talk about last night.
But I know we’re all thinking about it.
Because some things don’t need to be said to change everything.
After breakfast, the house settled into that familiar hum—dishes clinking in the sink, the girls running off to their rooms, and Remi quietly rinsing out her coffee mug like nothing had happened the night before.
Like she hadn’t held my daughters while they slept.
Like she hadn’t taken this broken mess of a family and stitched it together with nothing but a smile and a steady hand.
I watched her from the doorway for a moment longer than I should’ve. Thought about kissing her. Thought about pulling her into my arms and telling her everything I was too much of a coward to say last night.
Instead, I grabbed my keys off the counter and told her I’d be back after my afternoon showings.
But I didn’t go straight to work.
I needed to talk to someone first—someone who wouldn’t sugarcoat things or waste time analyzing every emotion like Langston would, or try to turn it into some deep metaphor the way Dean always does.
Harvey.
Rough around the edges. All blunt force and loyalty.
He might not believe in love, but the bastard's always had a way of seeing right through the noise.
So I got in the car, took a right instead of a left, and headed for the tow yard.
Because sometimes, when your whole life is shifting under your feet, you need the guy who builds things from the ground up to remind you how to hold on.
The scent of motor oil and grease hits me before I even step out of my car. Harvey’s shop always smells like hard work—like burnt rubber, busted knuckles, and loyalty.
I walk through the open garage bay and find him hunched under the hood of a massive F-250, sleeves rolled up, tattoos inked all the way to his knuckles. He doesn’t look up when I stop beside him, just keeps twisting a wrench like the engine insulted him.
“You finally decide to stop hiding behind spreadsheets and show up like a real man?” he grunts.
I smirk. “Figured I’d let you feel useful for once.”
He snorts, then wipes his hands on a filthy rag. “You didn’t come here for jokes. What’s going on?”
I lean against the side of the truck, fold my arms. “It’s about Remi.”
He glances up, one brow raised. “The nanny?”
“She’s more than that.”
He tosses the rag aside. “Thought so. You gonna marry her or mess it up like a dumbass?”
I exhale a laugh that’s not really a laugh. “I don’t even know if she wants to be with me. She’s all in with the girls, but she keeps pulling back from me.”
“Then make her want you,” Harvey says like it’s the simplest thing in the world.
“She’s different,” I say. “Not like Stella. Not like anyone. I don’t want to ruin this. The girls… they need her. Hell, I need her. But if I screw this up—”
“Then don’t.” He cuts me off, hard stare pinning me. “Look, man, I don’t do the hearts-and-flowers shit, but I know one thing. When you find someone who makes your whole life feel less like surviving and more like living? You don’t let her walk away.”
I nod slowly, trying to absorb that. “So what… you think I should just—”
“Make her love you.” His tone is final, definitive. “Be the kind of man she can’t walk away from. Not the cold-ass robot you used to be.”
I let that settle in, the weight of it. Be the kind of man she can’t walk away from.
Harvey walks away, heading for another truck. But over his shoulder, he mutters, “And don’t overthink it. Love’s not complicated. It’s showing up. Every damn day.”
I stay there a moment longer, staring out at the rows of battered trucks and tow rigs. And all I can think about is how badly I want to show up for her. Remi. Every damn day.