Chapter 15 #2
The bed looked like a war had been fought in it, covers askew.
I went ahead and stripped all the linens, carting them to the washer I’d found in a hall closet and stuffing them in.
I stripped the kid’s bed, too, adding those sheets to the load and getting the whole thing started.
Fresh sheets were in another small closet at the end of the hall, and I made quick work of getting both beds made.
The comforters probably ought to be washed, too, but those would need a bigger unit than what she had here.
I loaded the dishwasher and got that running, then found some Lysol wipes under the kitchen sink and wiped down every surface I could think of.
Liam had rolled on to another episode of Shaun the Sheep, and I was half-watching as I began to sort through the evident hurricane that had hit the living room.
How the heck did they manage to tell so much story with no dialog at all?
Sometime later, Lucy stepped into the hallway, barefoot, damp hair curling around her shoulders, wearing clean clothes that still looked more like pajamas than anything else—but she looked ten times better than she had an hour ago. Color back in her cheeks. Less wobbly around the edges.
She froze when she caught sight of the living room.
The coffee table had been cleared. The worst of the toy storm corralled into baskets.
The blanket fort reconstructed with only minor architectural improvements.
The laundry that had been overflowing was now folded in two neat piles.
Liam was curled next to me on the rug, head on a pillow, watching the screen with rapt attention and one hand still clutching Bronty.
And me? I was on the floor. Cross-legged. Arms loose over my knees. Like this was just… a thing I did. Like it was any no rmal Thursday and not the exact opposite of anything I’d ever planned for myself.
Lucy blinked. “You cleaned?”
I glanced up at her, suddenly unsure what she was expecting me to say. The words came out without thinking. “I thought it would make you feel better to not have it hanging over your head.”
She pressed her lips together, and I wondered if I’d way overstepped in my efforts to smooth things for her.
In case she needed a minute—and because I definitely did—I looked back at the screen, pretending I wasn’t ridiculously aware of her behind me. “Soup’s simmering. It’s more or less ready whenever you think you’re up to it. Laundry’s sorted. Liam’s been educating me on dinosaurs.”
Lucy made a small sound—half-laugh, half-sigh—and came to settle on the couch behind us. Liam barely blinked, but he leaned against her when she brushed his curls back from his forehead.
“You really are a hero,” she murmured.
I didn’t say anything to that. What was there to say? So instead, I changed the subject. “Want soup?”
“I do!” Liam piped up.
I eyed him. “Do those Goldfish feel like they’re still swimming in your belly?”
He giggled. “No. They’re crackers, silly!”
“Okay, then we’ll try soup.” I shifted my gaze to his mother. “Lucy?”
She gave me a long look before acknowledging, “Soup would be great.”
I dished up small bowls for both of them, figuring they could absolutely have more if this stayed down. Snagged a sleeve of saltines, and carried all of it back to the living room.
“More ginger ale, little man? ”
“Yeah!” He held up his sippy cup.
“Liam,” Lucy said gently.
“Yes, please.”
“You got it. More Sprite, Lucy?”
Like her son, she primly said, “Yes, please.”
She was just taking a bite of soup when I came back. The moment her lips closed around the spoon, she froze, her eyes going wide.
My brain jumped to overdrive. “Is something wrong? Do you have food allergies?” I was already mentally rehearsing emergency procedures when she shook her head and swallowed.
“You can cook. ”
“Oh.” My shoulders relaxed. “Yeah. Kinda goes with the territory. We like to eat at the firehouse.”
Liam polished off the entire bowl of soup before slumping sideways on the couch, cheek smushed into a pillow and blanket pulled to his chin. Bronty was clutched under one arm like he’d fended off a dragon with it.
Lucy sat beside him, her soup mostly untouched on the coffee table.
She’d managed most of the broth and a handful of crackers, at least. She was curled sideways, legs tucked up, hair still damp and leaving little wet marks on the shoulder of her shirt.
She tried to blink through whatever exhaustion was holding her hostage—but within minutes, her head tilted back against the cushion, her breathing deepened, and she was out cold.
I sat in the armchair across from them, bowl still warm in my hands, watching them sleep.
The cartoon had clicked off, replaced by the soft hum of whatever came next. The house was still. No dishes clanging. No kid commentary about prehistoric herbivores. Even the washer had finished its cycle.
Just breathing. Soft, synchronized breathing from the two people tangled up in a quiet pile across from me.
And something about that sight did something to my chest.
I wasn’t used to this. Not the noise, not the mess—but especially not the calm that came after.
I’d grown up thinking stillness was dangerous.
That quiet meant someone was about to explode or leave, or worse.
But this wasn’t that. This wasn’t tense silence—it was peace.
The kind you earned by being present. The kind you only got when you were part of something, not just passing through it.
I sat there, slowly eating the soup I’d made with the leftovers of my own nervous energy, and stared at the woman and her kid curled up like they belonged to the same heartbeat.
And for the first time in a long damn time, I didn’t feel like I was on the outside of something good.
I didn’t feel like I’d break it just by getting too close.
I didn’t know what this was. Didn’t know what it could be. But I knew how I felt, watching them breathe.
Steady. Anchored.
Like maybe this wasn’t the storm.
Maybe it was the harbor.