Chapter 5 Serena
The morning after our skating session, I stood on my cabin's deck with my coffee, watching the sunrise paint the mountains gold and trying very hard not to think about Brad Wilder's hands on my waist. I'd already been up for two hours, lesson planning and creating adaptive materials for the upcoming week, but my mind kept drifting to blue eyes and unexpected vulnerability.
"Miss Serena! Miss Serena!" Finn's excited voice carried through the trees, startling a family of deer I'd been watching.
He burst through the tree line, wearing dinosaur pajamas and snow boots, his hair sticking up in every direction. My heart did a little flip at the sight of him—this brave, bright child who carried an inhaler like other kids carried toy cars.
"Finn?" I set down my coffee, stunned. "What are you—how did you—?"
"WE'RE NEIGHBORS!" He practically vibrated with excitement, bouncing on his toes as his breath made little clouds in the cold air. "Can you believe it? This is better than when I found out chicken nuggets could be dinosaur-shaped!"
The world tilted slightly. Neighbors?
My eyes tracked past him to the house I’d been ogling for days—the one that looked like it belonged in an architectural magazine spread, the one I'd assumed was some tech millionaire's weekend retreat—that was theirs?
Brad emerged beside Finn moments later, looking both mortified and shocked.
His hair was damp from a shower, and he wore jeans and a flannel shirt that made him look like he'd stepped out of a mountain-lifestyle catalog.
"Finn, you can't just—" He stopped short when he saw me, his expression shifting from parental frustration to complete surprise. "Serena? You're our neighbor?"
"Apparently so," I managed, still trying to process this revelation.
"I'm sorry. He saw you from his telescope and took off before I could stop him. We had no idea you were our neighbor."
"You have a telescope?" I asked Finn, genuinely interested.
"For stars and planets and sometimes for spying—but Dad says that's rude, so I only spy on the deer." He tilted his head, still bouncing at the edge of the tree line. "You should come see it! And have breakfast! Dad's making special pancakes!"
"Finn, Miss Serena probably has plans—" Brad's voice carried across the distance.
"Actually, I don't," I called back, surprising myself. "And I haven't had breakfast yet."
"Then you have to come!" Finn's face lit up even brighter. "Dad makes the pancakes look like hockey pucks and we have real maple syrup, not the fake stuff, and orange juice with pulp but also without pulp because I don't like stringy things in my drinks!"
Brad's expression cycled through embarrassment, resignation, and something that might have been pleasure. "You really don't have to—"
"I'd love to," I said, meaning it. "Give me five minutes? I'll walk over."
"YES!" Finn did a little victory dance before Brad guided him back into their house. "We'll be waiting!"
I watched them disappear into the forest that separated our properties, then quickly ran inside to grab my phone and check my reflection. Five minutes later, I was navigating the narrow deer path through the trees, following the glimpses of glass and steel through the branches.
Their house intimidated me as I approached—all soaring windows and clean lines. I climbed the wooden steps to their front door and rang the bell, hearing Finn's excited shriek of "She's here!" from inside.
Brad opened the door, looking slightly flustered but welcoming. "Come in. Finn's been narrating your entire walk from the window."
"I saw you through the trees!" Finn confirmed, grabbing my hand the moment I stepped inside. "Come see everything!"
The interior was surprisingly warm despite the modern aesthetic.
Yes, the kitchen had professional-grade appliances and the living room looked like a furniture showroom, but there were also Finn's drawings covering the refrigerator, a blanket fort half-constructed in the corner, and enough blocks scattered on the coffee table to build a small city.
"Sorry about the mess," Brad said automatically, though the house was cleaner than mine on my best day.
"If this is messy, you should see my house," I said, making Finn giggle.
Brad moved around the kitchen with practiced efficiency, pulling out ingredients while Finn provided running commentary about their usual breakfast routine, which apparently involved a lot of negotiation about fruit intake and whether chocolate chips counted as a food group.
"So you're gonna be at my school!" Finn announced, as if this was breaking news despite clearly having known for a while.
"You said you’re an Inclusion Specialist!
But what does 'Inclusion Specialist' actually mean?
Dad looked it up but the internet used big words and he tried to explain but sometimes Dad makes things more confusing when he uses his professor voice. "
Brad paused mid-pancake flip. "I don't have a professor voice."
"You totally do," Finn insisted, then turned back to me expectantly.
I sat at the breakfast table, accepting the coffee Brad handed me—perfectly prepared, though I hadn't told him how I took it.
"It means I help kids who learn differently be part of regular classrooms. My job is to normalize their lives as much as possible so they can participate in whatever activities they want—whether it's sports, music, art club, or just hanging out with friends at recess.
Some kids need extra help with reading, some need breaks to move around, some need quieter spaces to work.
The goal is making sure no one gets left behind. "
"Like me with my breathing stuff?"
"Exactly like that. You know how you use your inhaler before PE? That's an accommodation—something that helps you participate like everyone else."
Finn nodded seriously. "Tommy Morty says accommodations are cheating."
"Tommy Morty is wrong," Brad said firmly, flipping a pancake with perhaps more force than necessary.
"Well," I said carefully, "some people don't understand that fair doesn't mean everyone gets the same thing. Fair means everyone gets what they need. Like, you wouldn't say someone wearing glasses to see the board is cheating, right?"
"That's different," Finn protested.
"How?"
He thought about it while Brad plated pancakes—they really did look like hockey pucks, complete with markings etched into the surface. "I guess... it's not different. They need glasses to see, I need inhalers to breathe."
"Exactly. And Tommy Morty probably needs something too, even if he doesn't know it yet. Sometimes people who say mean things are struggling with their own challenges."
Brad set a plate in front of me, his hand briefly touching my shoulder. "Tommy Morty's dad is also a jerk, so there's that genetic component to consider."
"Brad!" I laughed, scandalized. "You can't say that in front of—"
"Dad says we can use accurate descriptors as long as they're not mean-spirited," Finn announced, drowning his pancakes in syrup. "Tommy's dad yells at refs and says kids with asthma shouldn't play sports."
"Ah." I took a bite of pancake. They were perfect—fluffy, slightly crispy at the edges, with a hint of vanilla. "Well, Tommy's dad is wrong too. Kids with medical conditions can do amazing things with the right support. I once had a student with severe asthma who became a competitive swimmer."
"Really?" Finn's eyes widened. "But swimming is hard breathing!"
"It is. But the humid air in pools actually helps some people with asthma. And he learned to pace himself, to recognize his triggers, to manage his condition while still doing what he loved."
"Could I..." Finn glanced at his dad, then back at me. "Could I maybe play hockey? Real hockey, not just shooting pucks in the driveway?"
The kitchen went quiet. Brad's knuckles were white around his coffee mug.
"That's something you and your dad would need to discuss with your doctor," I said gently. "But I don't see why not, with the right precautions and planning."
"Dad's scared," Finn said matter-of-factly. "He thinks I'll stop breathing and die like Mom died three years ago."
My heart cracked. Brad set down his mug carefully, too carefully.
"Finn—"
"It's true, isn't it?" Finn's voice stayed steady, but his eyes were sad. "You're scared all the time. That's why we have three inhalers in every room and why you check the weather constantly and why you watch me sleep sometimes."
"You know I watch you sleep?"
"Dad. Your floor creaks. I'm seven, not deaf."
I wanted to flee, to give them privacy for this conversation, but Finn's hand found mine, anchoring me to my stool.
"I am scared," Brad admitted quietly. "Every day. But that's my job—to worry so you don't have to."
"But I do worry," Finn said. "I worry that you're sad. I worry that you don't date anyone because of me. I worry that we'll never have fun like we used to when Mom was here."
Brad moved around the counter, pulling Finn into a hug that engulfed the small boy. "We have fun."
"Controlled fun," Finn mumbled into his dad's chest. "Measured fun. Safe fun."
They stayed like that for a moment while I sat frozen, witnessing something too private, too raw. Then Finn pulled back, wiping his nose on his pajama sleeve.
"Miss Serena makes you laugh," he announced. "Real laughs, not the fake ones you do for other people. You should date her."
"FINN."
I nearly choked on my coffee. "Oh, that's—Finn, your dad and I are just friends."
"But you could be more," Finn insisted with the terrifying logic of childhood. "You're nice and pretty and you understand about my breathing and you live next door which is super convenient."
"Okay!" Brad clapped his hands once, face now fully red. "Who wants to show Miss Serena the telescope?"
"Smooth subject change, Dad," Finn said dryly, but he grabbed my hand again. "Come on! My room is cool. I have a nebulizer that looks like a dragon!"
Finn's room was indeed cool—space-themed with glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling, shelves full of books and blocks, and medical equipment integrated so naturally it just seemed part of the décor.
The nebulizer did look like a dragon, the peak flow meter was decorated with stickers, and his medication chart was disguised as a rocket ship tracking chart.
"This is amazing," I told Brad, who hovered in the doorway protectively.
"We try to make it not scary," he said quietly while Finn demonstrated his telescope. "Normal, routine, just part of life."
"You've done an incredible job."
"Have I?" The question came out raw, uncertain. "Sometimes I think I'm just terrified and calling it love."
"The two aren't mutually exclusive," I said, moving closer to him while Finn focused on adjusting his telescope. "Love is terrifying when you have something to lose."
He looked at me then, really looked, and I saw past his careful control to the man underneath—lonely, scared, trying so hard to be everything his son needed.
"Dad, Miss Serena, look!" Finn called. "You can see an eagle!"
We moved to the telescope together, the intimate moment shifting as we joined Finn at the window, watching the majestic bird soar above the treeline.
I spent another hour with them, looking through the telescope, helping Finn with a puzzle, existing in their space like I belonged there.
It felt dangerous, this easy intimacy, the way Finn casually leaned against me while showing me his books, the way Brad's eyes followed me with something like wonder.
As I left, Finn extracted promises—I'd come for dinner sometime, I'd help him with his solar system project, I'd teach him the card game I'd mentioned.
"I'm sorry about the dating comment," Brad said, walking me to the door. "He doesn't have much of a filter."
"It's fine," I assured him, though my heart was racing. "Kids say what they think."
"Yeah." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Thing is, he's not wrong. About the laughing thing. You do make me laugh. Real laughs."
The admission hung between us, delicate as spun glass.
"You make me brave," I admitted, then immediately wanted to take it back. Too much, too honest.
But Brad smiled, that rare, transformative expression that made him look years younger. "Brave is good. We could use more brave around here."
Walking back to my cabin, I felt the weight of what was happening. I was starting to care for them both—the guarded father and his bright, brave son. It was too fast, too complicated, too everything.
But when I turned back, they were both in the window, waving, and I knew I was already in too deep to stop.