Chapter 13
I notice the exact moment Chloe stops watching the movie.
It's subtle at first.
She's still sitting there on the couch, takeaway container half-forgotten on her lap, eyes on the screen like she's following it. But her attention keeps breaking and flicking away. Back to the hallway. Then the crib. Then the hallway again.
Ava makes a small sound in her sleep.
Chloe reacts instantly.
Shoulders tighten. Breath catches. Half a second away from standing.
Again.
It's been like that all night.
Every tiny noise Ava makes, Chloe is already moving before she even realises she's moving.
Like her body is trained to respond before her mind can catch up.
I don't say anything at first.
I watch.
Because I've learned she doesn't need commentary. She needs time to realise she's running on instinct, not reality.
Ava settles again.
Chloe exhales, but it's tight. Controlled. Not actually relief.
She shifts on the couch.
Then again.
Then again.
The movie keeps playing, but it might as well not be.
At some point, she sets her food down without finishing it.
I clock it immediately.
"You alright?" I ask quietly.
"Yeah," she says too fast.
Not convincing.
Her eyes stay locked on the crib like she's waiting for it to go wrong.
Ava makes another small noise.
Chloe is up before it even finishes.
"I just need to check her," she mutters, already moving.
I let her go that first time.
She kneels beside the crib, checking Ava's breathing like she needs to confirm it physically. Her fingers hover, then settle, then pull back again like she's not sure she's allowed to touch too much.
She comes back to the couch.
Sits down.
Barely thirty seconds pass before she's tense again.
Ava shifts.
Chloe is halfway up.
That's enough.
I stand first.
"Chloe," I say firmly.
She freezes mid-motion.
Looks at me like she's been caught doing something wrong.
"I just—" she starts.
"I know," I cut in gently.
Her mouth closes.
I step closer.
Her breathing is too shallow. Too fast. Like she's been holding herself just under the surface all night.
She looks exhausted in a way sleep isn't fixing.
"You don't have to keep doing that," I say.
"I'm fine," she repeats, but it's weaker this time.
"No," I reply simply.
That makes her pause.
Ava gives another tiny sound from the crib.
Chloe flinches again, an immediate instinct.
That's when I decide.
Before she can spiral again, before she can stand and pace and break herself down another inch.
I step in front of her.
"Sit," I say.
She blinks.
"What?"
"Sit down."
It's not harsh.
But it's not optional either.
She looks confused for half a second—like she's trying to calculate if I'm serious.
Then she frowns slightly.
"I can—"
I don't let her finish.
I reach down, take her wrist lightly—not forceful, just enough to stop her—and guide her back toward the couch.
She's too tired to resist properly.
That much is obvious.
But instead of letting go, I shift my grip and pull her in one smooth movement.
Onto my lap.
It happens fast.
Too fast for either of us to think about it properly.
Chloe goes completely still.
Frozen.
Like her brain has temporarily shut off all processing.
"...What are you doing?" she whispers.
"Stopping you from getting up again," I say.
She looks like she wants to argue.
Doesn't.
Because Ava makes another sound, and I feel her tense immediately in my arms.
I tighten my hold slightly—not restricting, just grounding.
"She's fine," I say again, quieter. "She's asleep."
Chloe's breathing is still uneven.
I adjust slightly on the couch so she's more secure, her back resting against me instead of her balancing herself on tension alone.
She doesn't move away.
But she doesn't relax either.
Not yet.
"You're shaking," I say after a moment.
"I'm not," she replies automatically.
I don't argue.
I just let the silence sit.
Ava settles again.
No crying. No escalation. Just sleep noises.
Chloe hears it too.
Her shoulders twitch once.
Then slowly—very slowly—some of the tension starts to leave her body.
Not all at once.
Just a fraction.
I keep my voice low.
"You don't have to sprint every time she moves," I say.
Chloe swallows.
"I feel like I do."
I don't answer immediately.
Because that tells me more than anything she's said all night.
I lean back slightly, letting her stay where she is.
"She's not in danger," I say quietly.
A beat.
Then softer:
"And neither are you."
That lands somewhere deep.
I feel her exhale.
Shaky.
Unsteady.
But real.
For a while, neither of us moves.
The movie keeps playing quietly in the background, forgotten again.
Ava is still asleep.
Chloe is still in my lap.
At some point, her hands stop gripping her sleeves so tightly.
At some point, her head starts to drift.
I notice before she does.
Her breathing changes first. Slows. Evened out by exhaustion, finally winning over adrenaline.
Her weight shifts slightly against my chest.
Then she goes still.
Properly still.
I glance down.
Her eyes are closed.
I don't move.
Just watch her for a second.
Exhaustion has completely taken her. No resistance left in her system. No tension in her jaw. Just sleep.
I adjust slightly so she's more comfortable, careful not to wake her.
Her head tilts into my shoulder without resistance.
And stays there.
I exhale quietly through my nose.
"...Yeah," I mutter under my breath. "That's better."
The apartment is finally quiet in the right way.
Not tense.
Not waiting.
Just still.
Ava sleeps in the crib.
Chloe sleeps in my lap.
And for the first time all night, nothing in this room feels like it's about to fall apart.