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She feels so frail against me as I tuck her into bed. I make sure that there’s plenty of blanket and cushion around her, just to keep her comfortable.
“Gonna get you soup. Don’t go anywhere.”
Olivia gives me a weak smile as I leave her in the room. First stop, however, is Violet’s room. I peek in, seeing that she’s occupied in her rocker with her stuffed animals at hand. I break out into a grin. She’s blossomed so much since she arrived at my door. It strengthens my feeling that Holly can’t possibly be her mother.
A witch like that could never give birth to an angel like Vi.
I slip out of the nursery and head downstairs. There’s a bag of canned soup in the kitchen I assume Quinn brought. My annoyance at the fact she was here—and here first to help Olivia—is set aside for now so I can focus on heating her something to eat.
Ten minutes and a hot bowl of soup later, I’m trekking up to our room. Olivia has dutifully stayed nestled in bed. I’m careful to set the soup on the blankets on her lap so the heat doesn’t burn her.
“Eat up,” I instruct. “I’ll handle Violet and the rest of the house today.”
“You don’t have to?—”
“What’d I say about what I have to do and what I’m gonna do?”
Olivia sighs. “You’re so stubborn.”
“Pot, kettle.”
A small flicker of a smile settles on her face. She seems to realize it and tries to hide her amusement by taking a slurp of soup. She can try to fool me all she wants—I’ve known her long enough to know her tells.
“Seriously. Rest.”
I sneak out of the room once again. I’m taking this as an opportunity to prove myself to her. I dig out the baby sling she’d insisted I get—one big enough to go across a man’s barrel chest. I thought it was silly at the time. I quickly discover that it’s actually kind of handy.
If nothing else, it’s a hell of a lot easier to stack up the copious amounts of soup cans into the cabinets without having Violet on my shoulder, wiggling and squirming like an overgrown worm. When that’s done, I check the whiteboard that Olivia keeps tacked up in the kitchen to mark what chores are due on any day.
“Tuesday… sweep and mop. Wash Violet’s bedding and clothes. Dust.” I look down at Violet, with her teething slobber smeared all over her face. “Looks like we got a lot to get through, Bug.”
The rest of the day is me playing House Dad hardcore—more than I ever have. Well, except maybe when Olivia “quit” the first time. At least this is under a different context. Olivia is still in my house; she’s just sick.
I keep Violet tight strapped to my chest, pausing in our chores only when she starts to fuss with the telltale signs that she’s ready to eat. That, I’ve become a pro at. Olivia’s been a good teacher. I used to fumble through the process like I was made of all thumbs and no brains. Now, I can whip up Violet’s food, change her diapers, and bathe her without so much as a single fluster.
I’m getting pretty damn good at this father shit.
The afternoon bleeds into the evening and eventually, I get Violet down for bed. We peeked into the bedroom just to check on Olivia throughout the day, though she insisted on keeping Violet far away from her. Something about her immune system still being young and weak so it was best she wasn’t exposed to whatever Olivia might have caught.
When I trek back to our room, thinking that I can get some snuggle time in with Olivia, she gives me a rude awakening.
“You can’t sleep in here,” she says as I start to strip down.
I snort. “Why not? I’m not the baby with the newborn immune system.”
“No, but you are the man who decided he was going to take charge and look after her, which means that if you get any of my apocalypse germs on you, you might pass them on to Violet. You can’t sleep here.”
“You’re not serious.”
“I’m incredibly serious.”
I groan. “I feel like this is shit they should have taught you in school.”
“I’m pretty sure they did.” She smirks. “Did you even pay attention in school?”
“I got great grades, thank you very much. Well, good grades. Acceptable grades.”
“I’m sure ‘Rocks for Jocks’ was very intellectually stimulating,” she mumbles.
