Maisie curls up on the couch, clutching Frida to her chest. Rufus flops down beside her like a living rug, his tail thumping once before he passes out again.
She’s quiet again. Too quiet.
I lower myself onto the armchair, elbows on my knees.
“Want to talk about it?” I ask softly.
She shakes her head. “Mom and Luke are mad.”
“Yeah.”
“She said he doesn’t listen.”
“Sometimes grownups fight,” I say, knowing how hollow it sounds. “It doesn’t mean they don’t love you.”
Maisie looks at me, unblinking. “Did you and Aunt Claire fight?”
The air leaves my lungs. It’s been almost two years, but hearing her name still hits like a sucker punch.
“Sometimes,” I say finally. “But we always made up.”
She nods, thoughtful. “She used to make snow angels with me.”
“I remember.”
“She said she wanted a baby.”
I swallow. “She did.”
Maisie studies me like she’s measuring truth. “You still miss her.”
Every damn day.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I still miss her.”
She leans against the couch arm, eyelids drooping. “I miss her too.”
Within minutes, she’s asleep again, face half-buried in Rufus’s fur.
I sit there for a while, staring at the soft rise and fall of her back, the faint crackle of the heater filling the silence.
Then a knock rattles the door.
I sigh. “Of course.”
Ryker steps in without waiting for an answer, a habit I should’ve broken him of years ago. He’s still in sweats, hair damp, shoulders tight with that restless energy he carries everywhere now.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey.”
He glances at the couch, at Maisie. “Amber again?”
“Yeah.”
He exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “That bad?”
“Worse.”
