Hooper. He’d found it when he took my jacket, and he’d put it here deliberately, a message written in the only language either of us could read.
I stared at it for a long minute, my breath fogging in the air each time I exhaled. My hand found the edge of the mattress and anchored there, palm flat, like I could stop the room from shifting if I just pressed hard enough.
My jaw worked a little, remembering the sharp edge of the night before: the taste of tea in my mouth, the weight of Emilio’s head in my hand, the way I’d almost said thank you and then lost the words somewhere behind my teeth.
For a moment, I just lay there and let myself want. I wanted to stay, to freeze the world at this exact second and let the coming disaster keep its distance for once.
I wanted Emilio’s noises to mean nothing more than the ordinary emergencies of breakfast and diapers and boredom. I wanted to believe that I hadn’t already ruined everything that mattered.
I sat up, legs swinging out from under the blanket. The floor was cold and caught at my heels, but the shock of it was honest. I stood, body wincing at the effort, and crossed to the nightstand. I touched the photograph, the edge of it soft from too much handling, then tucked it into my breast pocket.
I took my time getting dressed, not out of vanity but because each layer was a shield against the day. When I was done, I stood at the window and watched the morning for a while.
The snowfield outside was unbroken, the sky a blank and open blue, and the only evidence of life was the thin trail of smoke from the house’s own chimney, rising straight up before the wind could lay claim to it.
The room was a box, a cell, a ship’s cabin—all the metaphors I’d rehearsed for places that held me against my will. But this morning, it was none of those. It was just a place to be. A place to start from.
I opened the door, just a crack, and listened. The house was alive with the small noises of breakfast: the slow click of silverware, the gurgle of a coffee maker, the low rumble of Hooper’s voice talking to the baby. Emilio answered with another proud, practicedmmm.
I smiled, a little. Then I stepped into the hall, leaving the warmth of the room behind, and walked toward the light.
The kitchen was even warmer than my room, the kind of heat that felt baked in, radiating up from the floor and down from the low ceiling in equal measure.
The window over the sink was fogged at the edges, but enough light leaked through that the whole place looked like it had been washed in skim milk—soft, pale, a little bit ghostly.
Hooper was there, back to me, hunched at the counter. Emilio was draped along his forearm, face mashed into the crook of Hooper’s elbow, one fist curled around the sleeve of Hooper’s shirt. The other arm was free, manipulating the coffee pot with a kind of two-fingered finesse I’d only ever seen in stage magicians and professional card cheats.
For a second, I didn’t move. I just stood in the doorway and let the scene draw itself: the steady, metronome tap of Hooper’s knuckles on the countertop as he waited for the coffee to finish; Emilio’s legs kicking, aimless and slow, the heels leaving little starbursts of damp on the cotton of Hooper’s shirt; the aroma of coffee, sharper and meaner than any I’d had in months, hanging in the air with the weight of a threat.
Hooper didn’t notice me at first. Or maybe he did and just didn’t care to break the rhythm. He held Emilio close, not like a breakable thing, but like a piece of machinery he’d long agolearned to handle. It should have looked absurd, a man that size with a newborn, but it didn’t.
It looked inevitable.
Emilio saw me before Hooper did. His eyes opened, slow and deliberate, then tracked me with the solemn gravity of a security camera. His mouth made themmmnoise again, deeper and more insistent.
Hooper turned, his free hand steadying the coffee pot. He grinned, teeth white against the black of his stubble. “Morning, sunshine,” he said. “You want first pour or you want the good seat?”
I took the question for what it was—permission, not a challenge—and slid into the nearest chair. Hooper set Emilio on a blanket at the center of the table, then brought over two mugs, one for each of us. The coffee was black, no sugar, no milk. The mug had a chip at the rim in the exact place my mouth landed.
“How’d you sleep?” Hooper asked.
I took a sip of the coffee before answering, just to prove I could. The bitterness was clean, not burned. “Like I might live to see lunch,” I said.
He nodded. “You want to eat?”
“I’m okay,” I lied, but my stomach chose that moment to contradict me, growling loud enough that Emilio flinched.
Hooper laughed, the sound low and easy, then stepped to the fridge and pulled out the heel of the bread I’d seen last night. He sliced it with a paring knife, then dropped the hunks into a battered toaster that looked older than the house itself. While he waited, he poured more coffee, then stood with both hands braced on the counter, watching me.
I kept my eyes on Emilio. He was quiet now, staring at the ceiling. His mouth made slow, deliberate shapes, like he was chewing invisible food.
“He’s calmer than I remember,” I said.
Hooper shrugged. “He knows he’s got an audience. Show-off.”
The toast popped. Hooper set the slices on a plate, then shoved the plate toward me. He didn’t ask if I wanted butter or jam, just assumed I’d eat it however it came.
I picked up a piece and bit in. It was dry, but the texture was honest—crunch at the edges, then the soft collapse of the interior. I ate two slices before I realized I was doing it, then slowed down to look at Hooper.
