Some stories close themselves.
Aurora and Aiden arrive at noon with the baby. Three months old. Aiden’s eyes, Aurora’s stubbornness — I can already see it in the set of her jaw. Jax holds her the way he holds everything that matters — both hands, completely present, no bullshit.
I watch him with her and something happens inside that I’m not going to examine right now because Aurora is already photographing it and I don’t need her to snap my face looking some kind of way too.
I photograph Aurora photographing it. Aiden photographs both of us. The baby is completely unbothered.
“She’s going to be a writer,” I say.
“Goalie,” Jax says.
“Writer.”
“Goalie.”
He looks at me. I look at him. Neither of us blinks.
Aurora looks at Aiden. “They’ve been doing this for months.”
Brody, from the couch: “She could be both. I’m basically both.” Liam looks at him. Nobody says anything.
Brody has Hendricks in his jacket again. Eight months old now, fully grown, and Brody still carries him around like he’s a kitten.
Hendricks has Brick’s markings, Dina’s eyes, and the same expression of complete authority that got Brick into trouble in the first place.
Liam and Katarina took one — said Liam needed an emotional support cat.
Hey, who am I to judge?
Aiden and Aurora have one too, and the baby and the kitten are apparently best friends already and Aurora sends photos at least twice a week. Riley took one. Said nothing about it. Just showed up one day and left with a kitten tucked under her arm like she’d always planned to.
“Riley just took one,” I say. “She never even asked.”
“She asked me.”
I stare at him. “When.”
“Week three of your embed.”
I open my mouth. Close it. “She knew in week three.”
“She said she was hedging her bets.”
“On what.”
He holds my eyes for a second. Brick blinks once from the counter.
“Oh,” I say.
“Yeah,” he says.
They leave at four.
Aurora yawning, Aiden steering her out, Brody tucking Hendricks back inside his jacket, Liam’s single wave. The door closes. Just us and the Sunday quiet and the light coming through the windows.
Jax picks up the manuscript.
I sit across from him and pretend to look at my phone while he reads. He reads the way he does everything — completely, actually there, no performance. Every page. He doesn’t know I’m watching. He already knows I’m watching. He puts it down and I’m still pretending to look at my phone and he lets me pretend and that’s him too. That’s exactly him.
