Page 90 of The Silent Hour

Exactly on schedule. Ethan had promised he’d be home for dinner, bedtime stories, whatever else the girls had co-conspired in my absence, and despite everything simmering between us, there was one role I’d never doubted him in: father.

“Dad!”

Aria abandoned the rainbow-strewn LEGO carpet and launched herself down the hall, her pigtails bouncing like twin pendulums. Ellie’s little feet pitter-pattered close behind, her giggle trailing like a ribbon.

Ethan barely had time to set down his briefcase before both girls leapt at him, their arms wrapping around his legs in a coordinated assault that hadn’t been physically impressive since they were four but remained emotionally mandatory.

He stumbled back with a laugh, one arm cradling each daughter, their pajamas soft against his shirt.

I stayed half-buried in the plastic brick avalanche, watching them: my girls, their father, my husband. My stupid heart softened anyway. Apparently, stupidity required more than a few seconds beneath another woman’s lips to erase eleven years of shared mornings and late-night whispers. Good to know.

Ethan’s gaze lifted over his daughters’ heads and met mine. Something in his expression wavered—softened—then he disentangled himself and crossed the room. I lifted an eyebrow; he paused, that tiny hesitation asking what words couldn’t.

I offered him my hand. His shoulders dropped, as though I’d exhaled for him. He took it, tugged me upright, then slid an arm around my waist, pressing warmth through the fabric of my shirt.

“Hi, bellissima,” he murmured, his voice a gentle rumble in the hush.

“Hi.” My pulse fluttered as his eyes searched mine and settled before he leaned in. Not a fierce claim, but a quiet greeting, a touch we both recognized. I kissed him back.

Aria groaned behind us, all melodrama. “Please stop.”

Ethan’s lips curved against mine.

Ellie pressed her small hands over her eyes. “I am never doing that,” she declared.

“That’s right, baby girl,” Ethan agreed immediately. “Never.”

I scoffed, and his hand squeezed my waist, lighter somehow, boyish instead of burdensome. I noticed instantly. “You’re in a good mood.”

“We finally got a new lead to follow from Ruiz.”

“Is that good?”

“Better than good. I only wish I had that luck with Cortez.”

Well. That made both of us. Meg’s spare bedroom looked like a conspiracy theorist’s fever dream. Papers plastered half the walls, names circled and connected by colored lines that sprouted more questions than answers. She wasn’t giving up. Neither was I. Soon I’d rope my parents in, though I still hadn’t decided how much they needed to know.

Ethan kissed my temple, rolled up his sleeves, and without a word dove into the LEGO chaos. He plucked out two pieces, then another, and bit by bit the familiar silhouette of the Stranger Things house rose from the pile.

I stared at him. His mouth turned with an infuriating, triumphant curl. I slipped him the finger behind the girls’ backs and silently mouthed, Fuck you. His grin stretched wider.

“Later,” I groaned, rolling my eyes.

“Such a guy.”

I left him to his LEGO architecture and slipped into the kitchen to finish dinner.

THE HOUSE HAD GONE quiet by the time I showered and pulled on my fleece robe. The girls were asleep, completely wiped out by another school day.

I checked on them before heading to find Ethan, pausing long enough to pull Ellie's blanket higher and rescue Aria's tablet before it slid off the edge of her bed.

Ethan's study light was still on, and I knocked lightly.

"Come in."

I pushed open the door. He sat behind his desk with an old Colt 1911 laid across a cleaning cloth in front of him. He was running an oiled patch along the slide with the kind of absent precision that told me his thoughts were somewhere else entirely.

The sight didn't bother me. It would've been strange if it did. My father's gun collection could've armed a small revolution, and Miss Morticia was currently secured inside my purse because I would never be caught out and about not carrying.