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They’re singingChristmas carols on the TV when I hear snoring.
I glance over, expecting it to be Steve.
Instead, it’s Nova, who’s curled up into a ball in that mess of blankets and towels and clothes and pillows. Steve is sprawled out on her chest.
But he’s not sleeping.
He’s watching me warily, one beady eye open.
Probably expecting me to go asshole again.
And, frankly, he’s not wrong to be cautious. It’s going to happen.
Just not right now. I take the bowls—which number three because the only way to tame the tiny demon was with his own dish of soup—to the sink and wash up, loading everything into the dishwasher, drying the pot and tucking it back into the drawer beneath the cooktop.
By the time Christmas is saved on TV, the kitchen is clean and I’m feeling drowsy myself.
Only, as I start to walk past the troublesome duo on my way to the bedroom, I stop.
Study them.
The pillow is half under Nova’s head, the blankets askew and bunched up.
She’s going to wake up with a crick in her neck and a sore back.
Not my problem.
I keep walking down the hall.
But I haven’t built a fire yet.
Not my problem.
Only, the power might go out and—
“Fuck,” I mutter on a sigh, knowing I’m being an idiot, but still moving quietly toward the woman sleeping in the pile of blankets. I stare down at her, warring, but then I bend and scoop her up into my arms. Steve grumbles, rolls over, tiny legs in the air.
Nova slumps against my chest, breathing slow and steady as I carry her to bed, not moving as I tuck her beneath the comforter.
I tug the blanket up and over her then go back for the dog.
Who also doesn’t move when I scoophimup and cradle him against my chest and carry him down the hall.
I tuck him in next to her, but when I go to turn away, to leave them to their nap in my bed, exhaustion washes over me.
Exhaustion and alcohol and—
No. Just exhaustion and alcohol.
And because there’s only one bed…
I crawl in next to them.
Twenty-Five
Nova
I sighand burrow my face into my pillow, feeling more rested than I have in ages.
