Page 87 of Never After Us
“You still going through the dusty boxes?”she mumbles, words wispy with sleep.
“Yeah,” I say, easing us toward the hallway.“Albums and letters ...might be some journals too.”
She gives a tiny nod, already drifting again.“Okay.You’ll read them to me one day, okay.”
My heart squeezes, and I don’t know how to hold that moment, so I just hold her.
Alec follows me inside.His fingers skim the small of my back as I adjust her, an instinctive touch that steals my breath before I can pretend it didn’t.
We carry her upstairs to her room.I lay her down while Alec moves to the other side, fixing the covers with a quiet care that doesn’t match his usual scowl-on-command exterior.
He tucks the frog beside her and whispers, “They’re back now.Told me they were just hiding.”
Mila shifts, her lips curving the tiniest bit as she slips back under.
Then—his voice so low I almost miss it—he hums.Just a few notes of something I don’t recognize.A lullaby, maybe.Or a melody made just for this moment.
I freeze.
He doesn’t notice.Or pretends not to, but my heart catches on it.
I comb my fingers through Mila’s hair until her breathing deepens.When we step out, we leave the door cracked just enough for the light to spill in.
Downstairs, the penthouse feels too quiet.I move toward the kitchen on autopilot, still shaken by the way he looked at her.The way he looked at me while looking at her.
“I’ll warm the water,” he says, already reaching for the kettle like this is something we do now.His fingers brush past a jar and pause.“Where are those cookies she said she made?Or did I dream that part?”
“You didn’t.We finished them yesterday.”
“We need more,” he says, frowning at the empty spot where the tin was.
“You sound genuinely offended.”
“I am.”He opens another cabinet, still searching.“We should make some this weekend.”
We.
Notyou.
It’s awe.
The word sticks.Lodges in my chest like it’s looking for a place to stay.
“Let me know if it works in your busy schedule,” I say lightly, but it sounds too close to a whisper.
It’s all too much—the warmth of the light, the sound of the kettle heating, the way his body fits into my kitchen like it’s his, the way his presence fits into my night like he’s mine.
I step outside before I unravel right in front of him.
The balcony is cooler now, mist curling above the streets below.The city stretches out in muted, shimmering layers—quiet and too still, like it knows something I don’t.
When Alec joins me, two mugs in his hands, I don’t look at him.Not right away.
“I think ...”My voice catches.“I’m ready to read another one of her letters.”
It’s safer than telling him the truth.Safer than admitting I don’t want this moment to end—not with the letter, not with him this close.
He stills beside me, every part of him going quiet.Then, gently:
