Page 83 of Priest

He’s trying.

That scares me more than if he wasn’t.

The afternoon settles into a rhythm after lunch. Nomad works the mural in layers, blocking soft shapes first, then adding the details that make the wall feel alive without making it busy. Priest and Ink finish the crib, then move to the dresser. Evan continues his vital work as morale officer and menace, while Lila folds tiny clothes from one of the opened boxes with a tenderness that makes my throat ache.

By the time the last box is broken down and Nomad rinses his brushes, the room smells faintly of paint, wood, and something steadier than hope.

Priest lingers by the doorway, waiting for me to signal the end of the day. He doesn’t ask to stay longer. He doesn’t reach for more time. When I nod, he turns to the others.

“Alright,” he says. “That’s it for us.”

Ink grabs his jacket. Nomad caps the paint and lines the cans neatly along the wall.

Evan claps his hands once. “Gentlemen, it has been a pleasure watching you wrestle baby furniture with your egos mostly intact.”

Ink shoots him a look. “You didn’t help.”

“I emotionally supported,” Evan replies. “It counts.”

“You flirted with hardware.”

“I flirted near hardware,” Evan corrects. “Precision matters.”

Nomad laughs under his breath, low and warm, then tips two fingers toward me. “Wall needs the night to dry. Keep the window cracked if the weather holds. I’ll come back and touch up anything that dries funny.”

“Thank you,” I say, and I mean it more than those two words can hold.

His grin softens. “Anytime, Doc.”

Lila squeezes my hand before heading out with them. “Text me if you need anything.”

“I will.”

Soon the room empties until it’s only Priest waiting by the doorway, big and quiet and careful in a way that still feels new. He looks at the nursery once, then back at me.

“Thank you,” he says. “For lettin’ us help.”

I nod, the words sitting heavier than they should. “Thank you for sticking to the rules. And for the help.” I glance toward the hall, suddenly aware of how tired he looks beneath the control. “Get some rest.”

He does something rare then.

He smiles.

Not sharp. Not guarded. Just tired and real.

“I will,” he says. “You too.”

He leaves when he says he will, careful enough to let one good day stand on its own.

When the door clicks shut, the apartment feels different. Warmer, maybe. Or simply less unfinished than it did this morning. I sit on the edge of the couch, one hand resting on my stomach, and breathe.

Maybe this is working.

Two towns over, the men filter into Church without ceremony. Jackets off. Doors closed. Seats taken the way they always are.

That’s where the warmth ends.

Ink leans back, arms crossed. Nomad settles in, the last of his playfulness gone from his face. Priest takes the head of the table, expression neutral but alert.