Chapter 15: The Morning After
The scent of her apartment—lavender laundry detergent and the faint, sad smell of old takeout—still clung to his jacket as he shrugged it off in his own entryway. His loft was silent, a stark contrast to the humid, sleeping quiet he’d just left. The city glittered, cold and impersonal, beyond the wall of glass.
He toed off his boots, the thud of each one too loud in the space. The kitchen was a monument to minimalism: concrete countertops, stainless steel. He set the coffee machine to brew, the gurgle and hiss breaking the silence with a familiar, mechanical rhythm.
While it dripped, he leaned against the counter, palms flat on the cool surface. His mind replayed the last hour in fragments.
Carrying her. She’d been so light in his arms, a bundle of warmth and soft cotton. He’d lifted her from the chair, Button clutched in a death grip even in sleep. She’d murmured, a sound without words, and her head had lolled against his shoulder. The trust in that unconscious surrender had sent a sharp, almost painful pang through his ribs.
The walk to her bedroom. Her small bed with its floral duvet. Trying to disentangle Button so he could lay her down properly. That’s when the littlespace had peeked through the veil of sleep.
“No,” she’d whined, a thin, reedy sound. Her fingers, surprisingly strong, had fisted in the front of his shirt. “Don’t go.”
“Shhh, I’m just putting you to bed, little one.”
“Stay.” It was a plea, foggy with dreams but laced with a desperation that felt old, worn thin. She’d curled toward him, her face pressing into his neck. A whimper escaped her, the sound of a creature fearing abandonment.
He’d managed to get her under the covers, one arm still trapped by her clingy grasp. “I have to go, Lily-Anne. You’re safe here. Your bunny’s here.” He’d pried her fingers loose, gently, and tucked Button into the crook of her arm. Immediately, her hands had sought the stuffed animal, holding it close. He’d pulled the duvet up, tucking it firmly around her sides, creating a cocoon. The pressure seemed to soothe her; her breathing evened out again.
In the dim light from the hallway, she’d looked unbearably young. Soft. Precious. The careful adult mask she wore at the bookstore and even in the Littles Room was completely gone. This was just her. Unfiltered. Needy in the purest sense.
He hadn’t planned to kiss her forehead. It was an impulse that bypassed his usual careful calculation. His lips had brushed her skin, a whisper of contact. She’d sighed, a happy, settled sound, and burrowed deeper.
The memory of that sigh replayed now as the coffee finished brewing. He poured a mug, black, and walked toward the soundproof door at the far end of the loft. He pushed it open.
The little room was the antithesis of everything outside. Warm. Soft. A deliberate sanctuary. The amber glow from the bulb washed over plush rugs and the single, massive armchair. Shelves held a few select toys, puzzles, books that weren’t for show. It was a space of potential, mostly unused.
He stood in the doorway, coffee steaming in his hand, and stared at the empty chair.
A hot, sudden bolt of anger shot through him, so visceral it tightened his grip on the mug. It wasn’t a general anger. It was pointed, crystalline. He could picture, with horrible clarity, the vague shadows of people from her past—faceless, smirking, dismissive. People who’d taken her gentle heart and her secret, fragile need and made her feel used for it. Made her feel ashamed of wanting to be held, of needing to be small.
He wanted to find them. He wanted to use the hands that carved delicate wooden rocking horses and shaped cherrywood table legs to do something else. Something violent and final. The fantasy was brief, white-hot. He let it burn out.
It was a protective rage, but it was also a recognition. That whimper in her sleep wasn’t just about tonight. It was the echo of every time she’d been made to feel like a burden for her fundamental needs.
He sipped the bitter coffee, grounding himself. The anger cooled, settling into a firm, solid resolve in his gut.
She wasn’t a project. She wasn’t a rescue mission. But seeing her like that, so defenseless and sweet… it had carved a place for her inside him. A place he’d thought was walled off and done.
He wasn’t looking for this. He’d been content with the quiet, with keeping watch at the club, with his work and his solitary space.
But now he’d held her. He’d felt her cling to him. He’d kissed her head.
The trajectory of his quiet, controlled life had just shifted. He couldn’t un-know the weight of her in his arms. He couldn’t un-hear that sleepy, trusting whine.
He closed the door to the little room. The lock clicked with a soft, final sound. He walked back to the kitchen, set his half-finished coffee down, and pulled out his phone.
His thumb hovered over the screen. It was too early to text. She’d still be asleep, buried in her floral duvet with her bunny.
He put the phone down. Then picked it up again.
He typed a message, deleted it, typed another. Simple. Clear. No pressure.
“Hope you slept well. Button seemed like a good guard. Coffee later this week? Your pick.”
He sent it before he could overthink it. The message flew into the digital ether, a tiny anchor thrown between their separate worlds.
He stood there in the sleek, silent loft, the city’ dawn beginning to bleed grey at the edges of the sky, and waited. Not just for a reply. For whatever came next.