You and Joey had a complicated history. You had loved them since you were twelve, a love that had stubbornly lingered through the years, even when Joey seemed determined to push you away. Being together never came easy; even in your happiest moments, they had a way of driving you back into heartbreak. Drugs were always their first love, no matter how much you tried to help, no matter how many times you pleaded or stayed up through sleepless nights praying they’d choose you over the bottle, the pills, the chaos. Relapse was a constant, inevitable companion in your lives.

But things had changed. Ever since Joey went to rehab—for you and for your son Aj—your life had begun to settle. The storms had calmed. You felt an unfamiliar but welcome sense of peace. Happiness, even. You could finally breathe without the sharp edge of worry cutting through every moment. You didn’t have to spend hours searching the city for them, finding them collapsed on some grimy mattress, lost to the world of addiction. Now, the mornings came quietly, and the nights felt safe.

After Edel and John took in the Lynch kids, they insisted you, Joey, and Aj move into a small house tucked into the garden of their sprawling property. It was meant to give you privacy, a little sanctuary away from the constant chaos of the Kavanagh household. They wanted peace for you—and you welcomed it, holding onto the small, steady rhythm of your new life like a lifeline.

Today, you sit cross-legged on the soft rug in the living room, folding Aj’s tiny clothes as he sleeps soundly in his crib. The air smells faintly of detergent and fresh linen, the hum of the house wrapping around you like a protective blanket. Your hands move automatically, sorting tiny socks and onesies, while your mind drifts lazily through the quiet.

The door creaks open, and Joey steps in, overalls streaked with oil from a long day at the garage. You glance up just in time to see them lean down, brushing a kiss against the top of your head.

“Hey, queen,” they murmur, voice rough with fatigue but warm.

“Hey, stud,” you reply, a small smile tugging at your lips as you fold one of Aj’s blue shirts. Joey moves to the kitchen, the clink of coffee mugs and the hiss of the kettle punctuating the calm.

“How was he today, hm?” Joey calls from the kitchen, voice gentle, curious.

You pause, holding up a tiny pair of socks, and glance toward the crib where Aj sleeps, chest rising and falling in peaceful rhythm. “He was good,” you say softly, a smile spreading. “Lots of giggles when he woke up. Ate all his lunch. Tried to steal your wrench, like always.”

Joey chuckles, a low, relieved sound, and sets a steaming cup in front of you. The aroma curls around you, mixing with the quiet hum of the house. You take it gratefully, feeling warmth spread through your chest—not just from the coffee, but from the simple, steady life you were building together. One day at a time, one folded shirt at a time.