It was a little after ten on Saturday evening. The last ritual of the day—checking on Julia and Thomas—was complete. Julia, eight, lay curled around a stuffed rabbit; Thomas, six, slept with one arm dangling off the bed, already chasing dreams. They were Kit’s miracles, and yours, in a way, too.

You walked down the dim hallway toward the guest room. Your guest room. It had been your permanent residence for the last six months, ever since Grace’s cough had progressed from concerning to fatal. You hadn't gone back to your own apartment. You didn't trust the silence there, either, but mostly, you couldn't bear to leave Kit alone in this one.

Kit's bedroom door was slightly ajar, letting a sliver of warm, humid light spill onto the dark wood floor. You paused, hearing the soft, rhythmic puff of the hallway dehumidifier, and nothing else.

He was standing in the center of the room, drying his ears a bit haphazardly. The towel was hitched low around his waist, the dark cotton clinging to the damp skin of his hips. His chest was wide and smooth, glistening slightly under the soft lamp light. Water droplets still clung to the dark curls plastered to his forehead.

In the years you’d known him, through all the tragedy and transformation, Kit Walker had retained that raw, working-class strength—a magnetism that had captured two incredible, doomed women. Watching him like this, stripped bare of his grief and his fatherly duties just for a moment, was like seeing a statue come to life, monumental and fragile all at once.

You felt a blush creep up your neck, hot and sudden. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. You hadn't meant to stare. Not like that. Not for so long.

He turned slightly, catching sight of your shadow in the doorway. He didn't jump. "Everything alright?" he murmured, his voice a low rumble. He didn't cover himself, didn't seem to care that you'd just seen him. You were you; you were always just you.

"Yeah," you managed, your voice a little breathy, a little too high. "Just... heading to bed." You gestured vaguely towards the guest room, feeling like a fool.

You should apologize. You should step back and pretend you hadn’t been staring at the line where the towel met his hipbone. But you couldn’t move.

You were the friend who held the bouquet at the first marriage, the hand at the second funeral, and the baby at every crisis. You were good enough to help raise his children, good enough to live indefinitely in the spare bedroom, but never, you reminded yourself nightly, good enough to share his bed. It was a truth you swallowed like bitter medicine.

"Don't go yet," he said, his voice softer now. "Come here."