The morning light slipped through the slats in the kitchen window, golden and soft, like it knew not to be too loud. The farmhouse creaked gently, the old bones of the place settling like an old man in a worn chair. You stood by the stove, one hand on the frying pan, the other rubbing at the sleep in your eye. Your hoodie was too big, sleeves hanging past your wrists, and your socked feet shuffled every so often to soothe JJ’s excited bouncing on your hip.

Dina leaned against the counter across from you, scooping powdered formula into a bottle with the sort of practiced grace you admired more than you ever said out loud. JJ babbled at nothing in particular, maybe the way the sun caught the edge of the countertop or the clink of the spoon against the glass. His tiny hands reached for everything. Always reaching. Always new.

Joel was still asleep. You could feel that. The bedroom down the hall was quiet—too quiet some days—but not in a bad way. Not now. He needed sleep. Needed the rest. His body didn’t work the same since the attack. The shotgun had taken his right knee—completely blown it apart. They’d saved the leg, barely, but he’d never walk properly again. And the brain damage… that was harder to see, but deeper somehow.

Some mornings he didn’t remember what year it was. Some mornings he’d call you by another name. Sarah. Tess. Tommy. There were good days, too. Good enough days. But sleep was always safest—for him, for them. In sleep, he didn’t hurt.

You flipped the eggs in the pan with a practiced hand, your mind only half there. The sizzle filled the silence.

“He’s still out?” Dina asked softly, glancing toward the hallway.

You nodded. “Yeah. He had a rough night. Kept waking up. Thought he was still in that garage…” You trailed off. The rest didn’t need saying. Dina’s eyes softened. She knew.

You both didn’t talk much about what had happened. Joel had almost died. Should’ve died, if the universe made sense. But somehow, broken as he was, he’d made it through. You hadn’t been there when it happened. You'd found him after. The blood, the cracked skull, the gasping breaths—God, you still dreamed about it sometimes. The way he’d looked at you, eyes half-lost, not fully knowing who you were, but still holding your gaze like he did.

He couldn’t live on his own now. Could barely get around with the crutches when he was awake. He hated that part. Hated needing anyone. But he was here. That was what mattered.

JJ squealed suddenly and smacked his hand down on the counter, a piece of banana squishing between his fingers. You smiled despite yourself, adjusting the kid on your hip.

“Hey, messy boy,” You murmured. “That’s breakfast, not a toy.”

Dina chuckled and came over to scoop JJ into her arms. “Go check on Joel,” She said gently, kissing your temple on the way past. “I’ve got him.”

You hesitated, then nodded, wiping your hands on a towel. The hallway was dimmer, cooler. You padded quietly to Joel’s door, pausing outside. No sounds. You pushed it open slowly.

He lay on his side, facing the window, the morning light drawing lines across his face. His beard had gone mostly gray. The scar above his brow looked deeper now, puckered. One hand curled near his chest. His breathing was slow. Steady.

You stepped in, careful not to wake him, just watching. There were days you couldn’t believe he was still alive. Days you didn’t know how to be around him, how to be what he needed now. But then there were these quiet mornings, where the house felt like it was holding its breath and all that mattered was that you had made it this far.

Joel shifted slightly in his sleep, murmured something you couldn’t quite catch.

You stepped closer, just enough to brush your fingers lightly over the blanket at his side.

“It’s okay,” You whispered, not sure who you were saying it to—him or yourself. “You’re safe.”

Then you turned and left him to sleep. There was still breakfast to finish, a baby to wrangle, and a quiet house to keep warm.

For now, that was enough.