Page 45 of Grumpy Ex-Military Brewmaster’s Secret

Eli goes quiet after that, turning the compliment over like he's checking it for a catch, and doesn't find one, and settles back against the seat looking pleased for reasons that stopped being about the fish a while ago.

Josie's turn comes with considerably less glory attached. School picture day looms, and Jenna's stuck at the brewery handling an emergency with a delivery truck that decided the driveway was optional, which leaves me alone in the loft bathroom with an eight-year-old, a hairbrush, and a set of instructions from a video Jenna sent me that I watch four separate times and still don't fully understand.

"You're doing it wrong," Josie informs me, watching my reflection in the mirror with the patient disappointment of a supervisor observing a new hire.

"I'm doing my best."

"Your best is wrong. The pieces are supposed to go under, not over."

"I genuinely don't understand how that changes anything structurally." I attempt the maneuver again, produce something that looks less like a braid and more like a small, sad bird's nest, and stand there staring at it in the mirror with the specific defeat of a man who has faced down actual combat and been bested by hair elastics. "This isn't working."

"Not even close."

We're still stuck there fifteen minutes later, three failed attempts deep, Josie increasingly convinced she's going to show up to picture day looking, in her words, "like a haystack," when Dot appears in the doorway like she's been summoned by the sheer volume of our combined distress.

"Oh, honey, no," Dot says, taking one look at my handiwork and physically wincing. "Give me the brush."

"You're a lifesaver."

"I'm a hairdresser. It's the same thing on a day like today." She has Josie rebraided, sleek and even, in under two minutes flat, hands moving with an efficiency I respect on a professional level even as it makes my own attempt look worse in retrospect. "There. Now you look like a person instead of a cautionary tale."

Josie inspects herself in the mirror, visibly relieved, already forgiving me the trauma of the last twenty minutes. "It's so much better."

"I know, sweetheart."

"Thank you, Rafe, for trying," Josie adds, with the diplomatic generosity of someone who's decided effort still counts for something, even catastrophic effort.

"I appreciate the mercy."

Dot pats my arm on her way out, entirely too delighted with the whole situation. "You get points for trying, honey. Not many, but some."

By the time Jenna gets back that evening, exhausted and smelling like diesel from wrestling with the delivery truck, both kids are fed, Josie's hair survived the school day intact according to a very detailed report, and I've settled into the particular tired satisfaction of a day spent doing things I never trained for and somehow didn't ruin completely.

"How was the truck?"

"Resolved. How was babysitting duty?"

"Educational. I learned I'm better at fractions than hair." I pull her in against my side on the couch, and she goes easily, tucking herself into the spot that's started to feel less like an accident and more like a permanent arrangement. "Dot had to rescue us. Josie's very forgiving about it."

"She's forgiving about most things. It's Eli who holds a grudge."

"Eli caught a fish the size of his own arm and told approximately everyone in a four-block radius. I don't think he's holding a grudge about anything right now."

She laughs, easy and warm, and for a minute the whole day settles into something simple and good, the kind of ordinary evening I never expected to want this badly. I check my phone out of habit, more reflex than curiosity, scrolling past a supplier email I'll deal with tomorrow, and my thumb catches the calendar app before I mean it to.

The reminder's been sitting there since the start of the year, the same one I set every year without fail and never once needed the alert for, because some dates don't require reminding: the third of the month, one week out.

Something in my chest drops fast and total, all the warmth of the afternoon draining out at once, like somebody just pulled the plug.

"And I think Eli's going to want to frame that fish photo, honestly, which means we're going to need to find an actual frame, because right now it's just taped to the..."

I stop mid-sentence, phone still in my hand, staring at a date on a screen that doesn't look like much of anything to anyone else in the world.

"Rafe?"

I don't answer right away. I can't, not yet. This quiet isn't really about her at all. It belongs to a part of myself I keep locked down most days and only let out once a year, whether I want to or not.

"Rafe. Hey." Jenna's voice is careful now, the same careful I recognize from the loft the night of the storm, from every time she's decided a shut door is better left alone. "You okay?"