Page 10 of Hush, Little Baby

Constantine frowns, glancing through the glass. “You think?”

“He rubs his wrist every few seconds. Could be a past injury, or something chronic.”

“I can look into it,” Constantine offers, but I shake my head.

“Later,” I say. “For now, just… keep watching.”

There’s an ache in my chest, equal parts empathy and possessiveness. I imagine what his life must be like, with the exhaustion etched into his bones. Maybe he works a shit job, maybe he’s running from something worse. It doesn’t matter. I want to take all of it from him, to scoop him up and give him a world made of softness and light and unconditional care.

He colors for a while, then stops. He gazes at the television, but he isn’t watching. He’s somewhere else, far away. I want to call to him, to draw him back and anchor him in place.

“Charlie,” I murmur again.

Constantine leans back, folds his arms, and gives me a sidelong look. “You’re fixated.”

“You’re surprised?” I retort, though my voice is softer than I intend.

He smirks. “I just didn’t think it would happen this quickly. You usually do a lot more due diligence.”

I think of all the screening processes, the weeks of texts, the awkward coffee dates, the careful negotiations, and checklists that have defined my romantic life until now. It was all a means of building a wall, keeping myself safe from disappointment. But this—this is different. I don’t need a checklist. I don’t need a background check. I know, with the clarity of a revelation, that this is the one.

“Might I suggest you go in and try to talk to him?”

I nod, then stand, and just before my hand reaches the door handle, I tell Constantine, “Stay here. I don’t want anyone coming in.”

3

Charlie

I want the mama cat to be orange—Mango Tango, according to the name on the wrapper—but my crayon keeps veering past the lines. I scrunch my face as I try to slow down, to press softer, to find the perfect grip, but my wrist is hurting and weak, and the crayon tip dances across the page like a frightened bug.

“Stop it,” I whisper to my trembling hand, hoping politeness will tame the tremor. It doesn’t. I grab a fresh crayon anyway—sometimes a swap fools my fingers into behaving. One kitten is already sky-blue; next is the yellow one, but my fingers fumble the crayon, so I wrap my whole fist around it. The line wobbles, but messy is okay—mama cats don’t mind messy. I lean in, jaw clenched, every muscle keyed on coloring. My wrist throbs, I pause to rub it, grit my teeth, then press on.

The door creaks, and my shoulders jerk in response. Someone’s coming. I don’t look up—if I pretend I’m not here, they usually leave. My crayon skids outside a kitten’s paw. I correct it poorly; it still looks snarled. Footsteps crunch closer. Closer. Right next to me. My heart hammers so loud I’m sure the person can hear it.

But the person doesn’t leave. They sit. Right beside me. I force a tiny peek and see a man—colossal, broad-shouldered like an oak tree, arms thick as logs, with a dark beard across his jaw. Even sitting, he towers. He smells warm and expensive. I drop my gaze to the page.

It’s fine. It’s fine. He’ll go away.

The orange crayon veers outside the lines again, and my hand shakes so violently that the tip snaps with a pathetic, childlike crack. I bite my lip, hard.

If you cry now, everything will be ruined.

You’ll be the club joke for a month.

I pick up the broken half, but my fingers are so numb that I just end up pushing it farther away. Then the big man’s hand comes down, impossibly gentle, and plucks the crayon remnant off the table between a thumb and forefinger. He holds it out, palm up, waiting. My eyes dart up to his, then away so fast I see only the suggestion of his dark gaze. I reach for the crayon, not wanting to touch his skin, but there’s no way around it. My knuckles brush the side of his thumb, and the contact is so warm it takes something out of me. The crayon is soft; his hand is softer.

“Thank you,” I whisper, but the sound is so faint it doesn’t even reach my ears.

He doesn’t laugh, or poke, or say anything crude. He doesn’t do anything.

I turn my wrist so I can finish the line along the cat’s tail, but the pain is like a shock—electric and immediate—and the crayon slips again. I drop it before I can help it, then rub my wrist with the other hand, just under the sleeve-scrunched cuff. It’s a habit at this point, a tic of apology for my body’s many betrayals.

“Does your wrist hurt, baby?” The man’s voice rumbles. The word “baby” is so out of place that it jars me.

I freeze. I try to answer, but if I open my mouth, it will only open too much, and too many words will come out, and he’ll know how weak I am, so I nod, barely moving my head.

He makes a noise deep in his chest, not a laugh or a hum, but a sort of acknowledgment. The kind people make when they see something they want to protect, or maybe just something they want.