Page 117 of Hush, Little Baby

My hand closes around his. “Don’t—” My voice breaks on the word. “Don’t ever think that again.” His gaze locks on mine, tender and uncertain. “There was never going to be a version of this story where I didn’t find you, baby.”

Charlie’s eyes fill with tears, not of fear this time but of relief.

“You’re safe,” I remind him, voice thick. “You’re home.”

“I know.” His eyes flutter, and he smiles, his chin quivering, like he still can’t decide if the world is ending or just beginning again.

After a while, he sleeps.

The next tide of consciousness brings more lucidity. He wakes to the clatter of the tray as I move it, to daylight streaking in through the blinds.

“Did you ever leave?” he asks.

I shake my head. “I took a nap beside you for a few minutes.”

He looks to his left, a soft smile appearing on his face as he takes in the rumpled sheets beside him, proof that I was there.

I’m eventually able to coax him to eat, holding the spoon to his lips, which makes him blush. He gets a few good mouthfuls in. He’s become a little self-conscious about the bruising and the way his jaw cracks a little when he chews, but I keep my face blank, just encouraging him to go slow. After maybe six minutes, he stops, exhausted from the effort, and squints at me through lashes clumped with tears.

“You okay?” I ask softly.

He nods, then asks, “Do you want—Can you lie down with me?”

I obey as if the urge is my own to begin with, toeing off my shoes and settling on top of the covers beside him. He threads his hand into mine, our bracelets touching.

Niko’s and Baby’s.

When he starts to drift back to sleep and mumbles, “Don’t let go,” I clamp my fingers around his and promise I never will.

25

Charlie

Two Months Later

The city’s skyline shimmers beyond the car’s tinted windows—towers of glass and steel glowing, their lights rippling across the dark surface of the bay. We drift through evening traffic, the engine’s low purr mingling with distant horns and the sounds of the city at night.

In the backseat, I curl against Niko’s side. My sneakered foot rests on the edge of the plush leather seat; my fingers idly twist the pastel rainbow straps of my soft denim shortalls. The fabric is worn-in and gentle against my skin, the tiny stitches of rainbow thread across the bib bright and cheerful, like confetti frozen in motion.

This outfit earned me a look when I came downstairs. Not judgment—quite the opposite. His gaze had lingered, and I’d felt my cheeks heat with pleasure and pretended I hadn’t noticed. My cropped white shirt leaves a narrow band of skin exposed at my waist, something I would have never worn in the past. Now, I feel desirable.

He stared for a full five seconds before clearing his throat, his voice carefully measured. “You look adorable.”

In Greek mafia—he swears it’s not the mafia—boss language, that translates to: I’m completely losing my mind.

Now he sits beside me in a charcoal suit whose fabric probably costs more than my first car did. The contrast between us is ludicrous—me, like a living marshmallow in soft pastels; him, like an executive poised for a board meeting. And somehow, we’re headed to the same destination.

My head finds its usual spot against his shoulder. His arm slides around me—automatic, effortless, familiar.

Home.

Two months ago, I thought I’d lost my home before even being able to tell Niko that I loved him.

My ribs no longer ache when I laugh, the bruises on my arms have faded, and the swelling over my nose subsided weeks ago. Only a faint tenderness remains if I bump it. Physically, I’m nearly myself again. Mentally… that’s a different journey. Healing isn’t linear in my mind.

Every Wednesday afternoon, a therapist arrives at the penthouse. At first, I hated it—hated dredging up memories of the warehouse, hated the way harsh words made the past feel vivid. But my therapist insists trauma doesn’t vanish when you lock it away; it simply waits. It’s unfair, but she’s helped. Nightmares come less often now, though they still visit.

Sometimes I wake convinced I can taste stale cigarettes and vodka on my tongue. Sometimes I wake half-hidden under the weight of tape around my wrists. Sometimes I wake screaming. But every time, Nikolaus is there. His arms circle me before I’m fully awake, his voice an anchor beneath the storm of my panic. His heartbeat matches mine until the warehouse fades, the nightmare unravels, and the soft reality of linen sheets, his lips brushing my forehead, and Duckie lying between us, sets in.