Page 86 of Hush, Little Baby

I almost turn back upstairs to the safe, plush pocket of the nursery, but something tugs at me to keep going.

Past the dining room—twenty feet of glossy wood, like a bowling lane—I see double doors, shut tight.

A thread of curiosity keeps pulling.

The doors are heavy, and I have to lean my whole weight against one to budge it open. The hinges give with a soft hiss, like a sigh of resignation.

Inside, the walls are lined with matte black bookshelves packed with folders and thick, blocky books. At the far end of the room, a subtle desk lamp glows—the only spot of color in the darkness.

Nikolaus sits behind the desk, hunched over a laptop.

He looks up the instant I step inside. The expression on his face isn’t angry or annoyed—if anything, he seems quietly amused.

I freeze. My brain goes blank.

“Sorry,” I stammer. “I didn’t mean to, uh… I can go.”

He shakes his head, dismissing the apology before I finish. “You’re not interrupting. You’re welcome anytime.” Then he gestures at the two armchairs opposite his desk. “Make yourself comfortable, baby boy.”

My face heats, but I obey, sinking into one of the chairs, which turns out to be so deep and soft it nearly swallows me whole. Arms pressed to my sides, I study the rows of books and the neatness of his workspace, searching for a safe place to rest my gaze that isn’t directly on him.

For a few minutes, he says nothing, focusing intensely on the work in front of him.

Eventually, curiosity bubbles up in my chest. “What are you working on?”

He pauses, taking a moment to finish what he was typing before answering. “Legal paperwork. Tax filings. Exciting things like that.” He looks up, and there’s a dry twist to his smile. “Not very fun.”

I nod, unsure how to respond, but the silence isn’t uncomfortable exactly. I let my attention drift to the room itself—how the shelves are more practical than decorative, full of cold, official things. Ledgers. Reference letters. Folders with tidy, unreadable labels. Some of the books are in languages I don’t recognize. There’s nothing playful in here; it’s the complete opposite of my nursery.

I don’t even realize I’m fidgeting until Nikolaus asks, “Would you like to sit on the couch instead? Or you can read, if you’re bored.” When I look up, he’s already standing, gesturing to a plush black sofa tucked against the wall, a throw blanket folded neatly at one end.

I hesitate, then shuffle over, feeling the weight of his eyes on my back. The couch is wide, the fabric heavy and cool. I pull my knees up, curling into myself, and reach for a book from the side table. It’s an art monograph, hardback, the cover a close-up of a marble statue’s face. I flip it open at random, letting my eyes drift over the images until the pages start to go blurry.

I don’t realize I’ve nodded off until Nikolaus is suddenly sitting beside me, his presence huge and quiet. His laptop is gone, set somewhere out of sight. He’s speaking into a phone, the cadence low and careful. I keep my eyes mostly closed, only peeking through heavy lashes. The clean tang of his cologne mixes with the faintest scent of coffee.

He’s got my feet in his lap.

At some point while I was asleep, I must have shifted, or maybe he did. My socked feet are laid over his thighs, and he is holding one loosely, the pad of his thumb rubbing small circles against the bump of my ankle bone.

The gentleness of it is so surprising that I don’t even know what to do with myself. I stay very still, trying not to let on that I’m awake, while Nikolaus talks in his quiet, even voice to whoever is on the other end of the call.

“No, I don’t care about his excuses. Handle it.” He says it so softly, so matter-of-fact, that I almost miss the cold inside his words. It’s the same unflinching calm I remember from the night he took me, when he picked me up and just… left with me, like it was the most normal thing in the world. Like he already knew that no one would stop him.

His thumb keeps up its circles on my ankle until the call ends, and the silence settles back in.

I should move my feet.

I should say something.

Instead, I lie there, pretending for a little longer that I’m just a piece of furniture too, one of the many things in his world that he’s decided to keep.

Eventually, Nikolaus leans forward. I hear the soft click as he sets the phone down on the table. Then his hand, the one not holding my foot, slides under the blanket and gently covers my calf. He doesn’t squeeze, just cups it like you’d hold a ripe peach, and lets out a long, slow exhale.

“Are you awake?” he murmurs, voice pitched so low I barely hear it.

I’m not sure if he means the question for me, or if he’s just thinking out loud, but it lands in that place where kids’ brains are more suggestion than substance. I nod, even though my eyes are still shut.

I feel the smile in his chest before I see it. “Good boy,” he says, then starts stroking my shin. “Did you have a nice nap?”