Page 87 of Hush, Little Baby

A small noise works its way out of my throat—halfway between a hum and a question. “Yeah,” I say, drowsy honesty making my voice crackle. “You’re done working?”

“For now.” He shifts, tucks the blanket more securely around my legs, and lets his hand rest heavy and warm over my knee. “You can stay here as long as you like. Or come with me, if you want.”

I glance over the edge of my blanket and catch him looking at me. I can’t believe I ever thought he was scary—he’s still imposing, sure, but it’s a different kind of largeness. Like an animal that has no predators, not because he’s the toughest, but because nothing else even tries.

“I like your office,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say, and compliments seem to work on him.

He grins, teeth sharp and perfect. “I like it better with you in it.”

I don’t know how to answer, so I just smile back, and another ripple of warmth flickers up through my core.

Nikolaus leans back, folding his arm over the top of the sofa, and when he does, I scoot closer without even really meaning to. His hand finds the nape of my neck, thumb kneading the tightness there, and I just… melt. Maybe I’ll regret leaning into this tomorrow, next week, or next year, but right this second, all I want is to stay.

I close my eyes again. His thumb stills, then resumes kneading, and I drift in and out, bobbing on the edge of sleep while voices rise and fall in the far-off apartment. Somewhere out there, life keeps moving, but in here, I don’t have to move at all.

At some point, there’s the faint sound of the double doors creaking again. I crack my lids, just enough to see Elise hovering for a moment, eyes crinkling conspiratorially when she catches me peeking. She smiles, winks at me, then retreats without a word, leaving us alone again.

I think I might just like it here.

16

Nikolaus

I have never understood people who can tolerate uncertainty.

In my experience, uncertainty is simply a problem that has not yet been solved. Information exists somewhere. Someone knows the answer. The trick is finding the right person, asking the right questions, and applying sufficient pressure until the truth reveals itself.

Unfortunately, Charlie appears to be the exception.

Four days after the initial appointment, the doctor returns with the first round of results.

Charlie and I sit together in the den, the fireplace on behind us as it’s been raining for the past twenty-four hours. The doctor settles into an armchair and opens a leather folder, then glances between us.

“Firstly, I want to thank you for sending over Charlie’s prior test results. Having access to those records has saved us a tremendous amount of time. A significant number of conditions have already been investigated and ruled out.”

I lean forward slightly. “Meaning?”

“Meaning we aren’t starting from zero.”

The doctor begins walking us through the findings and comparing them to Charlie’s previous results. Most of the bloodwork is exactly what Charlie said it would be—elevated inflammatory markers, persistently elevated white blood cell counts, and the strange ANA fluctuations.

Nothing definitive.

Nothing that points neatly toward a single diagnosis.

By the time he’s finished explaining, irritation is beginning to simmer beneath my skin.

Charlie notices and tells me quietly, “It’s okay.”

I turn toward him. “It isn’t.”

The doctor wisely says nothing.

Charlie shrugs. “I’m used to it.”

I hate that fucking answer.

As though spending every day feeling ill is something a person should simply accept.