Chapter Text
Little things have a way of changing everything. Jinx learned that early on.
It was never the fights that did it, not really. It was the pauses before them. The words that didn’t get said. The look someone gave her and didn’t take back.
She learned it with her family first.
How one wrong step, one moment of hesitation, could turn into distance you didn’t know how to cross again. How trying too hard could hurt just as much as not trying at all. How love could be there one day and unreachable the next, all because of something small that went wrong and never got fixed.
She learned it with broken promises, too.
Things meant to protect that ended up cutting deeper than anything else. With hands that steadied her shoulder, then disappeared. With choices made in the quiet that ended up echoing louder than an explosion ever could.
People didn’t leave all at once, they shifted. And suddenly, you were alone in a room that used to feel safe.
She learned it with herself.
How believing one bad thought for too long could turn into a truth. How letting guilt settle, just for a second, could hollow you out if you weren’t careful. How surviving meant paying attention, always. Catching the little things before they stabbed you in the back.
And then there was Isha. Her sweet, little Isha.
She hadn’t planned for her. It hadn’t been some big, noble decision. Just a night that ran too long. A kid who didn’t stop following her. A hand tugging at her sleeve when she could’ve walked away.
One small choice. Stay or go.
Jinx stayed.
Everything after that came from the same place: one more meal, one more night, one more promise she didn’t say out loud.
Papers came later. Words like adopted showed up when the reality had already settled in.
In the blink of an eye, Isha was everywhere. On the floor, on the fridge, in the space Jinx hadn’t known she’d been guarding all this time.
At first, adapting to Isha felt like learning a new language. Literally.
Sleep came in pieces. Food burned or went cold because she forgot it on the stove. Silence stopped meaning peace and started meaning check. She learned the difference fast.
She also learned to move slower, to keep sharp things out of reach. To soften her voice even when her head was loud.
She learned that kids asked questions they didn’t really want answers to, and that what they needed most was consistency disguised as freedom. She learned that love wasn’t the big, dramatic thing people talked about. It was showing up again the next morning, even when you hadn’t slept.
People noticed. Of course they did.
They said it casually. Like advice and concern. Like they weren’t carving something into her ribs.
'You okay?' 'This seems like a lot for you.' 'You can barely keep yourself together, you know that, right?' 'Maybe she'd be better off with someone more… suitable.'
They never said it when Isha was close enough to hear. That part, at least, they got right.
They waited for kitchens, hallways, doorframes. They waited until Jinx was tired enough that she didn’t fight back, just nodded and stored the words somewhere deep where they could do damage later.
Some days, she believed them.
Those were the days she counted every mistake twice. Every raised voice, every forgotten lunch, every night she collapsed too early. Proof, she thought, evidence of how awful she was.
Other days, she watched Isha figure something out on her own—tie a shoe, finish a problem, sign 'I did it' with a grin so wide it hurt—and the noise quieted, just enough.
The first time Isha signed it, Jinx almost thought she’d gotten it wrong.
It wouldn’t have been the first time. Isha was still learning, still smoothing out her hands, still trying on meanings without understanding the weight they carried. Signs bled into each other sometimes. A motion meant for one thing landed close enough to another, and Jinx knew not to read too much into it.
After all, they both had only a book and themselves to learn signing.
So at first, she didn’t.
She was busy with something when the movement caught her eye. Small hands, careful but sure. Fingers splayed and thumb on her chin.
Jinx blinked, mind scrambling to rearrange it into something adjacent. Something that didn’t ask anything of her.
But Isha was looking at her, waiting. Not nervous, or testing. Just expecting to be understood.
That was when Jinx realized she hadn’t misread it at all.
She didn’t respond right away. Not because she didn’t know what to say, there were a dozen answers she could’ve reached for without thinking, but because none of them fit.
Correcting Isha felt wrong, ignoring it felt worse.
So she stayed still.
Isha didn’t seem to notice the delay. She shifted her weight, eyes already drifting back to whatever had caught her attention before. The sign hadn’t been a question, it was just a word, offered in the open, like it belonged there.
And that was it.
The moment passed without acknowledgment.
But later—much later, when the apartment was quiet and Isha was asleep—Jinx replayed it over and over in her head. The certainty in her tiny hands, the way she hadn’t hesitated. The fact that she’d assumed, without being told, that the word 'Mom' was what Jinx was to her.
That assumption sat heavy in Jinx’s chest.
Not like a burden, like a responsibility she hadn’t realized she was already carrying.
But the comments didn’t stop. And the looks didn’t either. The way people watched her like she was temporary, or like Isha was something she’d eventually drop.
So Jinx did the only thing she knew how to do when a place stopped feeling safe.
She left.
Just a plan, built piece by piece. Money saved quietly, a house bought with more hope than furniture. A neighborhood that didn’t know her yet, didn’t expect anything from her.
Somewhere she could mess up without an audience.
Starting fresh didn’t fix everything. The house was empty, the nights were still long. But the air felt different, lighter. Like maybe she could learn how to be this version of herself without everyone waiting for her to fail.
And slowly—annoyingly—it worked.
Isha was doing well. Better than well, actually. She was so happy to have a new home, even if it meant her bedroom being the only furnished room of the house.
Her new school came back in little reports folded into backpacks and teacher smiles. She’s curious. She’s kind. She helps other kids. Jinx read the words like they might disappear if she blinked too hard. Not because she didn't believe Isha was those things, never that. But because the words let her know she hadn't messed her up.
She played until her knees were dusty and her hands smelled like metal and chalk. She laughed loudly until it bounced off. It made Jinx flinch the first few times because she wasn’t used to joy being that uncontained. She cried too, over scraped palms and lost toys and feelings she didn’t have names for yet.
Some afternoons ended in tantrums over homework that suddenly became impossible the moment Jinx sat down beside her. Pencils were dropped on purpose, pages were 'boring'. Jinx learned the difference between I don’t get it and I don’t want to get it, and which one needed patience instead of answers.
Bath time was a negotiation. Dragging feet, dramatic sighs, arms crossed in protest—until Isha was in the water, at which point getting her out became the real battle. Wrinkled fingers clutched the edge of the tub like it was a life raft. Five more minutes, she signed, again and again, like time might bend if she asked nicely enough.
And through all of it—every laugh, every tear, every stubborn refusal—Isha stayed soft. She cared deeply. She apologized when she had to, she looked for Jinx’s face in every room, asked for hugs, goodnight kisses… even said 'I love you, mom', which left Jinx crying like a baby every damn time.
Isha was doing great. And somehow, Jinx was the one making that possible.
Most days, she didn’t believe it.
Because she remembered the other voices just as clearly. The ones that came before, the ones that said she was reckless, unstable, too much of a mess to be responsible for anything fragile. 'You can barely take care of yourself' 'A kid needs more than you'
Those words stayed deeper than any 'I love you'.
They lived in the quiet moments. When Isha slammed her door during a tantrum, when homework ended in tears, when Jinx lost her patience and hated herself for it five minutes later.
She worried someone would see those moments and think, There it is. That’s what we meant.
So she kept her head down an let the credit drift elsewhere. Let people assume Isha had just turned out fine on her own.
But late at night, when the house was quiet and Isha was curled up asleep, hair fanned across the pillow, chest rising steady, Jinx let herself look.
Looked at wounds kissed better. At drawings made by tiny fingers just for her, at gentle arms wrapping around her at night, at her face lightening up the moment she spotted her at pick up time.
At a kid who loved easily and trusted completely.
Jinx wasn't perfect by any means, but it seemed like maybe—just maybe—she was enough.
Enough that Isha was safe, enough that she was happy. That belief, that fragile and risky thing, was what finally made her breathe.
And breathing came easier when someone stopped looking at her like she was about to fail.
She learned that with a stranger.
The new house was too big for them. Too quiet and too empty in the middle of the day. Work took more out of her than she liked to admit, and being home didn’t mean being free. So while she worked seated on a cushion in her empty living room, Isha played in the backyard.
Sometimes that meant toys on the floor, sometimes chalk on the pavement.
Sometimes dirt under her nails in the yard next door.
Jinx told herself she was watching. That she always knew where Isha was, and she did—mostly. That she was finally being a responsible parent. Decent, at least.
But one day her little girl ran inside with her hands wrapped around a bottle that hadn’t come from her.
Other day said little girl was only minutes away from having to be picked up from school, and the fridge was empty. No food to be made.
Another, she rushed through the grocery store, bought only the essentials, and still managed to drop everything on the floor.
She barely registered him at first. Just the scrape of plastic against pavement and the way things stopped rolling.
He said something that her ears didn't catch. He knelt, steady and unhurried, gathering what she couldn’t. Putting together what he could, fixing the little mess she'd made.
Jinx watched his hands instead of his face.
She thought about how easy it would be to fall apart if someone else was willing to hold the edges. Thought about how dangerous that was. How badly she wanted to let it happen anyway.
And somehow, even then, she was breathing.
Until she wasn’t.
She told herself it was a one-time thing. A bad day stacked on top of worse ones. Hunger, exhaustion, fear, all of it spilling over at the wrong moment, in front of the wrong person.
She didn’t look back when she left.
At home, she scrubbed her hands raw at the sink, like she could wash the feeling off. Like she could rinse away the memory of someone kneeling beside her without being asked. Of how natural it had felt to let him.
So she closed the door more often after that. Kept the windows shut and redirected Isha when she drifted too close to the fence. The yard next door became background again.
Just dirt, just plants. Just a place that wasn’t theirs.
Still, she noticed the quiet.
She caught herself glancing out of habit, then stiffening when she realized what she’d been looking for.
Cause it was ridiculous, really. Some stranger that had started as a weirdo giving a drink to her child, who then shifted into a polite man who helped without being asked.
Some nights, Jinx replayed it all anyway. The words, the look on his face when she told him to stay away.
She wondered if he thought about it too. If he replayed the moment the same way she did, picking it apart until it broke. She wondered if he thought she meant it, if he believed her when she said she wasn’t a good mom.
That one hurt the most.
Because part of her feared he might.
She told herself it was better this way, safer. No strangers offering help she couldn’t afford to accept.
But sometimes, when the fridge was empty again, or Isha asked a question about whether they could plant something in their garden, she felt her heart aching for him to come fix her messes like a bruise she kept pressing, just to check if it was still there.
And she hated herself a little for longing for someone she barely knew, if at all.
Still, she learned yet another thing. Nothing ever stays the same.
Not the quiet, nor the routines she built like scaffolding around her days. Not even the small and careful balance she struck between letting something exist and pretending it didn’t matter.
At first, the changes were subtle enough to ignore.
Ekko stayed where she could see him, always. He didn’t cross lines she hadn’t named, didn’t linger too close, didn’t look at her like he expected anything in return. He showed up the same way every time: honest.
That scared her more than anything loud ever could.
Isha took him in the way anyone would when they felt safe. She talked with her hands more freely around him, she laughed louder.
And she must admit she felt kinda jealous her own daughter had warmed up so easily to someone who wasn't her.
Jinx also noticed the way her own body adjusted without permission.
How she stopped hovering so hard in doorways. How she leaned against the fence instead of standing rigid beside it. How she caught herself listening for Ekko’s voice in the evenings, not because she needed to, but because the absence of it felt off.
She told herself it was temporary. Everything always was.
Yet there were moments that slipped through her fingers before she could stop them.
Like the way Ekko looked at Isha with tenderness in his eyes. Or the way he payed attention to her when she told him something, like whatever she wanted to say was worth it.
In other occasions, when the day was done, Jinx lay awake and wondered if he thought about them too. If he replayed moments like movies the way she did, turning them over, searching for the places where things had almost tipped into something else.
She wondered if he knew how close she was to letting it change her. She had a feeling he might.
That was the dangerous part.
Because she could handle things breaking, she’d done that her whole life. What she didn’t trust though, was the slow, insidious hope that crept in when things stayed gentle for too long.
So she held on tight to her rules. To her distance, to the certainty that this, whatever it was, would pass.
Because, yet again, nothing ever stayed the same. And she had learned—the hard way—that even good things could leave.
Still, her daughter hadn’t learned that lesson yet. And being six, she had questions.
Is Ekko your friend, or mine?, she asked in the middle of bath time.
Jinx paused, fingers caught halfway through a knot. “Why are you asking?”
Isha shrugged, squirming a little. He said we’re friends, she paused and reached for one of her toys, then added, but he always looks at you when we play.
Jinx scoffed softly. “That’s not true. He always pays attention to your games.”
Isha hummed, unconvinced.
But Jinx wasn’t six. She knew what questions to ask, and when to ask them. And that declaration was something she didn’t need to understand.
She squeezed shampoo into her palm and worked it through Isha’s hair carefully. The bathwater was warm and quiet except for the soft slosh against porcelain. Steam curled in the air, blurring the mirror a bit.
“What book do you want us to read tonight, hm?” Jinx asked instead.
The bunny one.
“Oh,” she said. “Been a while since we read that.” she rinsed slowly, shielding Isha’s eyes with her hand.
Ekko calls me bunny sometimes.
“He does?” she asked.
Yeah. Isha kicked her feet, little splashes tapping against the tub. He says my nose twitches like one. And like yours.
Her hand stilled at the back of Isha’s head. Just for a second. "My nose doesn't do that,"
It does, mom.
She tipped the cup again, rinsing the last of the shampoo away like nothing had changed. Like it didn’t mean anything at all.
“That’s enough splashing,” she said quietly. “You’ll get water in your eyes.”
Isha obeyed immediately, settling back down. Just a kid playing and saying weird stuff.
She moved away before Isha could say anything else. Before she could ask the wrong question. Before Jinx had to think about how long someone had to be watching to notice something like that.
Cause, really, how'd he know that?
That night, after Isha was fast asleep, she tried to busy herself.
She set her uniform out for the next morning, ironing it even though it would wrinkle anyway once Isha put it on. She scrolled through easy lunches on a short budget, saving a couple she’d probably forget about by the weekend. She went downstairs and wiped down the counter twice, reorganized the cabinet that only held three mismatched cups and a some chipped bowls.
Anything that kept her hands moving.
The house felt louder when it was quiet. She passed Isha’s door more than once, pausing each time, just to listen to the soft rhythm of her breathing and admire the glowing stars on her ceiling. The same ones she used to have when she was her age.
Back when everything used to be simple.
She sat on the edge of her bed—no, the mattress on the floor she was still calling a bed—and stared at the far wall. She tried to think about all those times she had allowed herself to dream for something and it never came, only got worse.
Instead, her mind betrayed her.
Ekko’s voice drumming in her ears. The stupid, traitorous detail of her nose twitching—something she’d never noticed before.
She pressed her nails into her palm until it hurt, grounding herself again.
This was how it went. Small things piling up, moments that felt harmless until you looked back and realized they’d rearranged something inside you. She’d lived that lesson already, learned it early and painfully, learned it pretty damn well.
She exhaled slowly and stood, turning off the light. Cause the next day would come whether she wanted it or not. Even if she wished for a break.
Even if she wondered whether he was awake too.
Morning came. It always did.
She moved through it on muscle memory and coffee before she was fully conscious. Isha’s lunch packed with whatever could pass for a balanced meal. A toothbrush pressed into small hands, hair wrangled into something neat enough to last until recess. Shoes by the door, backpack checked twice.
The walk to school was short, and Isha talked the whole way, half-signed, half-mimed, enthusiasm doing most of the work. Jinx listened, nodded, responded even though she had no energy at all.
At the gate, Isha hugged her tight every time before she was gone, swallowed by noise and other kids.
She always stood there a second longer than necessary before turning back.
Home was quiet again, maybe a little too quiet. She set up at the kitchen table, laptop open, work tabs multiplying as the hours passed. Just a bunch of deadlines and a half-eaten sandwich she forgot about until it went stale.
In the afternoon, she heard it. The sound of a car pulling up next door.
Her fingers stilled on the keyboard. It all happened so fast she didn’t think about it. That was the problem.
One second she was staring at a screen, the next she was moving toward the door.
She told herself she was getting some air, stretching her legs after having spent so long sitting down.
Anything but the truth.
She stepped outside just as he was getting out of his car, and the moment her eyes met his, her knees went a little numb. She had definitely spent too much time seated.
"Jinx," he said. And the way he said her name was soft, like he’d said it a hundred times already. Even if he hadn’t.
“Hey,” she said. “I was just— needed some air.”
He nodded, bright teeth on full display as he did. “You done working?” he asked.
“Kinda.” she shoved her hands into her pockets.
“I just got back,” he said, glancing at the car, keys still in his hand.
“Yeah,” she chuckled. “I figured.”
They stood there a second, both of them shifting their weight, neither quite moving to leave. No Isha between them. No fence to lean on.
He tipped his head toward his house. She could practically see the thought forming. “You wanna… come in?”
She opened her mouth, then closed it. Brain stalled for a moment.
“Sorry,” he added quickly. “You said you wanted fresh air, so—”
“I want to,” she said, cutting in before she could stop herself.
The words surprised her. Judging by the way his eyebrows lifted, they surprised him too.
“Oh,” he said, then smiled. And maybe it was the sun, but his eyes were shining, too. “Okay.”
He waited for her to move first.
She crossed the yard toward his house, steps matching without either of them trying. He unlocked the door and held it open for her, glancing back like he was checking her face one last time.
His place was quieter than she expected. Not in a bad way, just settled.
A small living room opened straight from the door with a couch pushed against the wall, a low table scarred with old paint flecks and faint marks. Near the window, a few potted plants leaned toward the light.
It felt like someone who had his whole life mapped out. Or at least pretended to.
She lingered near the entry, eyes drifting over the place despite herself. It wasn’t fancy, it wasn’t cluttered either. Just exactly what she had expected it to be.
His.
Ekko hovered near the arm of the couch, shoulders tense, hands restless—fingers drumming once against the worn fabric before he forced them still.
The place felt smaller than hers, the air thicker, maybe cause he had actual stuff and not things on the floor. He cleared his throat, quieter than he intended, like he was afraid of breaking something just by speaking.
“You, uh, want water? Something else?” his voice came out rough, betraying the nerves he was trying to hide.
Jinx stood just inside, one hip cocked, arms folded loosely across her ribs like armor she wasn’t quite ready to shed. Her blue braids were brushing her legs, and a single strand kept slipping into her eyes. She blew it away with a quick puff, the motion small and impatient, but her feet stayed planted.
“I'm fine.” the words came out clipped, but her gaze flicked over him.
“Okay.” he nodded too fast, the motion jerky. And she’s slightly convinced he’s nervous, though she couldn’t really figure why.
“You can sit wherever you want.”
She glanced at the couch, plain and dark green. A tiny smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Bet your couch isn't as comfy as my cushions.”
He huffed a small, surprised laugh, the sound warm and hitting her just right.“You do have some very comfortable cushions,” his hand lifted to rub at the back of his neck before he asked, “How’s your day been?”
Her eyes widened. Maybe having spent so much time talking to no one but her daughter had made her forget what a conversation with someone who didn’t occasionally eat dirt felt like.
Yet talking to him didn’t feel so wrong. Not at all.
“So,” she said, finally taking one step forward, then another. She drifted closer to the couch, weight shifting from one foot to the other like she was waiting for permission she didn’t need before sitting down. “I woke up at six, took a shower, made lunch, woke Isha up and got her ready, finally dropped her off in time, did the same boring stuff, and now I'm here.”
Ekko eased down onto the couch as she spoke, giving her space on the other side, but his body angled toward her anyway. His eyes never left her, they were steady, drinking in the casual way she listed her day like it was nothing.
His pulse ticked a little faster just hearing her voice fill the room.
“And now you're here. With me.” the words slipped out quieter than he planned, almost a confession.
She tilted her head, studying him with those sharp, mismatched eyes that always saw too much. A beat passed, long enough that she felt heat crawl up her throat.
“What about you?” she said instead. Trying—and failing—to keep her tone light.
He stared at her for a moment, eyes fixed on hers before he replied.
“Woke up at five, worked out, took a shower, had breakfast, did the same boring stuff, and now I'm here.” he echoed her structure. His fingers flexed against his biceps, holding himself in place.
Slowly, almost reluctantly, she tucked one leg under her, elbows resting on her knee.
And it might’ve been on purpose. It might not have been. But she ended shifting a little toward him, close enough that their knees almost brushed if either moved.
She didn't know what it was about him, but she couldn't help but want to know more. Every single thing he had buried inside him.
“What do you do for work?” her eyes met his.
“I work at a community center.” he leaned forward, elbows on his thighs now, closing some of the invisible gap without actually moving closer.
“Really? Tell me more.”
He exhaled through his nose, a tiny glint in his gaze. “Well, I used to work in a tech company I never really liked.” his mouth twisted wryly. “But then, I missed an important presentation ‘cause I got sick, and they fired me.”
“Assholes.” the word came out fierce and immediate, protective in a way that surprised her form how genuine her discomfort sounded.
“Kinda,” he admitted, a small, crooked smile tugging at his lips. “But it actually was what I needed to bring the center to life.”
“You started it?” her brows lifted, genuine surprise flickering across her face before she schooled it. She shifted an inch closer without seeming to notice.
“Yeah.” he shrugged, trying to play it off, but his voice dropped lower, more honest. “Couldn’t stand the thought of people being homeless if I could do something about it.”
His expression softened—only a fraction, but enough that her heart stuttered. She let her shoulders drop a little, sinking deeper into the couch, legs still drawn up but less stiff now.
“Wow, you quite are the boy savior. Aren’t ya, mister?” the tease was there, but her tone was quieter, almost fond.
“It’s not that much.” he ducked his head and let his body fall back. “We have food, health care… We do have movie nights on Fridays, though.” he giggled.
Jinx confirmed once more what she already knew. He was a good person, heart big and full of tenderness and gentleness.
But then again, talking to a six-year-old all day warps your sense of normal conversation. You get used to answering everything. You forget that with adults, some things are supposed to stay inside your head.
“Maybe I could go live there. Bet Ish wouldn’t be mad I can’t afford a TV that way.” she blurted it fast, playful, then she saw how his smile fell and eyebrows knitted together in what looked like concern. Her hand flew up to cover her mouth for half a second. “I was kidding! It was dumb, sorry,”
“No! It’s fine…” his head lolled more toward hers now.
They hadn’t had nearly enough moments for her to memorize his tone, but somehow she still heard it. The doubt tucked quietly beneath his words.
His voice dropped, careful, and he seemed to weight something before opening his mouth again. “Can I ask you something?”
“Go ahead.” she met his eyes straight on, chin lifting just a touch. Her fingers loosened on her thigh, resting open.
“Does Isha’s dad help you at all, or…?” the question tumbled out before he could stop it, clumsy and too raw. He winced instantly, head lifting like he wanted to take it back. “You don’t have to answer to that, sorry. I don’t know why I—”
“She doesn’t have a dad.” she blurted immediately, desperate to clear up his mind. Her voice stayed calmed, but her fingers found the hem of her shirt and twisted the fabric tight. “I mean, of course she does, duh. It’s just—“ she exhaled. “I adopted her.”
“Oh.” he let out a slow breath, shoulders easing like a knot had loosened. Relief, guilt, something tender all at once. “Still, I shouldn’t have asked.”
“I didn’t mind it, really. Just caught me off guard.” she loosened her grip on the shirt, smoothing it flat again with careful fingers. Her body shifted—barely—an inch closer to his.
There was a silence in between. Something quiet that made her skin itch.
He was quiet. Her mind wasn't so much.
“It isn't that bad, I swear! I just like to complain,” she said, waving it off with a crooked grin that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
The grin wavered almost immediately. Her hand lingered mid-air a second too long before dropping back to her lap. She hated how fast she tried to make it smaller. Like if she laughed first, it wouldn’t hurt as much.
Ekko sat close enough that she could feel the warmth of him through their sleeves. The heat of him felt steady. She focused on that instead of the tightness building behind her ribs.
“You don't have to pretend it's okay.”
The sweetness in his voice almost undid her.
“No, seriously!” she insisted. “I mean, it was awful at first but now it isn't.”
Her fingers fidgeted in her lap again, nails digging lightly into her skin. She hated that he looked like he wanted to hear whatever she had to say. Hated that part of her wanted him to.
“The first year was rougher than I imagined.” her voice softened without her meaning it to. “Her birthday was coming up and she wanted an iPad so badly,”
Her throat tightened around the memory. Isha’s hopeful face, the way she’d signed it so carefully, like she didn’t want to ask for too much.
She swallowed. “I had some money so I thought, why not?”
For a second, she almost smiled at the memory. Almost. It flickered and died before it could settle.
“But then my sister’s girlfriend started asking questions…” Jinx rolled her eyes faintly. “She was annoying, I ignored her all the time. Until one of them really got under my skin.”
Her jaw clenched. She could still hear it in the back of her mind.
Ekko shifted slightly. She felt it—the subtle yet desperate way he wanted to let her know he was still there, listening.
“I remember her saying, ‘Is she actually mute or does she just not want to talk to you?’”
The words scraped on the way out. Even now.
“And it got me thinking about it cause, look at her! She laughs out loud, she cries even louder…”
Her voice cracked on the last part and it surprised her it did. She looked down immediately, as if she could hide it there.
“So instead of buying the iPad… I took her to the doctor.”
Her shoulders curled inward a fraction. She didn’t notice she was shrinking until she felt it.
She stared straight ahead. She could still see Isha in that too-big waiting room chair, swinging her legs and refusing to meet her eyes.
“She hated me. Wouldn’t even look at me.”
That part scraped something inside her chest, and she tried to ignore the burning behind her eyes. The betrayal in Isha’s gaze had felt worse than any insult.
Worse than the comment that started it.
“Then, after some days in what felt like hell, she told me it felt like I thought she was defective and that’s why I ran studies on her.”
Her throat tightened. Defective. The word felt poisonous. She pressed her lips together like she could keep it from aching.
“I cried for hours while hugging her.”
Her hands trembled slightly now, resting uselessly in her lap. She hadn’t meant to let it spill this far. She hadn’t meant to show him this part. All the doubt, the guilt, the way she could be shaken by just remembering.
Silence settled between her and Ekko.
She didn’t look at him, but she felt him being steady, warm, present. That almost made it worse. Because he wasn’t pulling away, he wasn’t correcting her. He wasn’t rushing to reassure her either.
She wondered what he saw when he looked at her. A mess? A failure?
Or someone who had just been trying to do the right thing.
Her chest rose unevenly. She blinked once, twice. A tear slipped before she could stop it.
She inhaled sharply, embarrassed at herself for losing control over something so small. She swiped at it quickly, like it didn’t matter.
She hoped—maybe stupidly—that he saw someone who'd always wanted to be useful. Even if she didn't always succeed.
And then his voice came out. It felt like a melody to her ears.
“You know what I heard in all that?” he waited a second, like he was making sure she’d let him finish.
She hesitated just long enough for her to look at him.
“I heard someone who loves her kid so loudly that even what seems to be the wrong decision is just… love.”
Ekko reached for her hand. His thumb brushed her knuckles, careful, like she might pull away. The gentle touch making her heart skip a beat and her breath hitch.
“And Jinx?” his voice softened further. “She's so lucky to have you in her life."
His sweet tone melting in her ears. It slipped past the walls she kept so carefully stacked. Past the sarcasm, past the version of herself that always had something to say.
Her chest tightened in a way that didn’t hurt, not exactly. It just felt full. Too full.
She tried to look away, but she couldn’t quite manage it. His face was still so close. Open, unafraid.
Nobody had ever spoken about her like that. Nobody had ever thought someone would be lucky to have her.
New tears that had been clinging finally gave up, sliding down her cheek slow and warm.
Ekko saw it before she could wipe them away by herself like she was used to.
His hand lifted almost on instinct, hesitating just a second before his knuckles brushed her skin. Careful, like she might shatter if he moved too fast.
She caught his wrist. But it wasn't harsh, just fast.
Her fingers wrapped around him, warm and trembling, stopping him inches from her face.
Not because she didn’t want him to, but because this was the exact kind of thing she didn’t know how to survive.
Gentle hands. Soft intentions.
His eyes flicked down to where she held him, then back up. He didn’t pull away, only waited.
Her grip tightened in fear. Of what it meant to let someone do something so tender. Of what it meant to want it.
Their faces were closer now, she could see the faint crease between his brows, and his breath ghosted against her cheek.
Close enough that she didn’t have to pretend she couldn’t see the softness in his eyes.
She exhaled, and then, slowly, like she was undoing something inside herself, her fingers loosened.
Ekko’s thumb finished the path it had started, brushing beneath her eye, catching the tear before it could fall any further. His touch lingered a second too long.
Jinx didn’t move away. If anything, she leaned into his hand. So slight it could’ve been accidental. So slight he might’ve imagined it.
But he didn’t.
His thumb shifted, almost cupping her cheek now. His eyes dropped to her mouth, and how it parted slightly, for half a breath before he caught himself and looked back up.
They were close enough that it would’ve taken nothing. A tilt, a breath, a decision.
Instead, he let his forehead hover just shy of hers. The air between them felt different.
When he finally pulled back, it wasn’t abrupt but slow. Like neither wanted to.
And when another tear slipped free, he wiped that one too, even gentler.
Gentle seemed to be his usual.
Gentle when he offered to drive them to Isha's school every morning, and drive Jinx to pick her up every afternoon.
Or when Isha rushed to hug him and he hugged her back with the same energy and enthusiasm.
Gentle when he began coming by everyday. He stood at her sink, sleeves pushed up, washing dishes without making a thing out of it, handing them to her to dry like they’d done it a hundred times before.
Gentle when he noticed the loose cabinet hinge and fixed it without commentary. When he replaced the flickering kitchen bulb and didn’t tease her about needing a ladder. When he sat cross-legged on her floor helping Isha with homework, pencil tucked behind his ear.
It unsettled her.
Not because she didn’t trust him, but because he was consistent.
He wiped the table after dinner without being asked. He refilled the ice tray. He remembered which mug was hers and which one Isha liked for warm milk. He folded the towels wrong—she noticed—but he folded them anyway.
Gentle when he knocked before stepping through the open door. Gentle when he left before it got too late, even when she could tell he wanted to stay.
Chaos, she understood. Distance, she mastered. Silence, she was used to.
But this? This steady, unremarkable kindness woven into the smallest parts of her day?
It kept rearranging something inside her without her knowing how to react.
One evening, as Isha sat between them on the floor coloring, Ekko reached over absentmindedly to tuck a strand of hair behind Jinx’s ear so it wouldn’t dip into the paint water.
He didn’t even seem to realize he’d done it.
She didn't seem to realize she'd lean in.
Then, he knocked on her door during a winter morning. She smiled immediately as her ears registered such thing.
She didn’t rush. She told herself she wasn’t rushing, but she was already moving to open up the door.
Cold air slipped inside when she opened it, along with Ekko and two overstuffed grocery bags hanging from his hands. His nose was pink from the weather. Snow clung to his dreads, already melting.
He stepped in carefully, shaking the cold from his jacket. The bags crinkled as he set them on the counter.
Isha appeared the moment she heard his voice, skidding into the kitchen in mismatched socks. The second she saw what was inside the bags—flour, chocolate chips, butter—her whole face lit up. She bounced in place, grabbing at Ekko’s sleeve, already signing too fast to follow.
Jinx stayed by the sink at first, watching.
They moved around each other easily. Ekko washed his hands without asking where the soap was anymore, Isha dragged a chair across the floor so she could reach the counter. Flour dusted the surface in a soft white cloud.
Within minutes, the kitchen looked lived-in in a way it hadn’t in weeks. A cracked egg shell on the counter, a streak of batter near the stove.
Isha’s delighted, breathy laughter filling the room.
“Come here,” Ekko said at some point. She pretended not to hear.
Her daughter didn’t let that slide, though. Small flour-covered fingers grabbed at the hem of her sweater, tugging insistently. The look on her face was shiny and soft.
Jinx sighed like it was an inconvenience.
It wasn’t.
She stepped between them, and immediately Isha pressed the wooden spoon into her hand. Ekko shifted closer to make space. Too close, maybe. Their shoulders brushed when she leaned forward to look at the bowl.
“Your first time making cookies, I see,” she muttered.
Ekko glanced at her, mock offended. Isha giggled uncontrollably.
It became something even gentler after that. Ekko steadying the bowl while Isha stirred with all her might. Jinx wiping flour off Isha’s cheek with her thumb. Ekko getting smudged with chocolate because Isha thought he needed “decorating.”
At one point, Isha grabbed both their wrists and tried to make them stir together, their hands awkwardly overlapping around the spoon. It turned into a mess of elbows and laughter and batter sloshing dangerously close to the edge.
Jinx laughed, head tipping back before she could stop herself.
Ekko froze for half a second at the sound. Then he smiled at her in a way that made her chest feel too tight.
The oven hummed once the tray slid in. The three of them lingered in the warm kitchen, not quite knowing where to stand now that there was nothing left to mix.
Isha leaned against Ekko’s side, already stealing chocolate chips from the bag. The kitchen smelled like sugar and butter and something that felt dangerously close to home.
Once the timer rang soft and shrill, Isha practically teleported to the oven.
Jinx had to catch her by the shoulders before she burned herself, laughing under her breath as Ekko pulled the tray out instead. The cookies were uneven, a little too golden on the edges, one of them shaped like something that absolutely hadn’t been intentional.
Perfect.
They waited the longest five minutes of Isha’s life while the chocolate set. She hovered, blew on them dramatically. Stole one too soon and yelped when it was still too hot, grinning through it anyway.
Crumbs ended up everywhere. On the floor, on Ekko’s sleeve, in Isha’s curls. Jinx brushed them away absentmindedly, pretending she wasn’t memorizing the way both of them looked sitting at her tiny table, knees bumping under it.
Warm, sweet, something she never thought she'd have.
Eventually Ekko checked his phone, brows lifting like he’d just remembered something.
He stood. Slipped his shoes back on.
Jinx frowned slightly, he looked at her and said he’d be back.
He was only gone a few minutes. Just long enough for Isha to start another cookie and for Jinx to feel the absence settle in too quickly.
The door opened again, and he stepped inside with something tucked under his arm.
Isha noticed the box first.
He crouched down in front of her, offering it gently. Her hands trembled when she took it.
The room went very, very quiet.
She signed thank you so fast it almost blurred. Then she launched herself forward, arms wrapping around his neck with so much force he rocked back on his heels, laughing softly as he hugged her back.
“Oh, it wasn’t me,” he said easily, smoothing a hand over her hair. “Your mom bought it for you. I just hid it in my house.”
Slowly, she turned. Jinx hadn’t realized she’d stopped breathing.
She stood near them, fingers pressed hard into her arms like she needed something to hold onto.
Isha’s face crumpled in the best possible way.
She ran. The hug hit Jinx full force, small arms wrapping around her middle, the box wedged awkwardly between them. Jinx folded down instantly, burying her face in her daughter’s hair, breathing her in.
You remembered, Isha signed clumsily against her sweater.
Jinx swallowed around the tightness in her throat.
“I never forgot,” she whispered.
Ekko watched them like he’d just been allowed to witness something holy.
He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t step forward to claim any part of it, even as much as he wanted to.
He just stood there, warmth written all over his face, hands shoved into his back pockets like he didn’t know what to do with how happy he was.
Jinx looked up at him over Isha’s shoulder. Lips silently shaped as a ‘thank you’.
Isha peeled the plastic off and threw it away immediately.
Careful at first, then impatient. Then careful again when Jinx told her not to take it out of the box until they bought a case.
She sat cross-legged on the floor between them, tongue peeking out in concentration as she lifted the lid. The screen caught the light from the window and flashed soft and silver.
For a second, she just stared at it. Like she couldn’t quite believe it was hers.
Jinx lowered herself beside her, Ekko did the same on the other side. The three of them formed a quiet little circle on the kitchen floor, knees bumping.
Isha touched the screen with one hesitant finger. It lit up and she gasped.
Ekko laughed under his breath, not at her—never at her—just at the sheer joy of it. Jinx felt something swell in her chest so fast it almost hurt.
They walked her through the setup slowly. He pretended not to notice the way Jinx’s eyes glossed over again.
Isha spent the next hour showing them everything as if she had built the thing herself. Drawing apps, silly games. A bunny wallpaper she insisted on setting...
At one point, she crawled straight into Jinx’s lap, tablet clutched to her chest. Then she leaned sideways and pressed her forehead to Ekko’s arm.
Thank you, she signed again, slower this time.
“You deserve it,” he murmured.
They ended up in the living room with cookies and the tablet balanced between them. Isha insisted on drawing both of them with her finger. The first attempt made Ekko’s hair look like a mushroom. The second gave Jinx tattoos that covered her whole body. They praised every single version like it belonged in a gallery.
Eventually, the excitement began to flicker.
Her blinks slowed, her head dipped forward once, then twice. The tablet slipped slightly in her hands.
Jinx reached to steady it at the same moment Ekko reached to steady her. Their fingers brushed, neither of them pulled away immediately.
Isha signed something about showing her friends tomorrow. And then she was out, just like that.
Ekko stood slowly, careful not to wake her, and bent down to lift her. One arm under her knees, one behind her back.
She curled into him automatically.
Jinx’s heart did something complicated.
He carried her up the stairs carefully, steps measured. Jinx followed close behind, watching the way Isha’s cheek pressed into his shoulder, watching the way his hand adjusted to keep her secure without jostling her.
He laid her down carefully, Jinx pulled the blanket up to her chin.
For a while, they both just stood there looking at her.
Peacefully asleep, with dried chocolate at the edge of her mouth. Jinx leaned down and brushed it away with her thumb.
When she straightened, Ekko was already looking at her.
The room was dim. Quiet except for the soft rhythm of Isha’s breathing.
Jinx felt the weight of the day settle in her bones, but it didn’t feel heavy. She stepped back from the bed, and without thinking, her hand found his sleeve.
Just to make sure he was still real.
He glanced down at her fingers lightly curled into the fabric of his shirt, then back at her.
They walked back into the living room, she dropped down onto the nest of cushions, and now blankets, she liked to call a couch. Ekko followed, slower, careful like he wasn’t sure how much space he was allowed to take up. He sat beside her, not touching. Not yet.
The iPad box sat on the small table.
Jinx cleared her throat before speaking. “How much was it?”
Ekko glanced at her. “What?”
“The iPad.” she didn’t look at him. “Tell me how much, I’ll pay you back. I mean it.”
He frowned, confused. “You don’t have to.”
“I do.” her jaw tightened. “I can’t just—” she gestured vaguely toward the box. “I can’t let you do that.”
He leaned back slightly, studying her profile. “It wasn’t anything.”
“Don’t.” she finally looked at him, sharp. “That’s not how this works.”
“Why not?”
“Because nothing’s free,” she shot back automatically.
Ekko didn’t argue, he didn’t look frustrated either. He just shifted a little closer without thinking, elbows resting on his knees.
“I didn’t mean for you to pay me back,” he said quietly. “I did it because I care about her.”
Her jaw trembled, just slightly.
“And,” he went on, after a small breath, “I care about you.”
That one landed differently.
She laughed, but it broke in the middle. “You don’t even know me.” her mouth tasted bitter with the affirmation.
“I know enough.” his fingers met hers.
“You know the version that’s holding it together,” she shoved his hand away. “You don’t know what happens when I don’t.”
“I’ve seen you tired,” he said immediately. “I’ve seen you scared. I’ve seen you doubt yourself.” his voice softened. “And I’ve seen you choose to keep going anyway.”
Her throat tightened.
He shook his head faintly. “You think that’s nothing?”
She looked away, blinking too hard. She tried to lean back, to create distance, but the cushions dipped beneath her and she barely moved. Or maybe she just didn’t try that hard.
“I’m not—” she exhaled, frustrated. “You don’t get it.”
“Then help me get it.”
Her eyes flicked to his mouth and away again.
“You don't mean any of that,” she said finally. The words sounded like they’d been sitting there a long time. “I mess things up. I overreact, and I disappear when it gets too much. I don’t—” her voice thinned. “I don’t do gentle.”
Ekko’s gaze softened in a way that almost hurt.
“You do,” he said.
She shook her head. He kept going.
“You just don’t think you deserve it.”
He lifted a hand—slowly enough that she could’ve stopped him if she wanted to—and brushed his fingers along her sleeve, not quite touching skin.
“I’m not keeping score,” he murmured. “I’m not waiting for you to mess up so I can leave.”
Her pulse was loud in her ears as he leaned in, yet it didn't feel sudden, nor overwhelming. She could feel his breath shift against her cheek.
For a split second, she didn’t move. Then she turned her face, just slightly.
“You shouldn’t,” she whispered. “I’m not—”
He didn’t retreat. “Not what?” he asked softly.
“Not the kind of person you build something with.”
He was so close now she could see every word he hid behind his eyes.
“I think you’ve already built something.” he said carefully, “With her,” he continued. “And you didn’t ruin it.”
Silence.
Her hand came up without her thinking and rested lightly against his chest. Feeling the steady rhythm beneath her palm. He didn’t move it.
“I’m not someone people stay for,” she said, the words barely audible.
“You don’t get to decide you’re unworthy before we even try,” he added, almost a whisper now.
She could move away. She knew she could.
She didn’t.
He leaned in again, slower this time, giving her space to stop him.
At the last second, she turned her face just enough that his lips brushed the corner of her cheek instead of her mouth.
Her fingers tightened slightly in his shirt. He exhaled against her skin, his thumb found her chin and, softly, he turned her face back to his.
“See?” he murmured, barely there. “I’m still here,” the words grazing her skin.
She nodded. And the worst part—the most terrifying part—was that she so desperately wanted him to be here.
His forehead rested against hers. His hand cupping her cheek, her fingers still twisted in his shirt.
It was quiet enough to hear their breathing.
She felt before it happened, the shift. Not hunger, nor urgency yet. More like relief.
He kissed her slowly. So slow it felt like asking.
And she answered.
Her hand slid from his chest to his collar, pulling him the rest of the way in.
He tasted like chocolate and something warmer underneath. She tilted her head. He deepened it gently.
There was no rush, just warmth spreading through her chest, through her ribs, down her spine.
He kissed her like he was memorizing her.
Her mouth parted against his. A quiet sound escaped her before she could stop it. His hand shifted from her cheek to the back of her neck, thumb brushing the fine hair there, steadying, grounding.
She climbed into his lap without thinking about when she decided to.
He exhaled at the contact, hands settling at her waist like they belong there. Still slow, still asking.
She answered by pulling him closer.
She shifted in his lap, knees bracketing his hips, her hands resting against his chest at first, testing the steadiness there. Feeling the warmth through fabric.
She kissed him again, even softer than before. Like she was trying to say something she didn’t have words for.
When they parted just enough to breathe, his forehead rested against hers again.
“I don’t do casual,” her heart stuttered as the words slip out.
“I don’t either,” he said as his hands tightened slightly at her waist.
One kiss on her cheek, one hand slipping under her clothes.
“I haven’t done this in a while,” she admitted, looking down.
His eyes softened, fingertips slipping further into the fabric. Hands shaking like he wasn’t entirely sure he was allowed to, like he was waiting for her to stop him.
“Me neither,” he whispered.
Her eyes searched his face, and even though she only saw pure love and admiration in him, she still wanted to give him a chance to run away.
“I have a kid,” she said, but it wasn’t sharp this time. It wasn’t a warning.
It was vulnerable.
His hand stilled at her waist, then moved up gently, thumb brushing the curve of her side. “I adore your kid,” he said quietly.
He didn’t rush the words. Didn’t smile when he said them. He meant them. She searched his face like she expected to find doubt there.
“I—” she started, and she didn’t even know what she was going to say.
I’m scared. Don’t leave. Don’t make this something I can’t survive losing.
He didn’t let her spiral. He leaned in and kissed just beneath her ear. Lingering there until she felt it deep down.
Her breath caught, fingers tightening instinctively in his shirt. He stayed there a second longer than necessary, like he could feel the way her thoughts had been racing.
“What?” he murmured softly against her skin, lips brushing when he spoke. “Ran out of excuses?”
There was no teasing edge. Just a gentle smile in his voice.
She let out a shaky breath that turned into the smallest laugh, her hands sliding up into his hair, holding him there like she needed the contact.
“I hate you,” she whispered, but she was already leaning again into him.
He pulled back just enough to look at her, forehead still touching hers. “No, you don’t.”
Her nose twitched faintly. He noticed—of course he did—and he bumped it with his.
Her thumb brushed over his cheek, softer than she meant it to be. “No,” she admitted, voice barely there. “I don’t.”
The admission barely left her before she was kissing him again. Deeper now, less afraid. Not to distract him, not to stop the conversation either.
Just because she wanted to. And that was new.
She felt it now. In the way her body leaned toward him instead of away. In the way her hands stopped bracing and started holding.
He gave her time to change her mind, and when she didn’t, his lips found hers again, softer than before. Like he was memorizing the shape of her mouth.
He shifted them carefully, guiding her down onto the cushions, never breaking contact, one hand beside her so he didn’t put his full weight on her.
It stayed sweet, even as it grew messier, sloppier.
She pulled the fabric over his head. He helped her out of hers with equal care. No rush or fumbling urgency. Just tiny laughter when their hands bumped, when a sleeve got stuck.
Lips against lips, skin against skin, no barriers in between.
He paused more than once to look at her to make sure. She nodded every time before he even had to ask.
His hands mapped her carefully. She had expected it to feel reckless, instead, it felt like everything she hadn’t known she was missing.
He moved like she was something precious. She moved like she was scared to break the moment.
“You’re okay?” he whispered once. She nodded, pulling him closer instead of speaking.
When he finally joined with her, it wasn’t hurried, nor desperate.
It was enamoring, achy.
Her fingers curled at his shoulders. His mouth met hers again when her breathing faltered, swallowing the small sounds she tried to hide.
When he pressed into her again, her hands found his face, pulling him down by the hair so their eyes could meet with every thrust, noses brushing.
She didn't feel like she was falling apart, she felt held. Like this wasn’t a moment of impulsiveness, but one to cherish.
And for the first time in a while, she didn’t feel like she was running away from the end.
She shook and shivered, heart pounding and mouth opened. He whimpered and trembled, body melting into hers.
All his love spilling inside her.
They stayed tangled together on the cushions, his arm wrapped around her waist, her head resting against his chest.
Their breathing slowly evened out.
His fingers traced idle circles along her back, gentle like he didn’t want to break whatever this was.
As she listened to his heartbeat, she realized something terrifying and wonderful at the same time.
It hadn't felt like something that was bound to disappear. He never felt like he would disappear.
And that scared her almost as much as it comforted her.
But for once, she didn’t pull away.
For once, she allowed him to hold her all night long. She allowed herself to let him into her space, even if said space was a mattress on the floor and mismatched curtains.
For once, she fell asleep in the arms of someone who wanted her as much as she wanted him. Someone who wanted to stay.
Someone who wouldn't leave.