Chapter Text
Steve learned early that crying didn’t always mean someone would come. At first, he did it the way babies were supposed to—loud, urgent, whole-bodied—but the house was big, and it echoed. The answers came slow. Too slow. Sometimes they didn’t come at all.
The days blurred together like that: light shifting across the ceiling, the smell of something sharp and unfamiliar in the air, voices he didn’t understand passing by without stopping. Eventually, the crying tapered off—not because he didn’t need anything anymore, but because he was learning something else instead. That it was easier to stay quiet. That waiting hurt. That being alone could feel normal, if it lasted long enough.
But that all changed when he turned three.
“Ma bichette,” Mary Rose said softly, crouching down in front of him. The carpet scratched at Steve’s bare knees as he shifted. Her perfume was stronger this close—too sweet, with something sharp underneath it that made his nose sting. One hand rested on his shoulder, light and unsure, like she might pull it away at any second. She spoke slowly, carefully, words slipping together in a way that didn’t quite make sense. Papa. Trip. Not long. Steve caught pieces, not the whole thing.
Behind her, the front hallway was crowded. Shoes lined up where they usually weren’t. Two suitcases stood upright by the door, dark and unfamiliar, their handles pulled out like they were reaching for something. Steve stared at them instead of her face. He didn’t like how still they were.
Mary Rose stood, the warmth of her hand gone too fast. Her heels clicked softly as she crossed the room and pulled the door open wider.
Cold air rushed in first, carrying the smell of outside. Then the shapes followed. A woman stepped into the light, brown hair smoothed back, dark green eyes already on him. There was a small mole on her cheek. She didn’t rush. In her arms, something warm shifted and wiggled, a soft sound slipping out of it. The dog’s paws scraped lightly as she adjusted her hold, nails clicking together. A pink collar circled her neck, the tag swinging and catching the light.
Steve recognized his name there before he understood why it mattered.
Baby Harrington.
The dog’s tail thumped against the woman’s arm—once, then again—loud in the quiet room. Steve looked back toward the hallway, at the suitcases by the door, at his mother’s coat already in her hands. No one said goodbye yet. No one said stay. The woman smiled at him anyway, slow and steady, and for the first time that morning, something in the room didn’t feel like it was already leaving.
“C’est un chiot?” Steve asked, the words slipping out wrong but hopeful. He took a few careful steps forward, knees stiff, his hand lifting and shaking as he reached toward the dog. Her nose brushed his fingers, cold and wet, and she smelled warm—like dust and grass and something sweet. Steve sucked in a breath and didn’t pull away.
The green-eyed woman knelt slowly, lowering herself to his level. Her knees pressed into the carpet, fabric whispering softly as she settled. She let the dog lean forward, murmuring something too quiet for Steve to catch. Baby sniffed again, tail thumping once, then twice.
The front door slammed.
The sound cracked through the house—sharp and final—rattling somewhere deep in Steve’s chest. He flinched hard, his hand jerking back as his shoulders curled inward. For a second, everything felt too loud and too quiet all at once. The air went still, like it was holding its breath.
Steve turned toward the hallway.
The suitcases were gone. The space by the door was empty except for a faint scuff on the floor and the lingering smell of outside—cold air and something metallic. He took a step forward, then another, peering around the corner as if they might still be there if he looked fast enough.
“Maman?” he called, the word small.
Nothing answered.
He padded farther down the hallway, bare feet slapping softly against the floor. He checked the living room first, then the kitchen, standing on his toes to see over the counter. The house felt bigger now—stretched out and unfamiliar. His chest felt tight, his mouth opening like he might cry—but the sound didn’t come.
Behind him, a voice followed.
“Je m’appelle Eléa Fournier,” the woman said gently. Her footsteps were slow, careful, stopping a few feet away. “Your mama asked me to take care of you until she comes back.”
Steve turned around. He didn’t understand all of it—only the shape of the words. Mama. Back. Care.
He frowned, then tilted his head, lips moving as he tried to copy her sounds.
“Ell… Em… El.”
He nodded once, settling on it.
El—Eléa—smiled, soft and steady, like she wasn’t going anywhere. Baby trotted after Steve, bumping gently into his leg, warm and solid. Steve looked back once more toward the empty hallway.
The door stayed closed.
But the dog stayed pressed against him, and El stayed where he could see her—and for now, that was enough to keep him still.
That night, the house didn’t sound the same.
Steve lay in his bed with the covers pulled up to his chin, staring at the dark shape of the doorway. The light from the hall spilled in just enough to make the corners look wrong—longer, deeper. Somewhere far away, something hummed. Pipes clicked behind the walls. Each sound landed sharp and unfamiliar, like it didn’t belong to him.
He listened for footsteps.
None came.
His chest felt tight, breath catching in short pulls. He turned onto his side, then the other, fingers twisting into the blanket. The pillow smelled like him and something older, something he didn’t know. He squeezed his eyes shut and waited for the feeling to pass, the way he had learned to do.
A soft sound broke through the quiet.
Not a voice. Not footsteps. A small, uneven shuffle.
Steve opened his eyes just as the door creaked wider. A warm shape padded into the room, nails clicking softly against the floor. Baby climbed onto the bed without hesitation, her weight settling against his stomach. She circled once, twice, then curled up, her breathing slow and steady.
Steve’s hands hovered, unsure, then rested against her back. She was warm. Solid. Real. He pressed his face into her fur and breathed in, the sharpness in his chest easing just a little.
In the hallway, a light stayed on.
It didn’t turn off.
In the morning, Eléa moved through the house like she had already memorized it. Steve sat at the kitchen table, feet swinging above the floor, watching her hands.
She moved slowly, deliberately, speaking as she worked—even when Steve didn’t answer.
Words drifted around him, soft and rounded. Some of them repeated. His name. Baby’s. Eat. Drink. A bowl appeared in front of him. Warm. It smelled sweet, not sharp. Eléa tapped the edge gently, then mimed lifting a spoon. Steve copied her, clumsy at first, then steadier. She smiled every time he tried, not big or loud—just enough to make her eyes soften.
After breakfast came washing hands. Eléa guided him to the sink, lifted him onto a stool that wobbled slightly under his weight. The water startled him when it rushed out, cold then warm.
She laughed quietly and adjusted it, letting him feel the difference.
She pointed.
“Chaud.” Hot.
Then turned the handle back.
“Froid.” Cold.
Steve watched, then reached out himself.
Later, she showed him where Baby slept. Where his shoes went. Which door led outside and which stayed closed. She didn’t rush him. She didn’t disappear when he looked away. Every time he glanced up, she was still there—folding laundry, wiping the counter, sitting on the floor while he lined his toys up in careful rows.
By the afternoon, Steve stopped watching the door.
By the evening, he followed Eléa from room to room without thinking about it. And when she said his name—slow, careful, like it mattered—he answered, even if he wasn’t sure why yet.
“Steve, sit.” She gestured to the couch in the living room. Steve gave a quick nod as he waddled towards it, using his hands to climb atop it.
Eléa made a game out of words. She sat on the couch with him, legs folded beneath her, a small stack of picture cards spread out between them.
Steve watched her fingers more than the images—how she tapped the edge of a card before turning it over, how she waited after she spoke, giving the sound time to settle.
“Dog,” she said, pointing. Steve looked at the card. Then at Baby, who had sprawled across the rug nearby, belly up, tail thumping lazily against the floor.
He frowned, considering it, then tried the shape with his mouth. “Doh.”
Eléa smiled immediately. Not surprised. Not correcting him. Just pleased. “Yes,” she said softly. “Dog.”
They did it again. And again. Spoon. Cup. Door. His name. Each word came with patience, with repetition, with the quiet certainty that there was no rush. When he got tired and leaned sideways into her leg, she didn’t move him. When he lost interest and waddled off halfway through, she gathered the cards without comment and followed him to wherever he ended up.
Sometimes she mixed languages without noticing. Sometimes she didn’t. Steve didn’t mind either way. He learned the sounds the same way he learned the house—by repetition, by touch, by watching what stayed where it was put.
By the end of the week, he knew how to ask for water.
By the end of the second, he knew how to say hungry.
By the end of the third, he knew her name well enough to call it without stumbling.
“El,” he said one afternoon, tugging gently at her sleeve. She looked down immediately. Always did.
–
It happened quietly, the way most important things did.
Steve woke up from a nap disoriented one day, the room washed in late afternoon light. For a moment, he didn’t remember where he was—or why the house felt so still.
His chest tightened instinctively, the familiar edge of panic creeping in. He slid out of bed and padded into the hallway.
The front door was closed. Locked. A pair of shoes sat neatly by the wall—small ones and larger ones beside them. A coat hung from the hook, the same one El had worn that morning.
From the kitchen came the sound of running water, then the soft clink of dishes being set aside.
“El?” he called.
“Ici,” she answered without hesitation. Here.
Steve followed the sound. El stood at the counter, sleeves rolled up, hands damp. She turned when she saw him, drying them on a towel as she smiled. “You slept,” she said, like it was a good thing. “Long nap.”
Steve looked past her, toward the hallway. Toward the door. It didn’t open. No one reached for keys. No voices filtered in from outside.
“You… go?” he asked, the word careful and small.
Eléa crouched in front of him, bringing herself to his height. Her hands rested warm and steady on his arms.
“No,” she said gently. “I stay.”
Steve searched her face, waiting for the feeling that usually followed—waiting for the wrongness, the pull of something ending. It didn’t come.
Baby trotted into the kitchen and pressed against his leg while El stayed crouched in front of him, not moving, not rushing him to understand faster than he could. Steve nodded once.
That night, when he fell asleep, the house stayed quiet—and so did he.