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The air this Friday afternoon was mild, a sharp contrast to the salty, biting wind they were both used to from the North Sea. Rennick steered his car with an uncharacteristic calmness through the idyllic residential neighborhood where his son lived. It was a place of trimmed hedges, playing dogs, and the distant echo of children’s laughter—a world that often felt to Caz like a painful dream.
Caz sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window. His hands rested in his lap, his fingers nervously playing with the hem of his jeans. He didn’t quite understand it himself. He had survived storms on the Beira D, he had stood up to corrupt corporate reps, and he had run into burning sections, but the thought of spending a weekend in a family home made his heart pump faster than any alarm on the platform.
In the back of his mind, old memories stirred. The smell of baby powder, the colorful chaos of toy cars on the carpet, the carefree laughter of his own two daughters. Since the divorce, that life had been sealed away behind a thick glass wall. His ex-wife had sole custody, and visits were rare, formal, and often marked by a heavy distance that broke his heart. Seeing Rennick step into this role now awakened a longing in Caz that he had buried deep.
“Ye alright, McLeary?” Rennick’s deep voice boomed beside him. He had switched off the engine and was looking at Caz with that searching gaze he usually reserved for technical defects. But this time, there was a gentle warmth in it.
“Just a bit o’ stage fright, Davey,” Caz tried to joke, but his voice sounded a little thin.
Rennick placed his hand on Caz’s knee and gave it a brief squeeze. “Ye’re no’ a guest, Caz. Ye’re wi’ me. An’ the lassies are gonna love ye. Probably mair than me, ‘cause ye’re no’ such an auld grump.”
They got out and walked toward the tidy family home. Hardly had Rennick pressed the bell when the door swung open. His son—a man who looked exactly like Davey, only with softer features and a broad, relaxed smile—greeted them with a powerful hug.
“Dad! Punctual as always,” he laughed. Behind him appeared his wife, a radiant person who immediately spread an atmosphere of warmth.
The greeting was brief but intense. It was that hectic departure energy parents have when they know freedom is only a suitcase-toss away. Keys were handed over, the alarm code explained, and a list of "Important Phone Numbers and Food Requests" (which consisted mostly of pasta and ice cream) was pinned to the fridge.
“The girls are in the living room; they’ve barricaded themselves in their fort,” the daughter-in-law whispered with a wink as she pulled on her coat. “Good luck, Davey. And Caz, thanks for keeping an eye on him. He tends to bribe the kids with too much chocolate.”
Then the front door clicked shut. Suddenly, it was quiet in the hallway. Only the ticking of a wall clock and the distant, muffled giggling from the living room could be heard.
Rennick took a deep breath and hung his heavy jacket on the hook. In this setting of pastel colors and family photos, he looked almost gargantuan. He looked over at Caz, who was neatly placing his shoes side by side—an old reflex from the time when he had run a home with small children of his own.
“Ready for duty, Caz?” Rennick murmured. He loosened the top buttons of his shirt—the cozy "Grandpa" version of the Installation Manager.
Caz nodded, breathing away the nervousness, and followed Rennick on quiet socks toward the living room. The giggling grew louder. It was the sound of secrets shared under blankets.
Caz stood there, back leaned against the cool wood of the doorframe, breathing in the air of a real home—the scent of freshly laundered clothes, dust motes dancing in the sunlight, and that unmistakable, sweetish smell of childhood.
He didn't notice it immediately. It wasn't a sudden blow or a harsh shift in scenery. It was more of a slow slide, like a camera lens refocusing and suddenly revealing details that were blurred before. Caz’s gaze was fixed on Rennick, and what he saw made him nearly catch his breath.
“Haud on, haud on—whit’s a’ this then?” Rennick’s voice cut through the giggling, but it didn't cut like a knife. It wasn't sharp. It wasn't controlling. It lacked that deep, quiet authority that usually brought entire rooms on the bridge to a standstill and made men instinctively snap their hands to their trouser seams.
Instead, he sounded… surprised. Almost playfully indignant, with an undertone of genuine amusement that Caz had never heard before.
Caz stayed a step back, hands buried loosely in his jeans pockets. He watched as Rennick, arms akimbo, stood in the middle of the chaos of pillows and blankets. In this room, he looked gigantic—a titan in a land of cotton fortresses.
Two pairs of eyes beamed up at him. Five and seven years old. A concentrate of pure, unfiltered energy.
“Grandpa!” they shouted simultaneously, a two-part choir of absolute enthusiasm. They didn't just run toward him—they practically ambushed him.
Rennick laughed. And it wasn't a short, dry huff like the one he gave on the platform when a joke actually landed for once. He laughed properly. Deep from the chest, a warm, honest sound that seemed to fill the entire room. Caz felt his own heart skip a beat. He had heard this man curse until the walls shook. He had seen him silent until the cold in the room was physically painful. But this laugh? This was new.
“Whit’s a’ this mess?” Rennick asked, raising both hands as if defending himself against an invisible army. “Yer folk arenae even oot the door five minutes an’ ye’ve torn the hale livin’ room apart. Ah thocht Ah was here tae watch ye, no’ tae tidy up after ye!”
“It’s our castle!” the seven-year-old, the elder, announced with a seriousness only children possess. She pointed to an adventurous construction of sofa cushions, woolen blankets, and a tipped-over floor lamp that was clearly serving as a watchtower.
Rennick arched his eyebrows. Exaggeratedly high. “A castle?” he repeated skeptically.
“Yes!” the little one, the five-year-old, cried out, outraged by his doubt. “And you’re the dragon guarding the treasure!”
Caz watched Rennick pause for a second. He saw the fraction of a heartbeat where the Installation Manager fought the Grandfather. Then Rennick nodded solemnly. Far too solemnly. “Right then,” he said, his voice dropping into a menacing but loving growl. “But Ah’m a gey dangerous dragon. A hungry dragon!”
“No!” both children protested immediately, throwing themselves against his legs. “You’re nice! Dragon-Grandpas are always nice!”
Rennick placed a hand on his chest, right over his heart, pretending to be deeply offended. “Nice? That’s… that’s no’ whit Ah had in mind. Character assassination for a dragon—it’s terrible, so it is.”
Caz blinked. He felt almost like an intruder in a secret ritual. Rennick seemed to have completely forgotten that Caz was even in the room. The mask of authority hadn't just been set aside—it didn't exist in this room at all.
Rennick let himself fall backward onto the floor, right into a pile of soft cushions. He did it with intentional clumsiness, letting himself thud heavily, which sent the children into fresh fits of giggles. The little one immediately scrambled onto his stomach—that soft, cozy belly that Caz loved so much and that Rennick usually hid under stiff shirts. She used him as an observation deck while the older girl wrapped her arms around his neck, trying to pin him to the floor.
“Ye’re lucky,” Rennick said in a strained voice, pulling both children tight and giving them a vigorous squeeze. “Normally Ah chairge a ransom in gummy bears.”
Caz felt a warmth in his chest, but there was also that familiar, stinging ache. He thought of his own daughters. He remembered the feeling of small hands tugging at his shirt, the scent of children’s shampoo. The divorce had left a void that he had filled with hard work and cynicism on the rig. Seeing Rennick receive this unconditional love was like a bandage being slowly peeled off an old wound—painful, but necessary for the healing to begin.
Rennick was so… soft here. His shoulders hung low and relaxed. His gaze was wide open, devoid of that watchful hardness. He spoke more slowly, taking his time with his answers. He lifted the children as if they weighed nothing and accepted their embraces without that tiny flinch, that underlying tension he usually showed whenever someone got too physically close to him.
He listened. He truly listened while the seven-year-old explained in an endless torrent of words why the invisible horses in the castle were only allowed to eat blue grass.
“Ah,” Rennick said, nodding thoughtfully. “Aye, o’ course. That maks perfect sense. Blue grass has mair vitamins for castle-ponies. Ah should’ve kent that.”
Caz gave a soft snort from the doorframe. It was so absurd and yet so beautiful.
Eventually, in the middle of a heated discussion about the castle’s defense strategy, Rennick looked up. He saw Caz standing there, saw the melancholic but smiling expression on his face.
“Ah’d clean forgotten ye were there, Caz,” he said, his voice returning to its normal tone for a moment, though the warmth remained. “Take a seat, man. Ah’ll be oot o’ this cushion-jail in a minute.”
Caz grinned and shook his head. He didn't want to interrupt this moment. “Don’t mind me, Davey. I’m enjoying the show from out here.”
Rennick pulled a face as the little one tried to plant a toy crown on his head. “This isnae a show, Caz. This is hard service on the home front, so it is.”
“It is, though,” Caz said quietly, his gaze softening. “It’s a show. And you’re damn good in the role, Davey.”
Rennick started to reply, perhaps to deliver one of his typical comebacks, but he didn't get the chance. Both girls threw themselves at him simultaneously, burying him under a new layer of blankets and hugs. Rennick froze for a split second—that old reflex of isolation—but then his walls finally crumbled for good. He folded his arms around them both. Tight. Protective. As if they were the most precious things he had ever stood guard over.
Caz’s gaze lingered on them. He saw the Installation Manager’s hands stroking their small backs with immense care, and in that moment, he knew: he didn't just love this man for his strength on the island, but for this exact, hidden, soft kindness that was finally allowed to breathe here in the living room.
The kitchen was bright, filled with the scent of freshly sliced apples and the distant, rhythmic squeak of the garden swing. Outside, the children were romping, their voices muffled by the glass panes—a constant, lively background hum.
Rennick stood at the sink, filling two glasses with water. His sleeves were rolled up, and you could still see the prints of small hands on his shirt where they had besieged him in the "castle" earlier. He looked strangely out of place among the pastel-colored tea towels and the bright magnets on the fridge, and yet, he fit perfectly right here.
Caz leaned back against the smooth countertop, arms crossed over his chest, watching him in silence. He observed how Rennick stared with total concentration at the stream of water, his brow furrowed as if filling a glass were a high-precision engineering feat.
“Ye ken,” Caz began slowly, his voice deep and reflective, “if Ah’d known this afore...”
Rennick paused, his finger still on the tap. He turned his head slightly and arched an eyebrow—that typical look that, on the rig, usually meant "get to the point or get out." “Whit?”
“That ye’re like this,” Caz continued, never breaking eye contact. He relished the slight irritation in Rennick’s eyes. “Wi’ bairns. In this... environment.”
Rennick turned off the water and set the glasses down hard on the counter. He turned fully toward Caz, arms also crossed, his massive shoulders slightly tense. “Like whit?”
Caz took a step closer. The gap between them shrank until he could catch that familiar, rugged scent of Rennick, which mixed strangely here with the sweet aroma of the house. Caz dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
“Patient. Tender. Lettin’ yersel’ be used as a cuddly horse by twa wee rascals an’ gettin’ hugged withoot cursin’ once or chasin’ anyone aff the deck.”
Rennick snorted, a dry, almost embarrassed sound. He looked at the floor for a moment before fixing his gaze back on Caz. “This is an exception, Caz. They’re ma granddaughters. This is... private. A completely different protocol, so it is.”
“O’ course,” Caz said, stifling a grin. He let his eyes wander slowly over Rennick’s face, over the laugh lines that seemed deeper now from the wild play in the living room. “Ah’m just sayin’—the protocol suits ye damn well.”
He leaned even further forward, his grin turning lopsided and a bit dangerous. “It maks ye extremely attractive, Davey. Almost indecently attractive.”
Rennick froze. A small muscle in his jaw twitched, and Caz saw the older man’s ears turn a shade redder. “Dinna ye dare, Caz,” he growled, but it lacked any real bite. It was the rumble of a man who knew perfectly well he had already lost.
“Too late,” Caz murmured, stepping so close that his chest almost touched Rennick’s. “Ah’ve got the pictures in ma head now. The big, bad Installation Manager lyin’ on the rug lettin’ a toy crown be put on his head. Ah’m never gettin’ that oot again.”
Rennick gave a low groan and nudged Caz away slightly with his shoulder—a defensive gesture so half-hearted it felt almost like a caress. “Ye’re disgustin’. Absolutely indiscreet.”
Caz laughed softly, a warm, triumphant sound. “An’ yet, ye brought me alang. Ye knew fine well whit this would dae tae me.”
Rennick said nothing more. He reached for his glass, but before he could drink, a shrill, joyful “GRANDPA! LOOK!” rang through the open patio door from outside.
Without a second’s hesitation, without finishing his sentence or giving Caz another glance, Rennick turned around. His whole body tensed, not in anticipation of danger, but in pure alertness. He set the glass aside and took two quick steps toward the door.
And Caz saw it again. That other face.
The hard mask of the man who ruled over hundreds of workers was wiped away. There was only that open, almost defenseless warmth in his eyes as he spotted the children on the lawn. He rested a hand on the doorframe, and Caz saw how his large, calloused fingers touched the wood almost tenderly as he nodded to the girls.
Caz remained in the kitchen, the grin on his face softening, turning a little wistful. He thought of his own daughters, of the emptiness he so often felt, and then he looked at the broad back of the man at the door.
Dammit, he thought to himself, as a wave of deep, quiet certainty washed over him. I’ve fallen for exactly the right one.
Rennick wasn't just the boss who tamed the storms. He was the man who silenced the storm inside Caz—simply by being himself.
The house had changed its face. The shrill, almost electric energy of the afternoon—the thumping of small feet on the floorboards and the incessant chattering of the granddaughters—had given way to a velvety, heavy silence. It was a silence that nestled into the corners and swallowed everything loud or harsh. Only the occasional, familiar creak of the old timber reacting to the cooling night air and the distant, barely perceptible hum of the hallway lights reached the guest room. In the darkness of the cabin—no, the room, Caz silently corrected himself—the world out there on the North Sea felt like a faded myth.
Rennick lay flat on his back, arms bent with his hands tucked behind his head. He stared at the ceiling, where the faint moonlight seeping through the blinds drew narrow stripes across his face. The pillow beneath his neck was far too soft for a man who had spent years on the hard bunks of the Beira D, and the duvet felt almost weightless. Yet, he looked more relaxed than Caz had ever seen him. The deep furrow between his eyebrows had smoothed out, and his shoulders, which always seemed to carry an invisible burden, had sunk deep into the mattress.
Caz lay on his side, head on his own pillow but his body tucked as close to Rennick as possible. He had draped a leg loosely over Rennick’s thigh—a possessive but infinitely tender anchor. His hand rested flat on Rennick’s chest, directly over his heart. He felt the slow, powerful rise and fall, the calm frequency of a man at peace with himself and the world in this moment.
“Ah’ve never seen ye like this,” Caz murmured softly. His voice was little more than a breath, so as not to disturb the peace of the room.
Rennick opened one eye and looked at him from the side. His gaze was sleepy, almost a bit hazy. “Like whit?”
“Like this,” Caz said, mindlessly beginning to trace small circles on the fabric of Rennick’s shirt, right where the heat of his skin was strongest. “Relaxed. Like ye’re… at hame. No’ in terms o’ coordinates, Davey. But the feel o’ it. Like ye’ve stopped lookin’ for leaks in the hull.”
Rennick gave a low snort, a sound that vibrated deep in his chest and made Caz’s hand resonate with it. “Ah am at hame. Or at least it feels like it, when the wee ones arenae usin’ me as a climbin’ frame.”
Caz smiled, his eyes glinting in the pale light. “That’s no’ whit Ah mean.” He shifted a bit higher, propping himself up on his elbow to lean over Rennick. He kissed him slowly. It wasn't a kiss that demanded anything; there was no hunger in it, no chase. It was a confirmation of closeness.
Rennick answered immediately. He turned his head slightly to deepen the contact, drawing the kiss out as if he wanted to preserve the taste of this peaceful evening. His hand came out from behind his head and found its way to Caz’s back. It lay there, warm and secure, his fingers digging slightly into the fabric of Caz’s shirt, pulling him a fraction closer until not even a sheet of paper could fit between their bodies.
“Ye were guid today,” Caz murmured against his lips as he let himself sink back down a little, though keeping his face only millimeters from Rennick’s.
“Ah was just playin’, McLeary,” Rennick replied drily, but the rough undertone of his voice betrayed him.
“Ye laughed,” Caz corrected him gently. “Mair than ye usually dae in a hale week on the platform. Ye were glowin’, Davey. Ye were… human. No’ the Installation Manager, no’ the Boss. Just you.”
Rennick was silent for a moment. He seemed to be searching for a witty retort, a way to defuse the situation with cynicism, but he found none. Instead, he pulled Caz a bit tighter and rested his forehead against his. The heat of their bodies pooled beneath the duvet.
“Dinna talk so much,” he rasped.
Caz grinned, a small, cheeky spark in the darkness, and kissed him once more. Softer this time, almost reverently. His hand traveled higher, from the chest up to the shoulder, where his thumb stroked the skin.
“Ye’re soft tonight,” Caz whispered in his ear. He didn't just mean the body, but the whole aura of the man.
“Ah’m tired,” Rennick grunted—but without any sharpness. It was a good-natured growl that ended in a deep sigh.
“Mhm,” Caz said. “An’ that’s exactly why Ah like ye especially much right now. Because ye’re lettin’ me see the man nae bugger else gets tae see.”
Rennick’s lips twitched at the corners. He lifted his head a fraction and kissed Caz’s temple, then his forehead, lingering there for a moment with his eyes closed. He soaked up the moment, breathing in Caz’s scent and letting the silence of the house seep into him. They lay so close that their breaths merged into a single rhythm. There was no more rushing, no reports to be written, no "musts." Only the here and now.
The touches grew more intense, yet they retained that strange, domestic tenderness. Caz’s hand slid under the hem of Rennick’s shirt, seeking direct contact with skin that was feverish and firm. He felt Rennick shudder beneath his touch, felt the muscles tighten under his fingertips, but this time it was a tension born of desire, not stress.
Rennick rolled half-onto Caz, his mass both crushing and comforting at once. He buried his face in the crook of Caz’s neck, kissing the sensitive skin there and murmuring words that were lost in the darkness, though Caz felt their meaning in every fiber of his body. The world shrank to the size of this bed, to the warmth of the blankets and the crackle between them that went far beyond the physical. It was a merging of two men who had found each other in a harsh world and here, in the sanctuary of a family home, could finally let the masks fall.
They lost themselves in each other, in the slow, deliberate movements that spoke of years of familiarity and newly discovered depth. Every gasp, every suppressed groan was caught by the silence of the house and kept like a precious secret.
Then— Knock. Knock.
The world in the small guest room seemed to hold its breath for a heartbeat. The heat that had been pulsing between their bodies, the slowed, heavy breathing, and the electric tension of intimacy—everything froze in a single second of absolute stillness.
Caz lay beneath Rennick, his heart hammering against his ribs, and he felt Rennick’s musculature snap firm under his hands. It was that trained instinct from the oil rig: any sound outside the norm meant an alarm.
Knock. Knock.
It wasn't a hard strike against steel. It was a soft, almost apologetic tapping against the wood of the door.
Caz lifted his head just slightly from the pillow, his eyes searching for Rennick’s gaze in the dark. “...Did ye hear that?” he whispered, his voice cracking with suppressed excitement and the sudden interruption.
Another knock. This time more uncertain, more hesitant, as if the person on the other side were on the verge of simply turning back.
“Grandpa?” A small, thin voice drifted through the gap under the door. It sounded brittle and heavy with sleep. “Ah canna sleep. It’s… it’s ower quiet.”
Rennick closed his eyes and let his forehead sink against Caz’s shoulder for a second. He let out a long, shaky exhale that sounded like a resigned laugh. “Dammit,” he muttered into the skin of Caz’s neck, but there was no real anger in his tone. It was the surrender of a man who knew that his duties as an Installation Manager stood no chance against his duties as a grandfather.
Caz bit his lower lip hard to keep from bursting out laughing. The absurdity of the situation—the feared Davey Rennick, in the middle of a moment of deepest passion, stopped by a teddy bear and a child in pajamas—was almost too much for him. “Timin’ is definitely no’ her strength, Boss,” he rasped, giving Rennick’s back one last comforting stroke.
Rennick moved heavily. He pulled back the duvet, and the cool night air cut through the heat they had built up instantly. He sat on the edge of the bed, smoothing back his tousled hair and trying to settle his voice back into a normal register.
“Stay here,” he said curtly, while fumbling for his T-shirt on the floor and pulling it over his head.
“I wasn't exactly planning on jumping in and taking over the pedagogical leadership,” Caz replied with a crooked grin, nesting deeper into the pillows.
“Caz.” Rennick paused, his back turned to him. He only said his name, but in the darkness, it carried such vulnerability and, at the same time, a plea that Caz’s grin softened immediately.
“It’s alright, Davey. I’m here. I’m waitin’.”
Rennick stood up, his bare feet making hardly a sound on the carpet. He opened the door only a crack, but the light from the hallway fell into the dark room like a stark beam. The two girls were standing there. In their oversized pajamas, they looked even smaller than they had in the afternoon. Their hair was matted into wild nests, and both pressed their stuffed animals to themselves as if they were lifebuoys in a stormy sea.
Caz watched the scene from the shadows of the bed. He saw Rennick’s entire stature change. The hard shoulders dropped, and his back curved slightly.
“Hey,” Rennick said softly, and his voice was now so gentle it gave Caz goosebumps. “Whit’s wrang, the pair o’ ye? Ah thocht ye were lang awa’ in the land o’ dreams by now.”
“It’s so dark,” the younger one murmured, rubbing her eye with her free hand.
“And weird,” the older one added, hiding slightly behind her sister. “The house makes noises when Mommy and Daddy aren't here. Like it’s whispering.”
Rennick didn't hesitate for a second. He crouched down, his knees cracking quietly, and spread his arms wide. The girls didn't hesitate either; they threw themselves into his embrace as if he were a massive rock that no wave could shake. He wrapped his arms around them and pressed them tight to his chest.
“The night’s just dark,” he said with that deep, unshakable calm Caz knew so well from the rig—except here, it wasn't meant to command, but to comfort. “An’ the whisperin’? That’s just the hoose havin’ a bit o’ a sleep. It’ll a’ pass as soon as the sun’s back up.”
Caz leaned against the headboard, the sheet pulled up to his chest, and felt his eyes grow damp. Seeing this man lift the children as if they were feather-light clouds was almost too much for his heart. Rennick carried the younger granddaughter in his arm, her small head resting heavy on his shoulder, while the other clung to his arm.
“C’mon then,” Rennick said to them as he slowly straightened up. “Ah’ll tak’ ye back. An’ Ah’ll sit by the bed till the castle guard’s fast asleep, deal?”
Before entering the hallway, he turned back one last time. His gaze met Caz’s. In that brief moment, with the hallway light illuminating his tired but peaceful eyes, there was a small, almost apologetic smile. It was a silent admission: Sorry for the interruption, but I can't do otherwise here.
Caz just raised two fingers from the duvet in a salute. A wordless promise: I’m here. I’m not running away.
Rennick gave a barely perceptible nod, a brief sign of their bond, then disappeared with his precious cargo into the dark hallway.
Caz sank back into the pillows. He heard the low murmur of Rennick’s voice from the children’s room next door, a deep, soothing drone. He stared at the ceiling and smiled into the darkness. The sex had been good, the desire had been great—but this? Seeing this man like this?
He thought: There are definitely worse interruptions.
Time in the large, unfamiliar house didn't pass in minutes, but in the quality of the silence. Caz lay in the dark guest room, staring at the ceiling where the pale moonlight cast a grid pattern of shadows. At first, he had still heard the distant, comforting hum of Rennick’s voice—a deep bass vibrating through the walls like a gentle engine. Then came soft footsteps, the creak of a floorboard, the rustle of bedding.
And then: nothing.
The silence that followed was absolute. It was so deep that Caz could hear the blood rushing in his own ears. Normally, Rennick would have returned by now. He would have pushed the door open quietly, sunk back into bed with a suppressed groan from his joints, and likely made some dry comment about how children possess an astonishing amount of kinetic energy even when they’re supposed to be asleep. He would have snuggled up to Caz, his skin still cool from the hallway, and fallen asleep with a relieved sigh.
But the minutes stretched on, and the bed beside Caz remained empty and cold.
Caz lifted his head, his brow furrowed. A restless feeling—a mix of curiosity and a faint touch of worry—pushed him out from under the covers. He shoved the duvet back, the cool night air hitting his bare skin, and swung his legs out of bed. Barefoot, to avoid making any unnecessary noise, he padded down the dark hallway. His toes sank into the soft carpet runner as he felt his way carefully along the wall.
He stopped in front of the children's bedroom door. It was open just a tiny crack, just enough for a narrow sliver of warm, orange nightlight to fall onto the hallway floor. Caz hesitated for a moment, then placed his hand flat against the wood and pushed the door open, inch by inch.
What he saw made him freeze instantly.
There he was. The feared Installation Manager of the Beira D, the man who made seasoned drill masters tremble, was lying sideways in the bed. And by "sideways," Caz meant an absolute, geometrical catastrophe: Rennick’s massive body was stretched diagonally across the far-too-small mattress. One leg hung abandoned over the edge, his bare foot hovering just above the floor, while the other foot almost kicked against the wooden footboard. His neck was pressed at an unnatural angle against the colorful headboard, the pillow having slid somewhere under his shoulder, rendered completely useless.
But that wasn't what stole Caz’s breath.
To the left and right of Rennick lay the two girls. They looked like two tiny satellites caught in the massive gravity of their grandfather. They were sleeping as deeply and soundly as only five- and seven-year-olds can. The little one had bedded her head directly onto Rennick’s broad chest, her small mouth slightly open, one hand clutching his T-shirt. The older girl had wrapped her arm protectively across Rennick’s soft belly, her face pressed firmly against his side as if he were the safest place in the entire world.
And Rennick? His heavy arm lay across both children, firm and protective, as if his subconscious had decided that even in the deepest sleep, he mustn't let them go. He was snoring—not the aggressive sawing he sometimes did when sleeping with Caz, but a low, steady rhythmic hum that acted almost like a lullaby.
Caz pressed both hands over his mouth to keep from squealing out loud. “Oh my god,” his lips formed wordlessly. He took another step closer, being careful not to tread on any of the toy cars strewn about.
He observed the scene up close. The bed was clearly at least a foot too short for a man of Rennick’s stature. His shoulders took up almost the entire width, leaving hardly any room for the girls—and yet, they had nestled themselves perfectly into the nooks and crannies of his body.
You idiot, Caz thought with a wave of tenderness that made him feel almost dizzy. You’ll hardly be able to stand up straight tomorrow. Your back’s going to kill you, and you’ll be cursing like a drunken sailor.
He leaned in further, studying Rennick’s face in the dim light. It was like a revelation. The brow, usually knit into deep furrows of worry, was completely smooth. The hard lines around his mouth had vanished. There was no domineering gaze, no constant readiness to correct. Only a bottomless exhaustion—and something so incredibly gentle it made Caz’s chest tighten.
“Ye’ve nae chance, Davey,” he whispered almost inaudibly into the room. “No’ against these twa. An’ certainly no’ against a bed made for wee sprites.”
Rennick didn't react. He simply snored on, sunk deep into the first real peace he’d had in weeks.
Caz straightened up slowly and surveyed the strategic situation once more. He knew Rennick well enough to see the next morning playing out like a film behind his eyes.
Rennick would wake with the first rays of sun. He’d try to stretch and immediately stop with a suppressed yelp as his sciatic nerve protested the nightly acrobatics. He’d look at the children, try to reclaim his dignity, and painstakingly peel himself out of the mountain of pillows.
Then he’d limp into the kitchen, brace himself against the countertop, pull that very specific, angry, insulted face—bottom lip slightly shoved out, eyes narrowed to slits—and in a voice that sounded like a bag of rusty nails, he’d say:
“Bluidy bargain-bin mattress, so it is. Wha the hell buys such absolute scunnerin' rubbish? It’s like tryin' tae sleep on a bag o' broken bricks, man. Ma back’s fair knackered!”
Caz had to grin at the thought. He stepped to the bed, pulled the colorful duvet a bit higher over the unusual trio, and switched off the nightlight with a soft click.
He crept back into the hallway, closing the door until only a tiny crack remained. Back in the guest room, he slid under his own covers. He lay awake for a long time, the smile fixed on his face.
“Ye’ll never admit it,” he murmured into the peaceful darkness of the room. “Ye’ll be moanin’ tomorrow aboot the hardness o’ life. But ye’re absolutely, hopelessly lost when it comes tae them twa.”
And as he closed his eyes, Caz knew that he loved this stubborn, soft, wonderful man for exactly that—for the fact that he would sacrifice his pride and his spine for his granddaughters without ever making a fuss about it.
