Work Text:
The Billboard charts said Hannah Wells-Graham was on top of the world.
Her sophomore album, Resonance, had debuted at number one, cementing her transition from indie-darling singer-songwriter to a bona-fide musical powerhouse. Her phone had been blowing up for forty-eight hours with congratulatory texts, her manager was ecstatic, and the music industry was calling her a genius.
But right now, sitting on the carpeted floor of the twins' bedroom in Boston, the number-one artist in the country felt like she was failing spectacularly.
"I want Dada!" three-year-old Gigi wailed, her curly blonde hair sticking to her tear-streaked face. She was stomping her feet against her mattress with a rhythmic, earsplitting cadence that would have made a jackhammer jealous. "Want Dada! Call him, Mommy! Call him now!"
"Gigi, sweetie, Daddy is in Chicago. He’s playing a hockey game, remember?" Hannah tried to keep her voice gentle, but it came out paper-thin. She pushed her tangled brown hair out of her eyes, her bones aching with a deep, bone-crushing exhaustion. "He’ll call tomorrow morning. I promise. Now, please, we need to go to sleep."
"No! No sleep! Dada told the clouds to go to bed but I want the yellow sun back! Tell the sun to turn on, Mommy!"
"She's too loud!" Wyatt, Gigi’s twin brother by four minutes, screamed from the opposite side of the room, refusing to get into his own toddler bed. He had a blue plush dinosaur clutched in his fist, using it to aggressively point at his sister. "Mommy, tell her to shut up! She's annoying! She's singing with her eyes! Make her stop looking at me with her loud eyes!"
"Don't say 'shut up,' Wyatt," Hannah sighed, rubbing her temples. A pounding headache was blooming behind her eyes. "And Gigi, please stop screaming. You're upset, I get it, but—"
"I hate Wyatt!" Gigi shrieked, pivoting her anger toward her brother. "He took my green blanket! And my toe is lonely! It's too lonely for the green blanket!"
"It's my blanket!" Wyatt roared back, stepping forward to shove his sister. "And Barnaby the dinosaur is hungry but he only eats blue keys! You don't have blue keys, Gigi! You have smelly feet!"
"Hey! No pushing! And no saying smelly feet!" Hannah scrambled to her feet, intercepting Wyatt before he could make contact. She caught him by his waist, but he immediately began squirming, kicking his legs, and letting out a high-pitched whine. "My knees are backwards! Mommy, my knees are backwards!" he sobbed nonsensically.
Gigi, seeing her mother’s attention shift, threw herself onto the floor and began to kick the side of her wooden toddler bed in a full-blown tantrum. "I want to eat the moon! Dada promised we could eat the moon like a giant strawberry!"
Hannah stood in the center of the room, holding a writhing three-year-old boy who was currently soccer-kicking the air because he was convinced his joints were reversed, while his twin sister screamed bloody murder at her feet about eating astronomical bodies, and felt a dangerous prickle of tears behind her own eyes.
She was drowning.
Any sane person would have called for help. They had a nanny, but Hannah had given her the weekend off because she stubbornly believed she could handle a single away-game weekend on her own. She had friends, Allie, Demi, but they lived too far away to help—though Grace lived only minutes away and would have dropped everything to help her. But Hannah’s fiercely independent streak, the one that had protected her for most of her life, refused to let her wave the white flag. She didn't want to burden anyone. She was Hannah Wells. She could handle her own kids, her own career, and her own life.
Only, right now, she really, really couldn't.
One thousand miles away, inside the visitor's locker room at the United Center in Chicago, Garrett Graham sat on a wooden bench, peeling his sweat-drenched hockey gloves off. It was the second intermission. The room was a loud, humid hum of heavy breathing, the scrape of skate guards on rubber tile, and the smell of ice and athletic tape. A few stalls down, Logan Burke was gesturing wildly as he talked strategy with their defenseman. Garrett’s hair was plastered to his forehead, his chest still heaving from a grueling second period. They were up by one, but during the fifteen-minute break, his mind drifted from the game plan.
It was on his wife.
Garrett pulled his phone out of his locker stall, waking up the screen. He opened the security app that linked to the smart cameras in their Boston home—a routine he kept up even in the middle of a game when he could manage a quick peek. Usually, he’d tune in post-game, but a nagging feeling in his gut had prompted him to check now.
Tonight, he opened the live feed for the twins' bedroom.
His chest tightened immediately with a mixture of intense love and sharp worry.
Hannah was standing in the middle of the room, looking tiny in one of his oversized college hoodies. Her shoulders were hunched in pure defeat. Wyatt was throwing a fit in her arms, and Gigi was on the floor, kicking her legs against her bed frame. Even without sound, Garrett could see the frantic, overwhelmed rise and fall of Hannah's chest. He knew that look. He knew the stubborn set of her jaw that meant she was going to fight through the exhaustion until she broke rather than admit she needed a hand.
"Stubborn, beautiful girl," Garrett muttered, running a hand over his face.
He knew better than to call Hannah directly right now. If he called, she’d put on a brave face, tell him everything was fine, and he'd be forced to go back out on the ice for the third period feeling completely helpless.
With only a few minutes left before the coaches started their intermission speech, Garrett quickly opened his contacts and tapped a name.
Garrett: Grace, are you home?
The reply came almost instantly.
Grace: Just watching a movie. What's up?
Garrett: I need a massive favor. I'm looking at the house cameras. Hannah is drowning with the twins. Gigi is having a meltdown because I'm away, Wyatt is feeding off it, and Hannah is too stubborn to call you guys. Can you please go save her? I'll owe you forever.
Grace: On my way. I’ll bring backup (cookies). Tell your wallet to prepare for the favor fee.
Garrett: Double whatever you want. Thank you, Grace. Seriously.
Tucking his phone back into his locker, Garrett let out a long breath. He slipped his gloves back on, stood up, and tapped his stick against the floor, ready to finish the game now that help was on the way.
Back in Boston, the front door of the Graham house unlocked with a soft electronic beep.
Hannah didn't even hear it over the symphony of screaming. She had finally resorted to sitting on the carpeted floor, bringing Wyatt down to her lap to hold him tight, while Gigi continued her protest a few feet away. Hannah’s eyes were closed, her forehead resting against Wyatt’s soft curls, just trying to breathe through the sensory overload.
"Is this the VIP afterparty for the number-one album in the country? Because the music is a little aggressive."
Hannah’s eyes snapped open.
Grace was standing in the bedroom doorway, wearing leggings, a messy bun, and a bright, reassuring smile. In her hand, she held a plastic container of what looked like bakery chocolate chip cookies.
"Grace?" Hannah’s voice cracked. She blinked back a sudden surge of emotional tears. "What... what are you doing here?"
"Auntie Grace!" Wyatt’s screaming stopped instantly. He scrambled out of Hannah's lap, his tears forgotten at the sight of a new person—especially one holding a container.
"Hey, buddy!" Grace set the cookies down on Wyatt's dresser and knelt down, catching him in a hug. She looked over his shoulder at Gigi, who had stopped kicking her mattress and was staring at Grace with wide, wet eyes. "And look at my favorite girl. Gigi, are those tears? Did someone forget that Auntie Grace is the fun one?"
"Dada left us," Gigi sniffled, her bottom lip trembling as she buried her face in her green blanket. "He's been gone for three whole nights. He's never coming back. He lives in Chicago now with the giant hockey sticks."
"Oh, sweetie, no. Dada didn't leave you, I promise," Grace said, her tone conspiratorial as she gently wiped a tear from Gigi's cheek. "He misses you guys so, so much. In fact, he sent me a secret message. He told me that his two favorite kids were staying up super late to guard the house, but that they needed a cookie break before they went to sleep. Do you think we can do a cookie break?"
"Cookie!" Wyatt cheered. "I want the green chocolate! Auntie Grace, make the chocolate turn green!"
"Well, I don't have magic food coloring tonight, buddy, but I have the big chocolate chips," Grace negotiated smoothly.
"The big ones are faster!" Wyatt asserted with absolute authority, nodding solemnly. "They run fast in my tummy."
"Exactly. They are high-speed cookies," Grace agreed without missing a beat.
"And I need to wear my socks on my ears," Gigi announced, suddenly very serious as she began tugging at her pink socks. "Because my ears are cold from all the crying. And Wyatt's dinosaur needs to go to jail because he has a bad nose."
"We can put the dinosaur in a very nice, safe jail on the counter," Grace promised, guiding both kids out of the bedroom. "Come on, let's head downstairs. Socks on ears, high-speed cookies, and we are going to have a midnight snack."
As the kids scrambled down the hallway and toward the stairs, suddenly docile and entirely occupied by their bizarre new rules, Grace turned back to Hannah, who was still sitting on the carpeted floor. She sat down cross-legged right next to her, bumping her shoulder against Hannah's.
"You look like you've been run over by a Zamboni," Grace said softly, her eyes full of warmth.
Hannah let out a wet, breathless laugh, finally letting the tears spill over her cheeks. She wiped them away quickly, feeling a wave of embarrassment. "I had it under control. I swear. They just... they hit a wall, and then I hit a wall, and I didn't want to bother you guys on a weekend..."
"Hannah. Shut up," Grace said gently. "We are family. You don't 'bother' us. And you don't have to do everything by yourself, even if you are a literal rockstar this week."
"How did you even know to come?" Hannah asked, frowning as she leaned her head against Grace's shoulder.
"Garrett," Grace replied simply. "He checks the baby monitors when he's away. He saw you struggling in here and texted me. He was worried sick, Han. He loves you so much it's actually kind of disgusting."
A warm, aching swell filled Hannah's chest. Of course he did. Even miles away, with a hockey game to focus on and a stadium of fans screaming his name, Garrett’s eyes were always on her. He always knew exactly when she was reaching her limit, even when she refused to admit it to herself.
"He's an idiot," Hannah whispered affectionately, though her heart was overflowing.
"A very attentive idiot," Grace agreed, nudging her. "Now, go down the hall. Take a hot shower. Wash the toddler-stress out of your hair. I'm going to feed these two some cookies downstairs, read them a story about a fast dinosaur, and tuck them in. Do not argue with me, Wellsy, or I’ll FaceTime Logan in Chicago and have him sing his college victory songs."
Hannah shuddered dramatically. "Okay, okay. I'm going. Thank you, Grace. Really."
"Go."
Ten minutes later, Hannah was wrapped in a plush robe, her hair damp and smelling of lavender. The house was miraculously quiet. She walked down the hall and peeked into the twins' room. True to her word, Grace had worked her magic. Gigi was fast asleep, cuddling her green blanket (with her pink socks, indeed, draped comically over her ears), and Wyatt was snoring softly, his stuffed dinosaur tucked under his arm.
Hannah smiled, a profound sense of peace settling over her. She walked into her own bedroom, climbed into the massive, empty king-sized bed, and grabbed her phone.
Before she could even type a message, her screen lit up with an incoming FaceTime call from Garrett.
She answered immediately. Garrett’s face filled the screen. He was lying back against his hotel pillows, his expression relaxing the second he saw her. He had clearly showered and gotten back to the hotel after the game, looking much more relaxed now.
"Hey, beautiful," he murmured, his voice low and intimate. "You look beautiful."
"You're a sneaky, interfering husband," Hannah said, though she couldn't stop the massive smile spreading across her face.
Garrett chuckled, a rich, warm sound that made her miss him instantly. "Guilty. I checked the cameras during the second intermission, saw my wife looking like she wanted to fight a toddler, and had to call in the cavalry. I couldn't focus on the third period until I knew Grace was on her way. Are you okay?"
"I'm okay," Hannah admitted softly. She rolled onto her side, propping the phone up against a pillow. "I was... really overwhelmed, G. Thank you. For watching out for me."
"Always, Wellsy," Garrett said, his blue eyes softening with a depth of emotion that still made her heart skip a beat, even after all these years. "You're the strongest person I know, but you don't have to carry the world on your own. Let me help, even when I'm far away."
"I missed you tonight," she admitted, her voice dropping. "Gigi really missed you. She was crying that you left them because you've been gone for three nights and that you live with the giant hockey sticks now."
Garrett’s expression softened with a twinge of guilt, his gaze turning incredibly tender. "Breaks my heart. Three nights is too long. But our charter flight lands early, so I'll be walking through the front door around seven tomorrow morning. And then I'm on diaper and bedtime duty for the next week straight while you celebrate your number-one album." Garrett smirked. "By the way, congratulations, baby. We won tonight, but your number-one album is still the biggest win of the weekend. I'm so incredibly proud of you."
"Thanks, Gray," she smiled, feeling a flush of pride. "Though I think navigating bedtime with our kids is harder than writing a hit record."
"Oh, absolutely," Garrett laughed. "The critics are much harsher. Now, get some sleep, Han. You've had a long night."
"I love you," she said, closing her eyes.
"I love you more. Sleep tight, Wellsy."
Hannah hung up the call, staring at the darkened screen with a soft, lingering smile. She hugged his pillow tight, inhaling the faint, familiar scent of cedar and shaving cream.
Just as she was finally settling beneath the heavy duvet, there was a soft, rhythmic knock on her bedroom door. It was pushed open a crack, and Grace’s face peered through the opening.
"Are you decent?" Grace whispered, though she didn't wait for an answer. She slid into the room, holding her own fluffy pillow in one arm and two wine glasses balanced precariously in her other hand, with a bottle of Pinot Noir tucked under her elbow.
Hannah sat up, her eyes lighting up. "Tell me you didn't."
"Oh, I absolutely did," Grace declared, marching over to the bed and tossing her pillow onto the empty half. She hopped onto the mattress, crossing her legs as she set the glasses down on the nightstand and began working on the wine bottle cork. "Logan is in Chicago. Garrett is in Chicago. It’s a classic Briar road-trip weekend, and I am not driving back to an empty house when my best friend has a California king, high-thread-count sheets, and is currently sitting on a number-one Billboard album."
Hannah let out a genuine, hearty laugh, the last remnants of the evening's stress melting away. "You're insane."
"I'm a visionary," Grace corrected, pouring a generous amount of red wine into both glasses. She handed one to Hannah. "To the literal rockstar of the family. Seriously, Wellsy, number one? We are celebrating tonight, even if it’s midnight and we have to whisper so the gargoyles down the hall don’t wake up."
Hannah clinked her glass against Grace’s. "To surviving bedtime."
"Hear, hear." Grace took a deep sip of the wine, letting out a satisfied sigh as she sank back against the headboard. "Oh, that is the good stuff. Now, tell me everything. How did it feel when you got the call? Number one, Han! That is absolutely insane. I mean, we all knew it was going to happen, but actually seeing your name at the top of the Billboard charts?"
"Honestly? It feels entirely surreal," Hannah said, turning her wine glass by the stem. "When I got the call from my manager, I was literally on my hands and knees in the kitchen scraping dried, crushed Cheerios off the floor. I had to ask her to repeat herself because Gigi was screaming because she wanted a yellow cup instead of a blue cup. I just sat there with a butter knife in my hand, thinking, 'Okay, cool. I'm the top artist in the country, and I am still a slave to toddler kitchenware.'"
Grace laughed loudly, then quickly clamped a hand over her mouth, checking the door. "Shh, okay, keep it down. But seriously, Wellsy, writing Resonance... it was different this time, wasn't it? The first album you wrote was just for you. This one had so much eyes on it."
"It was terrifying," Hannah admitted softly, leaning her head back against the headboard. "With the first record, I was just... I was just a girl writing songs in her college bedroom. But with this one, there was so much pressure. Every time I sat down at the piano, I kept thinking, 'What if I'm a one-hit wonder? What if the critics are right and I can't do it again?'And trying to find the mental space to write a bridge while wiping mashed sweet potatoes off the wall and pumping milk in fifteen-minute intervals... I honestly thought the album was going to be a disaster."
"Are you kidding?" Grace nudged her shoulder. "The album is a masterpiece. I’ve had 'Echoes' on repeat for a week straight. And let me tell you, your song 'Catching My Breath'? Logan literally cried when he heard it for the first time. He won't admit it, but we were in his truck and he had to pretend he had a piece of dust in his eye. He was wiping tears away with his Briar hockey hoodie."
"Logan cried?" Hannah smiled, a warm, soft chuckle escaping her. "That is the ultimate compliment. I'm going to tease him about that forever."
"Oh, please do. He deserves it," Grace grinned. She reached for her phone, which had just lit up with a text notification. "Speaking of my beloved idiot, look at what he just sent me from the team bus in Chicago."
She turned the phone screen toward Hannah. It was a slightly blurry selfie of Logan holding up a massive, half-eaten slice of deep-dish pizza, looking incredibly serious. The accompanying text read: 'If I eat the rest of this, will I float like a balloon or sink like a anchor? Pls advise. Garrett says I look like a pregnant seal.'
Hannah burst out laughing, pressing her face into her knees to muffle the sound. "He spelled 'an anchor' as 'a anchor.' Some things never change. He is still the exact same big goofball from college."
"Exactly the same," Grace sighed affectionately, though she rolled her eyes. "He texted me thirty times during the first intermission to ask if I thought our dog, Barnaby, missed the shape of his face. I had to tell him that Barnaby was currently asleep on a pile of dirty laundry and did not care about the geometry of his jawline."
"I missed this so much," Hannah murmured, taking another sip of her wine. "Just... sitting around, making fun of our husbands. It feels exactly like your senior year. I started dating Logan my sophomore year, but it wasn't until you were a senior that we finally had our first real away-game sleepover. Remember when the guys had that first big weekend in Michigan? We locked ourselves in the living room of the college hockey house, ordered three boxes of cheesy bread, and watched The Bachelor while yelling at the TV."
"And you made us do those horrible charcoal face masks that took half our skin off when we tried to peel them off," Hannah reminisced, a wave of warm nostalgia washing over her.
"They were exfoliating!" Grace defended, laughing. "But seriously. Look at us now. Back then, we were stressing over exam schedules, wondering if our boyfriends were going to get into stupid bar fights on the road, and now..." She gestured around the beautifully decorated master bedroom. "...you have a gorgeous house, a couple of beautiful, chaotic mini-humans, and a platinum record."
Hannah leaned her head back against her pillow, looking up at the ceiling. "It’s crazy, isn't it? Sometimes I look at Wyatt and Gigi and I honestly can’t believe they’re ours. Like, how did they let us be in charge of actual lives? Half the time I still feel like the girl hiding in the music rooms at Briar trying to avoid everyone."
"Well, you aren't hiding anymore," Grace said softly, nudging Hannah’s shoulder with her own. "And you are an amazing mom, Wellsy. Seriously. You and Garrett are doing a brilliant job. The kids are stubborn, sure, but that’s because they have a hockey captain for a dad and a powerhouse singer-songwriter for a mom. They never stood a chance at being docile."
"That is terrifyingly accurate," Hannah muttered, though her chest swelled with gratitude. "How is your design business going, by the way? You’ve been so busy lately."
"Ugh, don't get me started," Grace groaned, though she had a bright spark in her eyes. "My client today tried to tell me that beige and greige were 'two completely different emotional spectrums.' I almost threw a paint swatch at her head. I wanted to tell her, 'Ma'am, they are both variations of dirt. Let’s pick one and move on with our lives.' But, the firm is growing, and I love it. Even when clients are completely insane."
"I'm so proud of you, Grace," Hannah said genuinely. "You've built something so amazing. We both have. If you told twenty-year-old me that we'd be sitting in this house, talking about your design firm and my number-one record while our kids slept down the hall, I would have laughed in your face."
"Me too," Grace agreed softly. "But I wouldn't trade it for anything. Not even for a lifetime of cheesy bread and charcoal face masks."
"But really... thank you for tonight, Grace. I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't walked through that door."
"You would have survived, because you always do," Grace said gently. "But you don't have to do it alone. That’s what sleepovers are for. And honestly? I missed this. Just you and me, talking about everything and nothing."
"Me too," Hannah admitted, taking another sip of her wine.
For the next hour, the room was filled with low, hushed conversations and quiet giggles. They talked about the new album, Grace's latest design projects, the hilarious antics of the twins, and the absurd texts Logan was currently sending Grace from the team bus in Chicago.
By the time the bottle of wine was empty, both of them were yawning, their eyelids growing heavy. Grace slid down beneath the covers, pulling the duvet up to her chin, while Hannah settled beside her, feeling lighter than she had in days.
"Hey, Wellsy?" Grace murmured into the darkness of the room.
"Yeah?"
"I’m really proud of you."
Hannah smiled, her eyes closing as a deep, comforting sense of peace washed over her. "Thanks, Grace. I love you."
"Love you too. Now go to sleep, rockstar. Tomorrow, we let the kids eat leftover cookies for breakfast so we can sleep in."
"Deal," Hannah whispered.