Three days after the fall, the bruise on Milo’s forehead was starting to turn that queasy yellow-green that meant healing.
Three days after the fall, the bruise in Charlotte’s chest still felt black-and-blue.
“You’re hovering,” Mila said from the kitchen as Charlotte stood in the doorway of Milo’s room, watching him line his dinosaurs up on the rug.
“I’m observing,” Charlotte said.
“You are hovering,” Mila repeated, more firmly. “He is fine. The doctor said he is fine. The bump is ugly, but the brain is happy.”
“You’re very casual about brain health,” Charlotte muttered.
Milo made a roaring sound, tipping Rexy onto Rocky in what looked like a fairly brutal ambush.
“No more climbing walls for a while, okay?” she called.
He sighed without looking back. “I *know*, Mommy. I am not a baby.”
“You are three,” she reminded him.
“Three and a half,” he corrected.
She bit back a smile.
“Charlie,” Mila said gently. “Come drink your coffee before it gets cold. Again.”
Reluctantly, Charlotte stepped back into the hallway and let the door to Milo’s room stay open but unbreached.
In the kitchen, the smell of coffee was rich and comforting. The mug on the counter already had a faint skin on top.
“You woke up at four,” Mila observed. “You’re going to die if you don’t sleep.”
“I’ll sleep when he’s eighteen,” Charlotte said.
“You will worry then too,” Mila pointed out. “About college. Girls. Boys. Whatever.”
Charlotte cradled the mug between her hands.
“Thanks for…handling everything so calmly at urgent care,” she said. “I was…a mess.”
“You were a mother,” Mila said simply. “You are allowed to fall apart a little when your heart smacks its head.”
Her throat tightened.
“Still,” she said. “Thank you.”
“You should thank Dom too,” Mila said. “He almost wore a hole in the floor.”
“I did,” she admitted. “Texted. Called. He didn’t sleep much either.”
“Maybe you two should…” Mila wiggled her fingers suggestively.
“Do not finish that sentence,” Charlotte warned.
Mila smirked.
“I was going to say, ‘go to a movie,’” she lied.
“Liar,” Charlotte said.
They both smiled.
The door buzzer sounded.
Mila frowned.
“Delivery?” she asked.
“I didn’t order anything,” Charlotte said, setting her mug down.
She crossed to the intercom panel and pressed the button.
“Yes?”
“Morning,” Dominic’s voice crackled through. “You decent?”
Heat pricked the back of her neck.
“No,” she said on reflex.
There was a beat.
“Probably should have asked that *after* you buzzed me in,” he said. “I’m on your doorstep.”
“You’re supposed to text,” she hissed.
“Surprises are part of my charm,” he replied. “Can I come up?”
She hesitated.
He’d been…careful since the kiss.
Respectful.
He’d texted every morning for a quick status check on Milo.
He’d sent a ridiculous gif of a T-Rex in a hard hat that had made Milo laugh and demand to see it five times.
He’d also kept a physical distance that felt…intentional.
Like he was giving her space to set the next step.
She took a breath.
“Come up,” she said.
She hit the door release.
Mila’s brows shot up as Charlotte turned back into the kitchen.
“That was fast,” Mila said. “Speak of the shark.”
“Stop calling him that,” Charlotte muttered. “He brought a dinosaur bigger than Milo’s torso. Sharks don’t do that.”
“Some sharks bring seals,” Mila said. “Same thing.”
Footsteps sounded in the hallway.
A hesitant knock.
She opened the apartment door.
He stood there, in dark jeans and a charcoal sweater, hair still damp from a shower, a small paper bag in one hand.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” she said.
His gaze flicked automatically to the doorway of Milo’s room, then back.
“I come bearing…bribery,” he said, holding up the bag. “Dino band-aids. Even though they said no band-aids on the bump. For…later emergencies.”
Despite herself, her heart squeezed.
“You’re going to turn him into one of those kids who insists on a band-aid for emotional injuries,” she said, stepping aside.
“He already is,” he said, moving past her into the apartment. “He just doesn’t have the right accessories yet.”
“Dom!” Milo yelled, as if he had radar.
He tore out of his room, nearly tripping over his own feet, then caught himself and skidded to a stop.
“Careful,” all three adults said at once.
He paused, glaring.
“I *am* careful,” he insisted. “I fell *one* time.”
“Yes,” Dominic said calmly. “And it sucked. So we’re allowed to be jumpy.”
“Did you bwought something?” Milo asked, spotting the bag.
“You are very mercenary,” Dominic said. “Yes. I brought…stickers.”
“More?” Milo’s eyes went wide. “For my head?”
“Not for the bump,” Dominic said. “Doctor’s orders. For…other places. Knees. Arms. Toy dinosaurs. Your mom’s laptop.”
“Absolutely not,” Charlotte cut in.
“We’ll negotiate,” Dominic said under his breath.
Mila laughed and retreated to the kitchen, giving them space with the stealth of someone who had learned to vanish when things got emotionally intense.
Dominic handed Milo the bag.
The boy peered inside like it was a treasure chest.
“Dinos!” he crowed. “More! Different ones!”
“Take them to your room,” Charlotte said. “We don’t want them to escape into the wild dining room.”
He scampered off, mumbling something about “sticker city.”
They watched him go.
Silence hummed.
“You didn’t have to come,” she said.
“I did,” he said simply.
Her chest ached.
“Coffee?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “Please. If I don’t caffeinate, I’ll fall asleep in your hallway and your neighbors will take pictures.”
“They probably already have,” she muttered, leading him into the kitchen.
Mila had tactically retreated to her tiny back bedroom, door half-closed.
They were alone.
Again.
“Sugar?” she asked, pouring coffee into a clean mug.
“Just milk,” he said. “I like my heart attacks unaccompanied.”
She snorted.
“Too soon,” she said.
“Right,” he said. “Sorry.”
She slid the mug across the counter.
He wrapped his hands around it, fingers long and steady.
“How are you?” he asked, gaze searching her face.
“You asked that last night,” she said. “And the night before.”
“And the answer keeps changing,” he said gently.
She sighed.
“Today?” she said. “Less…raw. Still…frayed. Every time he trips, I see…that wall.”
He nodded slowly.
“I know the feeling,” he said. “When Maya was little and we’d cross a street, I’d…see her under every car that went by. Took years for that to fade.”
“Does it ever…go away?” she asked.
“No,” he said honestly. “It just…gets louder or quieter. Depends on the day.”
She appreciated that.
The lack of sugar-coating.
“You were…good yesterday,” she said softly. “At urgent care. Calm. Present.”
“I was faking,” he said. “On the inside, I was…eight. Throwing up behind the vending machine.”
She blinked.
“What happened when you were eight?” she asked, before she could stop herself.
He stared into his coffee.
“Car accident,” he said after a pause. “Not mine. My father’s. Drunk. Again. He walked away. Other driver…didn’t. I remember sitting in a hospital waiting room while police and doctors and my grandmother…talked. I didn’t really understand what they were saying. Just…that it was bad. That it could have been us. That…none of it felt safe anymore.”
Her hand tightened around her own mug.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly.
He shrugged, one shoulder.
“It was a long time ago,” he said. “But hospitals…still do a number on me. Yesterday…” He blew out a breath. “Yesterday, watching him walk through that door…every muscle in my body screamed *go with him*. When the nurse said only one caregiver… I had to physically stop myself from arguing.”
“You could have,” she said. “You’re…his father.”
“On paper?” he said. “Not yet. In their system? I’m a…friend. In his head?” He shrugged. “I don’t know what I am yet. I wasn’t going to make a scene in front of him just to…satisfy my own ego.”
She swallowed.
“You didn’t make a scene,” she said. “You made it…easier. For me. Just…being there.”
He took a sip of coffee.
“Get used to that,” he said. “Me…being there.”
Her heart did a strange stutter.
“I’m…trying,” she said. “It’s…new.”
He studied her.
“Is that what this is?” he asked softly. “New?”
She thought about the kiss.
Her body’s easy, traitorous response.
The way she’d almost forgotten her own name for a second.
“Yes,” she said. “And old. And…messy.”
He smiled faintly.
“On that, we agree,” he said.
They stood there a moment, the hum of the fridge and the faint sound of cartoon theme songs from down the hall grounding the charged silence.
“You said last night…” she began, then stopped.
He waited.
“You said it felt…right,” she said, forcing herself to continue. “Kissing me. Then watching me run to him. Those two things in the same…breath.”
“Yes,” he said.
“That’s…what scares me,” she admitted. “Because if this…whatever this is…goes wrong, we don’t just lose…each other. We…damage him.”
His face sobered.
“I know,” he said. “That’s why I’m not…pushing. As much as my ego wants to.”
She smiled despite herself.
“Your ego is very demanding,” she said.
“It has needs,” he said gravely.
“Tell it to wait,” she said.
“I am,” he replied. “Actively. Constantly. Painfully.”
Heat crept up her neck.
He cleared his throat.
“Lila emailed,” he said, changing the subject. “She’s drafting. Says she’ll send us a first pass in a week. For fact-checking only.”
“Fact-checking,” Charlotte repeated. “Not…editing.”
“She was very clear,” he said. “We can correct misstatements. We can’t…reshape the story to flatter ourselves.”
“She’s going to skewer us,” she muttered.
“Probably,” he said. “Gently. With nuance.”
She groaned.
“I regret everything,” she said.
“No, you don’t,” he said.
She sighed.
“Fine,” she said. “I regret *most* things.”
He smiled.
Footsteps pattered down the hall.
Milo appeared, dinosaur stickers already plastered up and down his arms like some avant-garde tattoo sleeve.
“Look!” he announced. “I am a dino man.”
“You are a hazard,” Charlotte said. “Those are never coming off.”
“Yes they are,” he said. “Lina said in the bath they will ‘dissolve.’”
“Remind me to fire Lina,” Dominic murmured.
“She will set you on fire,” Charlotte warned.
He considered.
“Worth the risk,” he said.
***
An hour later, when Dominic left, the air in the apartment felt…different.
Less like a fortress.
More like a house with an extra key on the hook.
Mila slipped out of her room as soon as the door latched.
“Well,” she said. “That was…cute.”
“Don’t,” Charlotte warned.
“You are, how do you say,” Mila mused, “smitten.”
“No,” Charlotte said.
“Yes,” Mila said.
“I am…terrified,” Charlotte corrected.
“The two can be same,” Mila said philosophically. “Love is…fear with better PR.”
Charlotte laughed helplessly.
“Have you been talking to Serena?” she asked.
“I read her emails when she leaves them open,” Mila admitted.
“Of course you do,” Charlotte said. “Remind me to give you a raise.”
“Please do,” Mila said. “My skincare addiction requires it.”
***
The rest of the week blurred into a pattern.
Work.
Milo.
Texts with Dominic.
A call with Tessa to fine-tune some of the language Gillian had drafted, during which Tessa said, “You two are unicorns, you know that? Most of my cases involve people throwing crockery at each other, not…emailing over bullet points about shared school choice.”
“We’re saving the crockery for later,” Charlotte had joked weakly.
“Save it for therapy,” Tessa had advised.
On Friday, Charlotte met Eleanor for their standing lunch at the hotel restaurant.
It was a tradition that predated Milo.
It had become more…fraught since.
The maître d’ led her to the corner table by the window that was always “held” for them, even when the restaurant was fully booked.
Eleanor was already there, of course, sipping sparkling water with a slice of lime, immaculate as ever.
“You’re late,” she said without looking up from the menu.
“It’s twelve-fifteen,” Charlotte said, sliding into the chair opposite. “Our reservation is for twelve-thirty.”
“Being on time is being early,” Eleanor said. “Being on time is late.”
“You’ve said that before,” Charlotte said.
“You’ve ignored it before,” Eleanor replied.
There was a familiar, almost comforting rhythm to the barbs.
It made what had to come next slightly less terrifying.
The waiter took their orders.
Salad with grilled salmon for Eleanor.
Burger, no bun, extra pickles, for Charlotte.
“You’re not going to eat that,” Eleanor said, eyeing the menu.
“Watch me,” Charlotte said.
Silence fell as water was poured.
Finally, Eleanor said, “How is his head?”
“Better,” Charlotte said. “The bruise is…fading. He milks it when he wants extra juice.”
“Manipulative,” Eleanor murmured, a hint of admiration in her tone.
“He gets it from you,” Charlotte said.
Her mother’s mouth twitched.
“And Steele?” she asked. “How is…he?”
Charlotte hesitated.
“He’s…good with him,” she said at last. “Better than I…expected. Better than I…hoped.”
Eleanor’s jaw tightened.
“He will disappoint him,” she said.
“Maybe,” Charlotte said. “So will I. So will you. He’s not…a god. He’s just…a man. Trying. That’s more than I had from my father.”
Eleanor’s face shuttered.
“We’re not discussing him,” she said sharply.
“You brought him up,” Charlotte pointed out.
“I brought up…men,” Eleanor said. “Plural. Interchangeable.”
“They’re not,” Charlotte said quietly.
Eleanor’s gaze flicked to her face, something like curiosity there.
“You care,” she said. “About him.”
It wasn’t a question.
Charlotte could have lied.
She didn’t.
“Yes,” she said.
Her mother’s lips pressed thin.
“You’re a fool,” she said.
“Probably,” Charlotte said. “But at least I’m…an honest one.”
The waiter arrived with their food, breaking the tension.
Charlotte’s burger looked glorious.
She picked it up and took an unladylike bite.
Eleanor arched a brow.
“You’re going to drip,” she said.
“I brought napkins,” Charlotte said through a mouthful.
Her mother shook her head, but there was a faint, reluctant softness there that hadn’t existed a year ago.
“You really think this…public confession…is wise?” Eleanor asked after a few bites of salmon. “The profile. The…explanation. People will talk.”
“They’re already talking,” Charlotte said. “I’d rather…give them the right version.”
“There is no right version,” Eleanor said. “Only less damaging ones.”
“Then we’re choosing that,” Charlotte said. “For him. Not for us.”
“You’re naive,” Eleanor said.
“Maybe,” Charlotte said. “But I’m done being…paralyzed. I can’t live my whole life in…anticipation of scandal. I’ll wither.”
“You were not built to wither,” Eleanor said grudgingly.
“Neither were you,” Charlotte said.
Their eyes met.
For a moment, something passed between them.
Recognition.
Resentment.
A reluctant, shared understanding of what it meant to be a woman at the center of a machine that consumed you if you let it.
Then it was gone.
Eleanor dabbed her mouth delicately.
“You should know,” she said, almost offhand, “that the board has been…sniffing. Asking questions. About…succession.”
Charlotte’s breath caught.
“Succession,” she repeated. “As in…after you?”
“As in…contingency planning,” Eleanor said. “We’re not all immortal, despite what Forbes likes to imply.”
“Has something…happened?” Charlotte asked, stomach suddenly cold.
“No,” Eleanor said. “Not yet. But boards like their ducks in a row. They want…lines of authority. Plans. Names.”
Names.
Hers.
Or not hers.
“And?” she asked, voice too steady for how she felt.
“And,” Eleanor said, “I have…options.”
Charlotte’s fork clinked against her plate.
“Such as?” she asked.
“Your cousin,” Eleanor said. “Terrible with people. Excellent with numbers. The board likes her. Thinks she’s…dependable.”
“Dependably boring,” Charlotte muttered.
“Boring is safe,” Eleanor said. “Boring doesn’t have surprise children.”
Heat rose in Charlotte’s face.
“And me?” she asked.
“You are…creative,” Eleanor said. “Visionary. Dangerous. You are…exactly what we need for the next decade. And exactly what frightens the men with gray hair.”
“And you?” Charlotte asked. “Do I frighten you?”
A beat.
“Yes,” Eleanor said. “You do. Because you are…me. With…feelings. That is a terrifying combination.”
Charlotte blinked.
“That is the most backhanded compliment I’ve ever received,” she said softly.
“It was not a compliment,” Eleanor said. “It was…an observation.”
Their eyes met again.
“What are you going to tell them?” Charlotte asked. “The board.”
Eleanor sliced a piece of salmon with surgical precision.
“That,” she said, “depends.”
“On what?” Charlotte pressed.
“On whether you keep your head,” Eleanor said. “On whether you handle this…unpleasant little personal melodrama…without turning it into a circus. On whether Aspen opens on time and on budget. On whether our RevPAR improves. On whether you can stand in front of a room full of men who still call me ‘dear’ and make them shut up with…numbers, not tears.”
“I don’t cry in boardrooms,” Charlotte said.
“Good,” Eleanor said. “Then maybe I will tell them that the future is messy. And that if we don’t put someone messy in charge, we’ll become…static. And die.”
Charlotte’s heart pounded.
“Maybe?” she echoed.
“Don’t push,” Eleanor said. “You’re not there yet.”
She sat back.
“But you could be,” she added, almost grudgingly. “If you don’t…implode.”
“I’ll do my best,” Charlotte said.
“Do better than that,” Eleanor replied. “This is Reid. Our best is…baseline.”
***
That night, as Charlotte walked Milo around the block in his stroller to try to lull him toward sleep (he was on a new “not tired” protest schedule), she thought about her mother’s words.
About “messy.”
About “future.”
About whether she was willing to risk one for the other.
Milo chattered to Rexy and Rocky, who were currently sitting side by side in the stroller’s cup holders like two slightly unhinged passengers.
“Rexy is bwave,” he informed her. “Rocky is…silly.”
“Rocky has good comic timing,” she agreed.
“And Dom is…” He frowned, searching for the right adjective.
Her breath caught.
“What is Dom?” she asked carefully.
“Big,” Milo said finally. “And…soft.”
She blinked.
“Soft?” she repeated.
“Inside,” he clarified, tapping his small chest with one sticky finger. “Like…marshmallow.”
Her throat closed.
She sent a silent apology to Maya for ever doubting that siblings shared a brain.
“Do you like him?” she asked.
“Yes,” Milo said simply.
The streetlight cast a halo on his hair.
“Do you feel…safe with him?” she asked, the question she hadn’t dared vocalize until now.
He thought about it.
“Yes,” he said. “He catches me.”
The words hit her like a physical blow.
He catches me.
He had.
On the wall.
In the park.
Last night, when she’d kissed him and then run.
Today, when he’d shown up at her door with stickers and coffee and patience.
She thought of the fault lines in her life.
Work.
Family.
Love.
None of them felt secure.
All of them felt like they could crack under the wrong pressure.
But maybe, just maybe, with enough care, with enough reinforcement, with enough willingness to stand in the fissures instead of running from them, they could build something that didn’t just survive the quake.
Something that bent.
Flexed.
Held.
Messy.
Terrifying.
Real.
She pushed the stroller past the bodega on the corner, lights flickering, music playing faintly inside.
Her phone buzzed.
She fished it out.
> Dom: Just got an email from Lila. Draft coming tomorrow. Brace yourself.
She typed back.
> Charlotte: We should probably read it somewhere with alcohol.
> Dom: My office has both a bar cart and a door that locks.
Heat pooled low in her belly.
She swallowed.
> Charlotte: Professional. We are being *professional.*
> Dom: I will wear a tie to make it feel official.
> Charlotte: That makes it *worse.*
> Dom: You’re not wrong.
She smiled into the night.
“Mommy?” Milo mumbled, already half-asleep, head lolling to one side.
“Yeah, bug?” she said.
“Can I have pancakes tomorrow?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “Definitely.”
“Can Dom have pancakes too?” he asked.
Her heart did something inconvenient.
“We’ll see,” she said softly.
The city hummed around them.
Fault lines and all.
And for the first time, she didn’t feel like she was standing on the edge alone.
She had a small boy in dinosaur pajamas.
A man who smelled like coffee and sawdust and stubbornness.
An uncle who wielded sarcasm like a shield.
A mother who, against all odds, might someday, *maybe*, hand her the keys instead of locking her out.
The cracks were still there.
The ground was still unstable.
But the idea of jumping no longer felt like a death wish.
It felt, tentatively, like the first step off a wall into hands that were ready to catch.