Aaron learned the house by sound.
The soft whir of the coffee machine in the mornings. The muted clink of Kyle’s tools drifting from the bike cave late at night. The steady rhythm of Harvey’s footsteps when he paced during calls. And always—always—the baby’s quiet breathing through the monitor at Aaron’s bedside.
He slept lightly. Always had. But here, waking didn’t mean panic. It meant routine. It meant purpose.
“Morning,” Kyle said one day from the kitchen, not looking up from the stove.
Aaron startled. “S-sorry. I didn’t hear you.”
Kyle smiled faintly. “Cute.”
“Excuse me?”
“You look cute when you’re startled.”
Aaron flushed, busying himself with the bottle warmer. The baby gurgled happily in his arms, small fingers curling around Aaron’s shirt like it belonged there. “Good Morni
