Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

1997

Sitting in his car, its engine still humming, Donovan Goodreau stared at the house in front of him, a typical 90s Californian house.

The house was located in Montecito Heights, a neighborhood in northeast Los Angeles, isolated from the trendy neighborhoods and the hustle and bustle of the city. A place that seemed ideal when you wanted some peace and quiet.

Donovan's heart was beating fast as he tried to see any sign of life through the windows or anywhere around the house, but he saw nothing. Even in the neighborhood, he didn't see a living soul. No people walking their dogs, no children playing in the street, nothing. It looked more like an abandoned neighborhood despite the manicured houses and yards. He glanced again at the piece of paper in his hand, where the address and the name to whom it belonged were written.

Lyle Menendez.

He could feel the bile rising in his throat from the rapid beating of his pulse. He'd spent all those years reliving the trial in his head, seeing Lyle and his brother Erik handcuffed, persecuted, and manhandled by the jury. He'd never been able to erase the brothers' tears from his mind as they recounted their abuse, but the worst part had been Lyle.

Donovan couldn't forget how broken his best friend had been during that trial, watching him cry, break down, and beg for forgiveness. He'd never seen Lyle so vulnerable, forced to share the most intimate details of his life on national television. The whole country had watched Lyle and Erik choke in pain as they spoke of the sexual abuse their father had committed since their childhood. Everyone had called them liars, accusing them of being rich kids who had killed their parents solely out of greed.

Donovan had been involved in this case against his will. He had been furious to learn that his identity papers had been stolen and used by the brothers to buy the rifles that would kill their parents. But he had been deeply disturbed when he was called to testify.

At the trial, they had mentioned the day at the Chinese restaurant when he and Lyle had confided in each other about the sexual abuse they had suffered during their childhood. Fearful and ashamed that his own abuse would suddenly be revealed to the entire country, Donovan had committed a horrific act for which he still couldn't forgive himself.

He had denied it, definitively betraying Lyle in front of everyone.

Throughout his testimony, he had been careful to avoid looking at Lyle, whose piercing gaze he could feel. It was as if Lyle had silently begged him to meet his gaze, just a single glance, but Donovan had been unable to do so.
In response, journalist Robert Rand had played a recorded interview with Donovan, in which he acknowledged that he and Lyle had experienced similar childhood sexual abuse. Mortified, Donovan had tried to disappear from the public eye and fade into obscurity.

After many years of national anguish, the two brothers were eventually acquitted. Their testimony about their sexual abuse had ultimately paid off, with the jury finding self-defense. This version was very poorly received by the public, who viewed the brothers as two cold-blooded murderers who had killed their parents after learning they were not included in their wills. This version was obviously more marketable and sensationalist than the one about two terrified boys going through hell alongside their parents.

The press had gone wild following the verdict in favor of the Menendez brothers, and despite their acquittal, Lyle and Erik were hounded by journalists and paparazzi for a long time. They now lived a discreet life, making sure to keep their presence as low as possible, refusing any photo or interview requests. This was why Donovan had had such difficulty finding the new address of the man who had been his best friend.

Lyle, his best friend.

His best friend, whom he had betrayed out of fear and shame, but also because of the negative influence Glenn and Hayden had cast on him. Donovan had dwelled on it all for so long, to the point where he felt like he was losing his mind at times. He couldn't shake the consuming guilt. The more time passed, the more it weighed on him, until it became suffocating.

He needed to see Lyle. He needed to tell him face to face how sorry he was, and to give him an explanation. Lyle deserved that. Deep down, Donovan missed their friendship. Their friendship, which had probably been one of the best things that had ever happened to him. Lyle had his flaws: he could be stubborn, arrogant, and distant, but above all, Lyle had a very positive impact on Donovan's life through his kindness, generosity, and unfailing sense of humor. And then, he had also found in Lyle a confidant, someone he could turn to to talk about the sexual abuse he had experienced as a child.

He had been devastated to learn that Lyle and his brother Erik had experienced similar experiences. For the first time, Donovan felt he was no longer alone with this secret, so heavy to bear and overwhelming him with shame. It had further forged the friendship between the two boys, making them realize they had much more in common than they thought. Being able to talk freely to Lyle about his feelings about his childhood abuse had relieved him and even brought him closer to his friend.

And all this for what? To cowardly betray him when he needed him most.

Donovan turned off the engine before crumpling the paper with Lyle's address and stuffing it into his jacket pocket. He continued to stare at the house that apparently housed his former best friend. After all this time without contact, Lyle was finally only a few meters away.

The very idea seemed frightening and surreal.

Donovan felt torn. Was it really a good idea to have come all this way to make amends with Lyle? Donovan wasn't naive enough to believe Lyle would forgive him so easily; something too bad had happened for it to be forgotten so easily. But he knew he had to try. He couldn't go the rest of his life without trying. He needed to make this gesture to Lyle, to express his regret, as if he wanted to atone for his sins.

He had gone to such lengths to be able to track down Lyle, and there was no going back now.

Don't be a fucking coward for once.

Donovan felt like his legs were turning to jelly and was trembling slightly as he got out of his car and walked across the paved driveway surrounded by neatly trimmed grass that led to the house. When he stood in front of the solid wooden front door, his heart was beating so fast he was almost out of breath. He hesitated again, standing there for a few moments, questions swirling through his mind. What if this was the worst idea he'd ever had? What if Lyle rejected him?

He'd already considered this possibility, but something deep inside him made him hope for something else.

Before he could realize it, he'd rung the doorbell. The sound rang like the gong of an impending judgment, and Donovan waited feverishly, trying to hear any noise or movement in the house.

His heart nearly gave out when, a few seconds later, he saw the doorknob turn and slowly open.

Lyle's face appeared, pale and with dark circles under his eyes, as if he hadn't been able to sleep for too long. He was barefoot, wearing a cream-colored polo shirt and jeans. He hadn't changed much since Donovan had last seen him at his trial, but he looked just as exhausted.

Lyle suddenly froze when he realized who was standing in front of him.

Donovan himself didn't know how to react, and they stood there for a few moments, looking at each other, Donovan with an embarrassed expression, Lyle with a stunned, almost frightened expression, as if he were facing a ghost.

A ghost from the past.

Time seemed to drag on, and Donovan felt himself go as pale as Lyle. He had recited the speech he had planned for this moment many times, but it was as if his brain had shut down. Part of him wanted to turn away and run, but it was as if his legs refused to move.

"D-Donovan ?" Lyle finally stammered, opening the door a little wider.

Donovan felt something soften inside him when he heard Lyle say his name, and a small smile played on his lips. "Hi, Lyle. It's me."

Lyle didn't answer at first, looking completely shocked. "What the fuck are you doing here? How did you find me?"

His absolutely stunned expression almost made Donovan laugh, but he pulled himself together. "I just... looked for you a lot, and now I'm here," Donovan replied.

He realized then how stupid his answer sounded and wanted to slap himself.

"That doesn't answer my question," Lyle replied coldly, his expression changing from astonishment to annoyance. "Anyway, what do you want? Why are you here?"

Now it was time. The moment Donovan had been waiting for and dreading for so long. His heart was still pounding, and he struggled to find the right words he'd rehearsed so many times while practicing for the fateful day. He'd crafted long speeches, but right now it was as if his brain had stopped functioning properly. And he thought that, in the end, long speeches might not have a place here yet.

"I... I came to... you know, apologize to you," Donovan replied, scratching the back of his neck, suddenly uncomfortable. He wanted to say something else, but first he wanted to gauge his former best friend's reaction.

Lyle stared at him in silence for a few moments before bursting out laughing. Donovan felt himself pale, his stomach churning. He'd been expecting anything but this, and it only made things worse.

Caught off guard, Donovan remained silent as he watched Lyle burst out laughing as if he'd just cracked the joke of the year. And he knew deep down that this laughter didn't bode well.

"Oh God, Donovan..." Lyle said, his laughter slowly fading. "For someone who was willing to save his own skin to the point of sending my brother and me to the electric chair, you show an audacity I've never seen before."

His words were like a punch to Donovan's heart, cruelly reminding him of his betrayal, but he knew he had no right to blame Lyle for this. He had to pay.

Lyle then became more serious before continuing, "Do you realize the absurdity of the current situation? You turn your back on me when I need you most, becoming an accomplice to assholes like Glenn, Craig, and everyone else who contributed to my and Erik's downfall, leaving me with no explanation, no support, nothing... only to come rushing back into my life and making pathetic excuses on my doorstep after I've been through hell?"

Donovan clenched his fists, digging his nails into his palms. Lyle's words hurt, even though they were so heartfelt. He deserved nothing less than the punishment he expected. Lyle had every reason to be angry with him. They'd been so close, only for Donovan to betray him in the most disgusting way. But Donovan didn't want to give up; he wanted to make it up to him. Or at least tell him everything he had on his mind.

"I am deeply sorry," Donovan repeated, feeling like he truly looked pathetic as his confidence evaporated. "I never meant for it to come to this. I was... I was terrified and ashamed."

Lyle looked like he was about to lose his temper.

"You think my brother and I weren't terrified and ashamed while the entire nation laughed at us as we were forced to confide our traumas and the most intimate moments of our lives? You think I didn't feel anything when those I trusted turned their backs on me when I was at my worst ? How do you think I felt when I saw my little brother break down in front of me while I apologized to him afterward for... certain things?"

Lyle's voice cracked slightly, then he took a deep breath before continuing. "You haven't experienced a tenth of what Erik and I have been through during this trial. And far be it from me to start a competition over who suffered more, but you're certainly not the best person to stand on my doorstep and justify why you contributed to my downfall when my brother and I were so close to the death penalty. I thought our friendship was worth more than that. But you proved me wrong."

Lyle choked on his last words, as if it hurt him to say them. Donovan felt his throat tighten, realizing once again what a cowardly asshole he'd been. Lyle's words broke his heart, and even though he'd been prepared for them, actually experiencing them was much harder.

"Is that all, Donovan?" Lyle said, seemingly determined to end this painful conversation. "I don't have your time."

Donovan realized then that he shouldn't let this chance slip away. "No! Wait. I... I..."

He didn't know what to say to defend himself, because he himself knew he was indefensible, but he didn't want to leave. Not now, not like this.

He could see that Lyle was getting impatient, and that he was also starting to get nervous, his eyes darting frantically around the neighborhood as if he were afraid someone might see them.

"If you have nothing else to say, then I think we can agree that this conversation is over," Lyle said venomously, without even giving Donovan a chance to find the words. "Thanks for your visit, but don't ever come back here again."
And he slammed the door in his face without another word, leaving Donovan frozen and livid.

Completely distraught, Donovan was tempted to turn around and get in his car and never come back, just like Lyle wanted. But there was this light inside him that refused to fade, this light of determination that refused to give up now that he'd come this far.

Donovan rang again and waited, but of course, Lyle didn't open the door. Despite the shame and frustration of this failure, he refused to let his last conversation with Lyle end like this, and he began to think of a way to contact Lyle again.

They needed to talk, but not like this. Lyle held too much resentment, which was understandable, but Donovan wanted a real conversation without Lyle relentlessly interrupting him, and without himself losing his cool in front of his former friend. He couldn't just give up and go home having failed. He was determined to get what he wanted.

Donovan walked around the white facade of the house, realizing it had a back garden surrounded by a high fence that made it impossible to see what was there.

Donovan began to think, then a crazy idea came to him as his eyes fell on a nearby tree. He knew it was completely crazy and that Lyle would probably be furious, but he didn't care because he was willing to do anything to get his attention back and have the conversation he needed. He was willing to do anything, even the craziest things. He knew deep down that they both needed to get this out, and Donovan had this need to provide some real explanations to his friend. He had so much to tell him. This couldn't end like this on his doorstep.

Donovan took a deep breath before beginning to painfully climb the tree, branch by branch. "Damn it, am I really doing this?" he muttered to himself.

One of the branches, seeming sturdier than the others, overlooked Lyle's backyard. When Donovan reached it, not without difficulty, he could finally see what was in there.

The lawn was lush, freshly mowed, and the rectangular pool sparkled with turquoise water and floats. Neatly trimmed hedges lined the fences, and a barbecue grill sat on the deck, which had a bay window and a wrought-iron table and chairs. Donovan realized that from this angle, he looked like a creepy stalker, or a burglar, and he glanced around to see if anyone was watching him, but there was no one. Taking a deep breath, trying to calm himself, he looked down at the garden below. The pool was directly below Donovan, who was clinging to the tree branch. If he fell, he'd fall straight into the pool, and while Donovan wouldn't have minded a dip in this heat, he would have looked terribly stupid if he fell into Lyle's pool and apologized, soaked to the skin, and he would feel even worse.

Yet, if he played it right, he could land near the pool, on the edge. He felt his confidence falter for a moment, but he recovered. As Donovan tried to crawl onto the branch, he suddenly heard a crack beneath him. He froze, alert, before trying to move again, and that's when the cracking sounded a little louder.

"Oh no, shit, shit, shit," he grumbled, panic seizing him.

The cracking intensified, threatening, and he tried to climb backward up the branch to escape what was coming next, but what he feared happened anyway, and faster than expected.

The large branch he was standing on snapped abruptly, and Donovan fell with a scream into the pool below. The contrast between the warm air outside and the cold chlorinated water that suddenly enveloped him almost took his breath away, the sudden temperature change unpleasant. He hurried to the surface, spitting out the chlorinated water that had entered his mouth, and then he heard a familiar voice a little far away.

"Donovan?! What the fuck are you doing in my pool? What’s your fucking problem?!”

Lyle had probably been alerted by the scream and the noise of Donovan falling into the pool, and Donovan felt his cheeks heat with embarrassment. He tried to smooth back the wet hair that blocked his vision, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lyle’s imposing figure striding toward him.

He, who had wanted to get Lyle's attention again, had succeeded with flying colors! Donovan wanted to salvage what little dignity he had left and quickly swam to the edge of the pool, holding on to it so he could get out. But when he looked up at Lyle and opened his mouth, about to apologize profusely, he stopped when he saw something that disturbed him.

Lyle was holding something, something Donovan never thought he'd see at that moment. He felt his heart race as he realized what it was.

A baby.

A baby.

Mouth agape and still half-submerged as he clung to the side of the pool, Donovan kept his mouth open, staring at the baby Lyle was holding protectively against him. Realizing the situation, Lyle's face flushed, either in anger or shock, probably both.

They froze, as if suddenly caught off guard, and a heavy tension rippled between them again.

"Lyle... What the..." Donovan stammered, stunned as he couldn't help but stare at the baby in Lyle's arms.

He saw Lyle clench his jaw, as caught off guard as he was but also looking furious at Donovan's intrusion into his backyard. Donovan tried to compose himself and managed to scramble out of the pool, soaked to the skin. He and Lyle continued to stare at each other in tense, stunned silence, leaving a reasonable distance between them, then Donovan's gaze fell again on the baby, who had its own curious gaze fixed on him.

"Who is it?" Donovan couldn't help but ask, not even thinking to apologize immediately for barging into Lyle's garden uninvited.

Lyle hesitated for a moment, his dark eyes fixed on Donovan with such intensity that he could have just as easily killed him with a single glance. Instinctively, Lyle stepped back slightly, his arms tightening around the baby he held.

"That's my daughter, you idiot."

Chapter Text

"Are you going to just stand there like an idiot, or are you going to finally explain to me what the hell you're doing here? No, don't say anything, I'll call the police straight away," Lyle said resolutely, preparing to turn around and go back inside the house and carry out his threat.

"No, no, Lyle! Wait!" Donovan panicked, hurrying out of the pool. He braced himself on the edge before hoisting himself up, dripping with chlorinated water, before awkwardly getting to his feet.

Lyle turned back to him, glaring at him. He felt his daughter's small arms wrap around his neck, and it awakened that protective instinct in him, making him step back to put more distance between himself and Donovan, as if he were a burglar who had broken into his home.

"Lyle, I'm sorry! I... I just want to talk to you."

Lyle looked him up and down with disdain. Donovan was soaked to the skin and seemed desperate to get something from him. He wasn't sure whether he was deeply annoyed or stunned by the audacity of his once dearest friend.

"And you thought the best thing to do, after I slammed the door in your face, was to barge into my house by diving into my pool?" Lyle retorted bitterly. "You know what? I'll do you a favor. I won't call the police just on the condition that you leave right now. My patience is wearing thin."

“No, Lyle, please ! I really need to talk to you. I didn’t come all this way for you to throw me out,” Donovan replied resolutely. “At least listen to what I have to say. If you do, I promise I’ll leave, and you’ll never see me again.”

Even though he knew Lyle had every reason to refuse his offer, he couldn’t bring himself to do so. He was even prepared to stay until the police came and handcuff him if necessary.

Tension hung in the hot air around them, and Lyle still kept a resolute distance, still holding his daughter close.

Donovan watched his former friend’s face and realized Lyle looked torn, as if he was hesitant to give him a chance. Donovan didn’t even need to feign despair. He couldn't wait to talk to Lyle and sincerely tell him how sorry he was. He was probably still acting like a pathetic asshole doing this, but he was willing to put his pride and dignity aside if only to get Lyle to listen to what he had to say.

It was then that his gaze fell on the baby in Lyle's arms. The baby was about five or six months old at most, had dark brown hair similar to Lyle's, and hazel eyes. She had her chubby little arms wrapped around Lyle's neck and was watching Donovan with an interest that contrasted with the somber look Lyle was giving him.

After a long, tense moment, where even the world seemed to be holding its breath, Lyle finally broke the silence with a deep sigh.

"Alright. Stay here, I'll be back," he said curtly before heading toward the half-open bay window, disappearing inside the house.

Donovan's heart swelled with hope, and he felt that glow within him ignite again. In the end, it was worth getting soaked. Lyle came back a minute later, no longer holding the baby but rather a bath towel, a t-shirt, and a pair of shorts, which he threw to Donovan, who caught them in mid-air.

"Dry yourself and take off your wet clothes before you come into my house," Lyle ordered, still in his dry voice and relentless gaze. But Donovan ignored it, only too happy that things were starting to turn in his favor.

He used the towel to wipe the water from his hair, and just as he was about to take off his shirt and replace it with the one Lyle had brought him, he froze, realizing Lyle was watching him closely. When their eyes met, Lyle seemed to realize he probably wasn't supposed to be watching him change and turned away, embarrassed, to go back in through the bay window.

"Come in when you're changed," he said, not daring to look at him, before disappearing back into the house.

Donovan stood there in shock for a moment before quickly stripping off his wet clothes. He let his wet pants and t-shirt dry in the sun on one of the wrought iron chairs, and hurried to put on his new clothes.

Then he walked slowly to the half-open bay window, his heart pounding, both impatient and afraid of what was about to happen.

Upon entering, he was greeted by the pleasant coolness of the air conditioning, and he sighed contentedly. He quickly found Lyle, sitting on one of the glossy brown sofas in the large, Tuscan-style living room. Lyle had apparently developed a certain taste for decorating, which was a stark contrast to his messy college dorm room from his Princeton days. At his feet was a playpen where his daughter played with a stuffed animal and babble.

Donovan closed the bay window and approached slowly, feeling Lyle's penetrating gaze upon him. He stopped a good distance away and stood with his arms dangling, not daring to do anything. The baby paid him no attention this time, too preoccupied with her stuffed animal.

"You can sit down, you know," Lyle mumbled, pointing to the second sofa next to his. "I'm at least polite enough to my guests."

He said this last sentence with a biting irony that Donovan chose to ignore and settled on the couch, his hands clasped in his lap. His body language clearly betrayed his discomfort, and when Lyle noticed, a small smirk appeared on his lips.

"Well, talk," Lyle insisted, a hint of impatience mixed with irritation. "Since you insisted on seeing me, even to the point of jumping into my pool."

"I didn't jump on purpose…" Donovan tried to protest. "Either way, it doesn't matter."

Now that the time had come, he felt it was now or never to reveal to Lyle everything that had been weighing on his heart since his appearance at the trial. He had rehearsed his speech with himself over and over again, but in the end, he preferred to let his heart speak. There was no point in reciting anything. Lyle deserved better than that.

“Lyle, I know this might sound like a complete arse, but I want to tell you again how sorry I am and how much I blame myself. I… You were my dearest friend, and my best times at Princeton were spent with you. I haven’t forgotten a thing… And… You know, at the trial, I didn’t want to…uh, turn against you, but I was terrified. I couldn’t face having my abuse revealed like that. I… Yeah, I was scared because you know better than I do how seriously victims of sexual abuse aren’t always taken… People around me kept telling me it was a bad idea to get involved in this and that I had every reason to get rid of it, so I denied it. Well, not to make excuses because I know what I did to you was horrible, but know that I haven’t been able to sleep well since. I felt terrible about it and haven't stopped thinking about it since."

Donovan took a deep breath, feeling Lyle's gaze on him, unblinking. Lyle's expression was unreadable, and Donovan didn't know what to make of it. Nevertheless, he continued, "There's nothing I can do except tell you how sorry I am... I was a coward, too scared to take responsibility for anything. I know you and Erik went through hell, and I couldn't even give you the support you needed. If I could go back in time, believe me, I would have done things differently. I..."

Donovan trailed off, feeling a lump form in his throat. He felt everything he'd been holding inside all these years threatening to come out, and he tried to pull himself together so as not to lose it.

“You have every reason to hate me. I wouldn’t even blame you… I hate myself too. I hate myself for what I did to you, I hate myself for not being the friend you needed. And believe me, all these regrets I carry around are the worst punishment I could have received.”

Lyle was still looking at him neutrally, listening intently. Donovan wished he could get inside his head right then and there to understand what he was really thinking. There was a silence for a few seconds, but Donovan felt the need to say something again.

“I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I wanted to at least tell you everything that’s on my heart. I am truly, sincerely, and deeply sorry. You have no idea how much. If you… if you ever accepted me back into your life, I would spend the rest of mine trying to redeem myself to you. And I’ll tell you again, I am sorry. "

Silence fell again, almost deafening. Only the babbling of Lyle's daughter in her playpen managed to slightly ease the prevailing unease.

Donovan saw Lyle's gaze wander for a few moments, as if lost in thought. Nervous, Donovan bit the inside of his cheek, fearing his former friend's response.

"I don't know what to say to you," Lyle finally admitted after a moment of thoughtful silence. "I don't know if you realize how traumatic the last few years have been for Erik and I."

"I can only imagine," Donovan admitted in a whisper, suddenly feeling a surge of sadness.

The memory of Lyle and Erik, desperate and crying at the trial, came flooding back to him, and he felt that pang of guilt that had become all too familiar. Thinking he'd contributed to their suffering was a terrible thing. Watching Lyle, he realized how exhausting those years of trials had been. He was pale as a ghost despite his life in California, a stark contrast to his once-tanned complexion, and deep circles lined his tired eyes. Exhausted by years of stress, fear, injustice, betrayal.

Then Lyle's gaze fell on the baby. Donovan followed his gaze, watching Lyle's daughter chew on the ear of her stuffed bunny, bathed in pure innocence and completely unaware of what was happening right now.

"Her name is Grace," Lyle finally said, and Donovan almost jumped at the name, as if it were a revelation to the enigma that had been created since he'd seen that baby in Lyle's arms.

Knowing that Lyle had a child gave him a strange feeling. He tried to recall the events that followed after the trial ended, but Lyle had been so careful to protect his privacy that probably few people really knew what had happened in a year. In any case, Lyle had had time to have a child, and Donovan had expected anything but that.

"She's...cute," Donovan said, feeling compelled to say something as if to ease the awkwardness between them.

Lyle chuckled. "Of course she's cute. She's my daughter."

Donovan couldn't help but smile slightly at Lyle's little touch of humor. In that moment, it was as if he was seeing the version of his friend he'd known before, but he knew it was only a fleeting moment.

He sensed something in the air then, like unspoken words Lyle was holding back. Donovan looked up at him, meeting Lyle's brown eyes.

Something long-buried seemed to rise to the surface between them, and Lyle finally looked away before lowering his head slightly and sighing.

"Christy," he said simply, and it took Donovan a few moments to remember where he'd heard the name, before he remembered it had been mentioned at the trial.

Christy was Lyle's ex-girlfriend, who had been impregnated by him. She was forced to have an abortion under threat from José Menendez. Donovan was taken aback for a few moments as he tried to piece together the pieces of the puzzle he'd been given.

"You mean you saw Christy again?" he asked gently, fearing to offend Lyle as he felt he was venturing onto a sensitive subject.

Lyle nodded, swallowing hard. "We saw each other again shortly after the trial ended and wanted to give each other a second chance. I bought this house shortly before we reunited, and she came to live with me. We wanted to pick up where we left off, start the life we'd always wanted. And then she promptly got pregnant again."

Donovan felt a pang in his heart, but he didn't really understand why.

"I was so happy to learn I was going to be a father. You probably remember that I told you a few years ago about my desire to start a family. The first time, my father ruined everything… And I thought this time we would finally realize this dream I had deep within me, but…"

Lyle's lips tightened, and he seemed hesitant to go any further, but it was as if something was pushing him to confide more in his former best friend. Since the end of the trial, Lyle had felt terribly alone, and being able to talk about it with someone other than Erik was a relief, even if a part of him was afraid to confide something so intimate.

His gaze briefly met Donovan's, who was listening attentively and patiently waiting for him to continue. There was a gentleness and understanding in Donovan's gaze that reassured him somewhat. Lyle sighed, knowing that stirring up those painful memories would bring back buried feelings, but he tried to contain himself.

"Christy obviously didn't have the same goals as me. She told me it wasn't the right time and wanted to have another abortion. I literally freaked out. I didn't want her to get rid of my child again. Now that my parents were gone, I could finally start the family I'd always dreamed of. It was the chance of a lifetime, and I didn't want to miss out. I convinced her not to have an abortion, and over time, she seemed to gradually accept the fact that we were going to become parents. I thought... I thought she was just scared and things would finally work out for us."

Lyle swallowed again, his gaze fixed on his daughter, who was still playing innocently in her playpen. Donovan noticed a flicker of tenderness dawn in Lyle's eyes as he watched the baby, and his facial features seemed to soften for a few moments.

"When Grace was born, it was like something snapped inside Christy. The first few weeks after giving birth, she was depressed. The doctors said she probably had the baby blues, but I knew it was more serious than that. She stayed in bed all day, not even getting up when Grace cried. She couldn't even feed her, bathe her, or change her diapers. I handled everything, wanting her to rest, knowing how difficult the birth had been. I hoped deep down that she would get better with time, and then…"

Lyle paused, taking a deep, shaky breath and licking his lips. He seemed to turn even paler as the painful memories resurfaced.

"And then she just left. She just left me and said it wasn't the life she wanted and that… that…"

Lyle's voice trembled again, and Donovan realized Lyle was struggling to hold back tears. He patiently gave him time to find the words. Instinctively, he even wanted to reach out and place a hand on Lyle's arm in comfort, but he held back.

Lyle continued, "And that… according to her, Grace was a mistake. That she should never have kept her," Lyle finished, his voice broken.

A painful knot formed in his stomach at the memory of those cruel words. He almost let out a sob, but he barely held it in, not wanting to appear so vulnerable. He turned his face to Donovan.

"My daughter isn't a mistake," Lyle said forcefully, his voice thick with emotion. "She's my everything, the best thing that ever happened to me. And if that bitch sees my baby as a mistake, then she deserves nothing more than to stay out of our lives. I'll never let her back in after what she did."

Lyle's pain at the memory was palpable, and Donovan himself felt a pang of pain in his heart. Lyle had been through hell during those grueling years of trials, and now life was still hounding him.

Donovan felt a deep sense of empathy for Lyle then. He'd killed his parents to protect his little brother, gone through a harrowing trial and the nation's judgment, only to live a lonely life raising a child as a single father. Suddenly, the thought of Lyle dealing with all of this alone wrenched his heart painfully.

"Lyle... I'm sorry. And I... I understand how hard this is, but... if Christy came back, wouldn't you give her a chance ? I mean, a child needs a father and a mother..."

Something shifted in Lyle's eyes, which suddenly darkened as his face hardened. "Do you realize what you're saying ?! The woman I loved abandoned our daughter and called her a mistake, and you expect me to give her a chance? This was her last chance, our last chance to be a family, and she blew it. I will never forgive her."

Donovan blanched suddenly, realizing how slurred his words had been. But before he could say anything else, Lyle abruptly stood up from the couch, towering over him. The tension in the room grew so intense it was almost suffocating. The air around them was electric, like a brewing thunderstorm. Donovan stood up as well, worried about what was coming next.

"Since you're on Christy's side, you might as well leave me alone. I should never have opened that damn door to you. And you should never have even met my daughter," Lyle snarled, his eyes filled with such fierce hatred that Donovan flinched.

Even Grace had probably sensed the gravity of the tension in the air because she suddenly looked away from her stuffed animal and looked up at the two adults, looking at them curiously, but neither Lyle nor Donovan paid any attention.

"Lyle, I-"

"Shut up, I don't want to hear you. You should never have come here, you who helped ruin my life and my brother's. And you know what? You and Christy have something in common: you're two fucking lawless cowards. So now get out of my house and never come back."

With that, Lyle stormed over to the solid wooden front door and swung it open, glaring at Donovan, urging him to get out of here immediately. Donovan wanted to say something to calm the situation, but he felt his words had been the last straw. All his efforts had suddenly been ruined.

"Lyle... I'm not on Christy's side." He tried to defend himself, holding his hands up in front of him in a placating gesture. "I just thought-"

"What ? Maybe you were thinking about my daughter's well-being ? You're not going to be the one telling me what's best for her or not. Get out of here right now."

His tone was so harsh and relentless that Donovan felt like being poisoned by a venomous animal. He stood there for a few seconds, before finally heading for the exit, his legs feeling like they were weighing a ton. As he passed Lyle, who was glaring at him, he could feel that electric anger emanating from every pore. Once he reached the doorway, the hot air outside greeted Donovan, who turned to face Lyle, unable to leave like that.

"Lyle, please… I didn't mean to hurt you," Donovan begged.

"You failed," Lyle growled, his lips twisting in disgust. "You're not welcome here, so make sure I never see you again. And if I find out you've leaked anything to the press about my daughter or something, you will pay for this." He warned Donovan threateningly.

Donovan opened his mouth to say something, but Lyle slammed the door in his face before he could say anything.

When Lyle returned to the living room to his daughter, his heart was pounding so furiously he could feel it in his temples. Amid the anger and frustration, another feeling he couldn't quite put a name to had crept up inside him. Donovan's sudden arrival had irreparably disrupted something, and for a moment he'd been ready to slightly shed the protective shell he'd been hiding in his entire life. He'd done it once before with Donovan and others, only to have them all betray him. And once again, life had shown him that it wasn't a good idea to trust anyone.

He realized that for a brief moment, he'd been tempted to give Donovan a chance, as he seemed genuinely sorry for what he'd done to her. He'd agreed to put his resentment aside for a moment to listen to him, to let him be close to his daughter, to confide in him something as intimate as what he'd experienced these past few months, to show him his vulnerability.

And all this for what? So Donovan could try to convince him to give that bitch a second chance. This bitch who'd wanted to get rid of Grace. At that thought, the anger and resentment Lyle harbored enveloped him again like threatening shadows.

Donovan's words echoed in his mind again : a child needs a father and a mother.

Bullshit. Grace didn't need Christy ; she was just a cowardly, irresponsible bitch who'd abandoned the child she'd brought into the world. It didn't matter if Lyle raised his daughter alone, he'd never let Christy back into their lives after what she'd done. She'd made her own choices.

When Lyle looked down at his daughter watching him from her playpen, something softened inside him. His baby girl...

He bent down to retrieve her from her playpen and take her in his arms. Just the feel of her tiny body against him and her baby scent chased away some of the shadows that had resurfaced within him after his disastrous conversation with Donovan. That was Grace's power: to be able to soothe him of his own demons for a moment.

His perfect little girl. His entire world.

Lyle buried his face in his daughter's narrow neck, breathing in her scent deeply, the tip of his nose gently brushing the hollow of her small ear. God, it felt good. Grace was the reason he strived to be strong every day. She was the reason he fought so hard against himself to keep the traumas buried deep inside him from resurfacing. It was as if his heart had learned to function normally since she'd been there. She was the one Lyle had always needed without knowing it, and he rejoiced every day that he had convinced Christy not to have an abortion, even though she had ultimately chosen to leave. Lyle saw it as a sign, a sign that Grace had come into the world when he needed her most, to show him that behind the fog and rain was a bright sun.

Grace had drawn the tear-filled curtains from his eyes to allow him a glimpse of the beauty of the outside world, a beauty Lyle had never been able to contemplate before. He had never felt such strong love for someone, nor such a sense of accomplishment. Despite the difficulties, he regretted nothing.

It was then that Grace turned her head toward the front door, before raising her chubby little hand in that direction. Intrigued, Lyle raised his head around her neck to look at her. "What are you showing me, baby ?"

"Da... baababa," Grace stammered, her hand still reaching for the door.

Still holding her in his arms, Lyle walked over to the front door window, which overlooked the driveway. "What is it? Are you showing me something?"

Approaching the window, Grace placed her small hand on the smooth glass before tapping clumsily on it. There were no cars nearby; Donovan had probably already left. Lyle felt a painful tug in his heart as a thought crossed his mind: Was Grace acting like this because Donovan had left? No, Grace didn't know Donovan well enough to act like this. And at only six months old, she couldn't possibly understand that he was gone and wouldn't be coming back, could she? Babies don't process things the same way adults do.

Yet Grace's gaze remained stubbornly fixed on the outside, her small hand pressed against the window, as if searching for something. "Bhh...babaa..." she mumbled.

Lyle watched her for a few more moments, a dull ache in his heart. Donovan's impromptu visit had awakened deeply buried feelings within him, conflicting ones, and he didn't know what to make of his former friend's apology. Part of him was tempted to believe in his redemption, but Lyle couldn't forget the hell he'd gone through without any support from the one he trusted. He'd never forgotten how Donovan had turned against him in court, without even a glance his way.

Lyle tenderly rubbed his baby's back, also looking out thoughtfully.

"It's okay, baby. We're on our own now." he whispered before placing a kiss on his daughter's plump cheek, his heart heavy. "We don't need anyone else. It's the two of us against the world. Just you and me."

Chapter Text

Grace's crystalline laughter rose in the warm air of the beautiful sunny day, a laugh as pure and radiant as the sun above. Erik couldn't help but join his laughter to hers as he bounced his niece on his lap, seated on the garden sofa, shaded from the sun's rays by a large umbrella, a fan running nearby providing additional cooling.

Lyle was a few meters away, installing the pool cleaner, the sun's rays hitting the back of his head and back. When he was finished, he joined his brother and daughter on the sofa and under the umbrella, eager to escape the sweltering heat. The cool air from the fan made him sigh with relief, and he realized he was already sweating, even though he had only been exposed to the sun for a few minutes.

When Lyle sat down next to him, Erik noticed how lost in thought his brother looked. In fact, Erik had noticed something was wrong with him the moment Lyle opened the door an hour earlier.

"What are you thinking?" Erik asked point-blank, holding Grace tightly around the waist as she tried to stand on her uncle's lap.

Lyle shrugged, not responding right away, his gaze lost in space. A silence fell for a few moments, immediately interrupted by Erik, who let out a "Wow!" as Grace suddenly collapsed against his chest. He leaned back onto the large sofa, pulling Grace with him, who immediately started laughing. Lyle looked over and couldn't help but smile at the sight of his younger brother playing with his daughter like that. Erik and Grace shared a special bond, and Lyle was grateful for that.

He was grateful for the strength of the bond between the three of them, grateful that Erik had been there for him when he was devastated by Christy's departure and the thought of raising a child alone. Erik's presence in his life was like a breath of fresh air amidst all the chaos. He was Lyle's only true friend, and the only one he trusted unwaveringly. Erik visited him as often as possible, temporarily breaking the solitude he had been plunged into since their acquittal. While Lyle was particularly wary, preferring to live in seclusion with a small circle of acquaintances, Erik was gradually managing to cautiously open up to the world again.

Sometimes Lyle couldn't help but urge Erik to be careful. He felt like the whole country was pointing fingers at them, calling them murderers and liars. People were vile and devious, and his distrust was even greater now that he was a father. A few months earlier, he'd even sued a celebrity magazine that had leaked paparazzi photos of him walking his daughter in a stroller around the neighborhood. Even though Grace wasn't visible in the photos, snug in her stroller, he panicked that he and his daughter had been spied on and photographed without their knowledge. The photos were accompanied by sensationalist headlines designed to stir up an unhealthy curiosity about him.

He, who had been quite sociable before, now avoided crowds and public spaces whenever possible. Sometimes he tried to force himself to go out, not wanting to confine Grace to the walls of the house, not wanting her to fall victim to her own fears. He managed to do it, but not without fear.

"Lyle," Erik insisted gently, slowly pushing himself up into a sitting position and placing Grace on his lap, who began to play with the thin gold chain Erik wore around his neck. "I know you, I know something's bothering you."

But before Lyle could react, Erik suddenly frowned. "Did something happen?" he asked, concern evident on his face.

"No, nothing serious," Lyle hastened to reassure him. "It's just… Someone came by recently."

"Christy?" Erik wanted to know.

"No." Lyle paused, hesitating. "Donovan."

Silence fell suddenly between them, the name of Lyle's former best friend floating in the thick air. Still holding his niece on his lap, Erik finally gently untied Grace's chubby little fingers from the gold chain before giving her a toy lying on the garden sofa instead, and the baby's attention immediately snapped to it.

"I see," Erik finally said, clearly not expecting to hear that name. "What did he want?"

Lyle heard a slight strain in his little brother's voice. He knew Erik was bitter about Donovan's betrayal, just as he was about his own former best friend, Craig Cignarelli. While extremely difficult to bear, this trial had at least revealed to them who was trustworthy in their circle, and it had made them realize how many snakes they had been surrounded by, waiting for only one thing: their downfall.

"He wanted to apologize. When I refused to listen to what he had to say, the jerk insisted, going through the garden. He climbed a tree branch to get over the fence and fell into the pool."

Erik raised his eyebrows, unsure of Donovan's boldness. "Wow. That's almost cartoonish… or creepy stalker-esque."

Lyle couldn't help but laugh, but he quickly regained his composure. "Despite that questionable persuasion technique, I finally agreed to listen to what he had to say."

He fully expected Erik to protest or call him crazy, but his little brother just looked at him, waiting for him to continue. That's when Grace dropped her toy, which fell to the floor before reaching out her tiny arms to Lyle with a whimper and a pleading look. Lyle then took her from Erik's lap and placed her on his own, before bending down to retrieve the toy and give it to her, capturing her attention once again.

"He gave me a long speech about how deeply sorry he was, how he was taking it hard for lying at the trial, how he couldn't sleep, and so on… And… I don't know, but for a moment I felt like he was truly sincere. I felt like he was speaking from the heart and meaning every word that came out of his mouth. He looked so… sad, dejected."

The memory of Donovan wrenched his heart. Despite his distrust and resentment, Lyle had been tempted to believe Donovan truly meant what he said. The very fact that he'd insisted on talking to him so much showed how determined he was to make himself heard, but was it really enough to forget the pain of his betrayal?

"What do you think about it?" Lyle asked his brother, needing an outside opinion.

"I think guilt is a terrible thing," Erik replied simply, and Lyle pursed his lips ; they both knew it better than anyone else. "So what happened next?" the younger brother asked.

Lyle sighed, a deep sadness filling him as he thought back to the turn of events. "I… I told him what happened with Christy. And… he said something that really pissed me off. He implied I should give Christy a second chance if she came back, because according to him, a child needs both parents."

Erik saw his brother's gaze darken and didn't notice the way Lyle instinctively tightened his arms around Grace, who was still chewing on her plastic toy.

"It made me lose my temper and I kicked him out," Lyle continued, clearly upset. "I mean, who is he to tell me what to do with my life? Who is he to imply that Grace needs Christy when she's never taken care of her? Who is he to tell me anything when he didn't hesitate to demean me by testifying against me?"

His anger became palpable as he rehashed all the most painful moments he had to go through during the trial. “All that time I needed my dearest friend, I didn’t even get a word of support, not even a look. He… I know he was scared, but not once did he think of me. He was just a selfish asshole when I was always there for him. We had such a… special bond. But he messed it all up. And now he has the nerve to come back to me like a flower and dictate what I should do with my life.”

Erik remained silent as he let Lyle unpack everything he had on his mind. He couldn't blame his big brother for being so angry after everything they'd been through over the past few years. They'd only been able to count on each other to keep their heads above water and keep them from sinking.

Since their acquittal, they'd made sure to avoid bringing it up again, working hard to move forward as best they could. But every time they couldn't avoid the subject, it brought up painful things, and it was as if they were thrust into the dock once again.

Erik suddenly felt conflicted feelings about Donovan upon hearing Lyle's words. He'd never really liked that man. Donovan had always struck him as arrogant and unreliable, and his betrayal had proven his instincts right. However, the fact that Donovan had gone to such lengths to track down Lyle and apologize could have shown genuine regret and questioning. But for now, he decided to go along with his brother.

"Indeed, there's no one to tell you what to do, especially when it comes to Grace," Erik agreed softly.

It was then that Grace began to yawn, letting out a sweet little squeak, which seemed to suddenly snap Lyle out of his dark memories, his fatherly instincts taking over. He knew exactly what his baby needed right now. His face became more relaxed, and he leaned back against the sofa cushions as he laid Grace in his arms, cradling her against his chest.

"Nap time, huh?" he cooed, tenderly observing his daughter's face as she curled up in his arms, her cheek pressed comfortably against his broad chest covered in a cotton t-shirt. Grace closed her eyes, clenching her small fists against her face, and Lyle began to rock her gently, suddenly enclosed in this bubble of comfort and tenderness.

Watching Lyle rock his daughter, Erik felt that feeling of love pleasantly warm his heart. It still felt strange to think that his big brother was a father now, but he knew how deep down Lyle had always dreamed of starting a family. And while Lyle probably hadn't expected to become a single father, Erik knew Grace was in good hands with his big brother. She was the center of his world.

Although Erik had always admired Lyle, his admiration and pride in his older brother had only increased tenfold over the years of abominable trials, where Lyle had shown great courage in exposing his greatest vulnerabilities, even apologizing to his little brother in front of the entire nation for what he had done to him as a child. Despite the harshness of that moment, it had soothed something between them, though it didn't erase any of their shared trauma.

By the end of the trial, they had each done their best to be resilient, to learn to live normal lives. But it was probably one of the strangest and most complicated things for them, the shadows of the past still mercilessly clinging to them like parasites.

For the two brothers didn't have the same sense of normalcy as everyone else. The chaotic lives they'd always known alongside their abusive parents had shaped them in ways that led them to make tragic choices. Choices that had shaken their lives to a new level and led to more years of suffering. And while the acquittal had been a profound relief for them, they quickly realized the long, winding road ahead to try to repair their shattered lives.

Watching Lyle care for Grace with such love, patience, and devotion, Erik knew she had played a significant role in slowly putting together not only Lyle's broken pieces, but also his own. Her innocence reminded them of something long forgotten. Erik also loved that Grace had inherited Lyle's dark hair and large chocolate eyes. She also had facial expressions similar to Lyle's. In the end, it was as if Christy's genes hadn't even tried.

Watching his big brother cradle his daughter, Erik knew she was the best thing that had ever happened to both of them. Even though Grace wasn't his own daughter, Erik loved her unconditionally, and the mere sight of her sweet face filled his heart with happiness. Grace was undoubtedly their greatest blessing amidst the chaos of their lives.

"She's truly adorable," Erik breathed, admiring Grace's sleeping face as Lyle still rocked her gently against his side.

Lyle nodded approvingly, unable to take his eyes off his baby's sweet face. To say Grace was adorable was an understatement. She was the very definition of purity and innocence, almost like an angel fallen from heaven, lost among mortals. Too pure for this cold, harsh world.

Then Erik's gaze fell on his older brother, and his heart sank. "Lyle…" Erik began, and the strange tone of his voice made Lyle look up to meet his own.

Lyle noticed that his brother seemed hesitant to say something, eyeing him as if almost waiting for Lyle to give him permission to finish what he wanted to say. "What is it, E?"

Erik shook his head slowly, watching his brother with his ice-blue gaze, yet filled with warmth, but also with something else at the moment. As he silently examined his older brother, Erik felt a pang of sadness that only accentuated the ache in his heart. He realized again that Lyle wasn't yet 30, but he was already worn down inside, his heart seared by regret, betrayal, and humiliation. He had the look of a man who had thought too much, suffered too much, slept too little, and who was still prey to his own demons that mercilessly clung to his skin and his soul.

Erik also had his share of trauma and inner demons, but his way of dealing with them since their acquittal was different from his brother's.

"I worry about you," Erik finally admitted, folding his hands in his lap. "Sometimes I wish… I wish you could…" He hesitated, searching for the right words, but Lyle already knew what his brother was going to say.

"You wish I lived a life like yours," Lyle finished for his brother.

This wasn't the first time they'd had this conversation. Their respective lives had taken different paths since that harrowing trial was behind them. While Lyle now preferred to live a solitary life where he focused primarily on his daughter, Erik had gradually managed to open up to the world again. A world he had never experienced in his old life, before their parents' murders. He had started by enrolling at UCLA where he studied art, something he had always wanted to do.

His name had caused a stir at the university. Lyle had advised him to take distance learning courses, worried that malicious people would harass his little brother, because now the whole country knew their names and faces, and he knew how harsh public opinion was towards them. Hesitant at first, Erik had finally decided to try to live life like a normal student and had courageously faced the stares and whispers he encountered every time he was in class or walking in the halls. He had, of course, received criticism, insults, and glares, but without Lyle knowing how, Erik had finally managed to fit in somehow, and the stares, whispers, and insults had gradually faded, without ever completely disappearing, but having become rare enough that Erik could gradually feel comfortable.

However, even though Erik had been able to connect with other students, it was still difficult for him to form real relationships. A part of him couldn't help but feel shy and suspicious, too scarred by the betrayals of recent years, especially that of his former best friend Craig. He had trouble deepening relationships and didn't like sharing details of his life, which had already been sufficiently exposed during those years of trials. But he still managed to feel like a more or less normal student from time to time.

Although not everything was perfect, this new life was a new lease on life for him, although the weight of everything he carried inside continued to weigh on his shoulders. The murder of his parents still haunted him, he still had nightmares about it at night and carried heavy regrets with him, constantly reminding him of what had happened that night in August 1989. To this end, Erik had recently started yoga classes to help him gradually let go. He had tried to convince Lyle to take these classes with him, convinced that it would be beneficial for him, but Lyle had refused.

Watching his older brother withdraw into himself made Erik deeply sad. His breakup with Christy hadn't helped matters, and while Grace's presence was a source of pure joy and motivation for Lyle, Erik wished his brother could manage to live a life a little less secluded.

"I just wish… that you'd try to enjoy this new life we've been given," Erik said timidly, careful not to upset his older brother.

Lyle remained silent for a few moments, seemingly thoughtful, still holding the sleeping Grace in his arms.

"The life I'm living right now suits me perfectly," he finally replied, as he always did when Erik said such a thing. "I don't need to make friends or anything. You know the risks. I just need you and Grace."

Erik pursed his lips. Every time he had this conversation with Lyle, he always came up with the same arguments.

"You can't always live with just Grace and me around you," Erik pointed out.

"It's not just you two. There's also Aunt Terri, Aunt Marta, Andy…" Lyle began to list.

"Lyle," Erik interrupted. "You know exactly what I mean. I'm talking about getting out more often, opening up to others, seeing the world… There are so many things we couldn't do freely before, without fear of punishment. And I know there are always reporters trying to extract confessions from us, or people who don't know us but judge us anyway, but who are they to stop you from living?"

Lyle sighed through his nose before shaking his head in annoyance. "Erik, please… You know how I feel. I'm happy the way I am, and that's all that matters."

"No, Ly. You're trying to convince yourself you're happy with that," Erik insisted.

Lyle felt a sudden heat rise in his cheeks. This kind of conversation made him uncomfortable, and he didn't want to argue with his little brother right now. "You're not in my head, Erik," he replied, his voice tense.

"I'm not in your head, but that doesn't mean what you think is good for you actually is. I probably know you better than anyone, Lyle. I know you've learned to bottle it all up, to grit your teeth and construct an image of yourself that doesn't match your true self. I know you've learned to build a shell to survive; we both always have. We grew up under blows, humiliation, fear, abuse… But now all that is behind us, and there's no point in dwelling on it forever."

"As if it were that easy…" Lyle muttered under his breath, his gaze dark.

"I never said it was easy," Erik replied calmly. "It's hard, extremely hard. And I know there are probably things you and I will never heal from because they're so deeply ingrained in us. But we don't have to be slaves to our past our whole lives."

Erik felt that despite his words, his brother was slowly beginning to build a wall around him, a wall that meant Lyle was gradually withdrawing into himself. Not wanting that, Erik placed his warm hand on Lyle's shoulder. His blue gaze bored into his chocolate-brown eyes, and it was as if it helped Lyle stay grounded, even if a part of him still seemed trapped by the wall erected around him.

"You should really try to meet someone. Someone who will listen to you, support you, and love you." " Erik said gently.

"No need, I already have you."

“I’m not talking about me. I’m talking about meeting someone else outside of me who you could finally trust. Someone you could confide your deepest fears to without fear of appearing weak or being abandoned. I know you always had to be strong; it was the only way to survive. And I know one of the things that kept you going was the fact that you wanted to protect me. But look, here we are today, together, with a new chance before us.”

Something flickered in Lyle's eyes, and Erik felt he'd struck a nerve. Lyle's previous relationships had been disastrous, and Christy's departure had been the final straw.

"I can't… I…" Lyle stammered, Erik's words clearly having stirred something inside him. "I don't want to appear… weak again."

I don't want to love again. I don't want to hurt again.

Erik's hand tightened a little on his brother's shoulder. "Lyle, there's no pride in staying strong in silence. Speaking out isn't being weak. It's acknowledging when you need help. It's giving yourself a real chance to get better. You always try to convince yourself you're okay, but I know deep down you're not. You have the right to be vulnerable. You have the right to not always be strong and say that things aren't going well. And above all, you have the right not to carry this alone. There is nothing more beautiful than being able to start trusting someone again."

Lyle remained speechless as Erik's words sank into his mind. He sometimes wondered how his little brother could have so much perspective and wisdom. Those years in prison and trials had irreparably changed something in him, but probably not in the same way Lyle had.

And as hard as it was to admit, he knew Erik was right. But it was too difficult for him to let go of the shield behind which he fiercely protected himself and his daughter. He had always had to be strong for himself and Erik, and now for Grace. They alone deserved his total devotion, and Lyle didn't know how he could ever trust anyone again after everything he'd been through.

Erik thought he saw something change in his brother's face as he seemed to consider his words, even though he still sensed Lyle's reluctance. Nevertheless, Erik couldn't help but smile weakly, convinced that his words had had an effect on his older brother. Lyle had always done so much for him, and Erik wanted nothing more than for his big brother, his hero, his protector, to be happy. Lyle deserved it, more than he knew.

An hour later, as Erik was preparing to leave Lyle's house for his yoga class, he took the time to gently kiss Grace's forehead. She was still asleep and had been placed in her crib in the meantime. And now that he was standing in the doorway, Erik could see that Lyle's energy had changed slightly since his arrival, a softer, more peaceful energy. He really hoped their conversation had awakened something in him. He didn't want Lyle to shut himself away in this house for the rest of his days, like a ghost, living only as a father, even though that role suited him perfectly.

Before Erik left, Lyle wordlessly opened his arms, and Erik quickly snuggled into them. The contact had the same effect on them, instantly calming them. Affectionate gestures between them were relatively rare in public, but it was different in private. They had both suffered enormously during that trying and strange period after the murders, when they had grown apart, the weight of their crime and their guilt unbearable for each other. It was also this distance and heavy loneliness, in addition to the consuming guilt, that had driven Erik to confide in Dr. Oziel. Their bond had been battered many times, going through the most painful trials, but it had never broken. In fact, it had strengthened in some ways, and for that both brothers were grateful.

These trying years had shown them how much they needed each other, and despite the weight of their past still weighing irremediably on them, the love that united them was as strong as ever.

Lyle tightened his arms around Erik a little tighter, breathing in his familiar and reassuring scent. He then slid one hand up to the nape of Erik's neck, his fingers brushing through his light brown curls. He was so grateful to have him in his life, grateful that they had escaped life imprisonment, or worse, the death penalty. He was grateful that Erik could move on and flourish more, and yet it still caused a pang in his heart…

…Because he had never been able to erase from his memory Erik's devastated face as he was forced to recount their abuse and the most intimate things about their lives, as well as the way he had broken down when Lyle apologized to him for what he had done to his little brother in their childhood. Lyle still had nightmares about it, as did the memory of his parents' corpses that continued to haunt him. He had come to accept that he would probably never rid himself of those terrible images. Even if he had avoided prison, his sentence was to live the rest of his life with the weight of his sins.

But he and Erik were still there, together, and that's all that mattered.

As the two brothers slowly pulled away from their embrace, they exchanged that look and that smile that betrayed the undeniable understanding and complicity between them. That unique bond and raw love that no one had ever truly understood.

"Take care, E. I'll see you soon," Lyle told him before reaching up and affectionately patting his brother's cheek.

"Yeah, see you soon, Ly," Erik replied with a small smile.

Lyle stood in the doorway, watching his little brother leave as usual. Then, without thinking, a question escaped him: "Do you really think I should give Christy a second chance if she came back ?"

Erik paused, then slowly turned to his brother. They exchanged a silent look for a few moments, then Erik shrugged. "The decision is yours. But Christy probably isn't the only one you can give a second chance to."

And before Lyle could process the meaning of his brother's words, Erik gave him one last piercing look, like a flash of blue in the hot afternoon air, before turning away and getting into his car parked in the driveway.

Lyle gave him a small wave, which Erik returned as he maneuvered back onto the road. Standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame, Lyle watched his little brother's car drive away, shrink to a tiny dot, and then disappear over the horizon. He felt that strange, empty feeling deep in his heart he always felt when Erik had to leave.

And then, Lyle felt an equally strange sensation as he understood the meaning of his little brother's last words.

Chapter Text

Lying on the comfortable sofa, his head resting on a decorative pillow on the armrest, Lyle watched Sesame Street blankly on the TV, Grace curled up in his arms. Sesame Street was a bit like his comfort TV show, something he loved to watch when he was little and which had allowed him to temporarily escape the heavy and uncomfortable daily routine of his childhood. He had long collected stuffed animals of the show's characters, animals that, in his eyes, each had a different personality, animals that were like sweet and reassuring friends to him. Friends who didn't judge him, who listened to him and reassured him when he needed it.

His stuffed animals had been kept by his Aunt Marta during the years of the trials while he was incarcerated, and he was able to reunite with his precious stuffed animals after the verdict, when he moved into this house. He had now given his stuffed friends to Grace, and this gesture was important to him; it was as if he was passing on a precious heirloom. These stuffed animals had watched over him when he was little, and now they watched over Grace.

Grace, who was snuggled up to Lyle and watching TV intently, was clutching Cookie Monster, Lyle's favorite stuffed animal.

Lyle loved the fact that his daughter seemed as attached to the stuffed animal as he had been. There was something truly endearing about it.

Lyle's eyes were fixed on the screen, but his thoughts were wandering, a hint of nostalgia mingling with a dull anxiety. Grace, her eyes wide open, watched Elmo and Cookie Monster on the screen, laughing innocently at the puns. Every peal of laughter from his daughter, every gesture of imitation, seemed to reinforce the growing gap between the child he had once been and the man he had become.

It was mid-afternoon and the sun was at its zenith, which was relatively normal in California, even for early October. With these temperatures, Lyle preferred to stay home with his daughter to escape the muggy heat outside.

A few hours earlier, he had taken advantage of the pleasant coolness of the morning to go for his daily walk with Grace. He had then ordered some groceries and picked them up at the drive-thru—all the while ignoring the puzzled look of the employee who had handed them over—and while Grace was napping, he had taken the opportunity to take care of the dishes and laundry. Man, how could a child give him so much laundry to do each day! And now, Lyle was giving himself a moment of respite in front of the TV with Grace.

His daily life was punctuated by this new routine since becoming a father: a mix of housework, time with his daughter, and a few visits and calls from family members.

The inheritance he received when his parents died allowed him to live comfortably, and he was happy not to have to work so he could spend his days with his daughter and watch her grow up. He would never have been able to find a job anyway, because he would never have wanted to entrust his daughter to anyone. Only Erik had Lyle's complete trust to let him take care of his daughter, but Erik had his studies on the side, and it would obviously be difficult for him to look after a baby all day, at least on weekdays.

Lyle's attention shifted from the TV show when he felt Grace shift against him, seeking a more comfortable position in her father's arms. She stretched out a little more on him, stretching out her little bare legs, holding Cookie Monster closer to her. His baby...

Every time he looked at her, he told himself he didn't care about living a much more solitary life than before. He had long thought that no one could fit in between them, that he was happy as it was, and that he needed nothing else in the daily routine he had led since his acquittal.

But not really.

Because since Donovan had left, an unusual emptiness had taken hold—a bitter mixture of anger, resentment, but also regret.

He kept replaying their argument. Donovan, his eyes filled with pleading, had suggested the idea that had made his anger boil over: "A child needs a father and a mother..."

Lyle had lost his temper, furious at the very idea of ​​it. Christy had abandoned them. He couldn't—wouldn't—accept it. Donovan's words had seeped in like poison, and even though he'd violently banished them from his mind, they kept coming back to haunt him. Why had he said that? It wasn't his place to give advice. Lyle didn't have the luxury of being able to consider forgiveness, not after what she'd done to him and Grace.

His fingers gently stroked the Cookie Monster plush Grace held tightly, like a shield against the world. She hadn't had a choice. But Christy was gone before she could even comprehend the pain she was inflicting by walking away.

But it was something else that was eating away at him now. Donovan. His former best friend, the one he'd brutally kicked out. Yet he couldn't stop thinking about him, about that look full of regret and pain.

Lyle knew that look. It was a look he himself had given his father every time he belittled him, beat him, while Lyle did his best to be the son he expected of him.

Lyle had never known how to react to a father figure who, instead of protecting, destroyed. His father wasn't a man you could forget like an uncle. He wasn't just a member of the family, but the embodiment of authority and betrayed trust. How could anyone forget that voice, that man whose arms had first offered refuge, before becoming a prison? His father's face was a broken mirror, a distorted reflection of what he must have been to Lyle.

And Donovan… he may have suffered under less powerful hands, but he had carried a different kind of pain: that of confusion, of the family bond sacrificed by the man he had trusted. Their past, shared yet fundamentally different, had made them alike and opposites at the same time.

The memory of Donovan's betrayal tightened his chest. The one he had considered a brother had moved away, had let him down—or worse, had chosen to remain silent when he should have been there. How could he forget that? How could he forget what Donovan had done? he thought, the weight of that betrayal crushing his heart.

The secret of their shared abuse that they had shared had been a comfort but also a curse. A hidden secret, a lie that had almost cost him and his brother their lives. The electric chair. A near-death escape. All because of him.

Watching Grace laugh on television was almost too difficult. She was everything he'd wanted to be at her age : joyful, innocent, sheltered. Lyle, on the other hand, had never had that chance. His parents, the people he should have loved and honored, had reduced him to a shadow of his former self. Sometimes, in his darkest moments, he imagined that if he'd had different parents, or if Donovan hadn't testified against him, his life might have turned out differently.

But these thoughts were useless. They were as useless as watching television and hoping the Sesame Street characters would save his soul. And yet, he couldn't shake the thought that Donovan, by coming back into his life, was forcing him to confront a side of himself he didn't want to see again. How could the man he'd become accept this reconciliation? Accept that the one who had suffered with him, the one who, by his actions, had brought him to his knees, should return with apologies and requests for forgiveness?

He realized he hadn't really thought of Donovan as a friend for a long time. He'd reduced him to an enemy, a traitor. But Donovan, deep down, had suffered as much as he had. What if, instead of writing him off completely, he tried to understand what had driven him to testify against him? What if Donovan genuinely regretted it?

Lyle's thoughts swirled endlessly. He turned his head and looked at the front door, as if hoping Donovan would reappear. I'm not ready, he told himself. Not yet.

But the very act of asking himself the question, of doubting him, made his certainties waver a little more.

Despite the stinging pain, a part of Lyle yearned to know what Donovan had to say today. A part that wanted to understand. That hoped.

But a darker part of himself told him Donovan should never have come back. Even if Lyle had opened the door, he was sure nothing had changed. Why resurrect ghosts? Their friendship, their shared suffering, all of it was in the past. And yet, the moment Donovan had spoken about Christy, a sliver of truth had seeped into Lyle's mind. Why this constant need to cling to the people who had betrayed him, who had abandoned him? Why look for connection where there was nothing? And yet...

Amid the chaos of his thoughts, a heavy silence hung over him, as if a part of him regretted never having found the words to mend this rift. Why did this emptiness grow with each passing day? Lyle had never believed he needed him. But now he realized that, in a way, he had always wanted to.

Grace's laughter burst into the silence of the room, light and pure, and Lyle felt his heart clench. He looked at his daughter, that little breath of fresh air, and yet... he felt disconnected. His gaze wandered to where Donovan had been a few days earlier. Lyle should have been glad Donovan was gone, gone from his life again. But something had changed. The silence that remained was oppressive, like a closed door to a room he had never wanted to revisit. It was strange... he didn't need Donovan, did he? He had Erik, he had Grace. And yet, as the days passed, this void, this unspoken thing, grew deeper in his soul like an invisible but painful crack.

Lyle closed his eyes, feeling his clenched fist slowly relax. He thought of his daughter, so vulnerable, of the life he had to protect at all costs. This life he couldn't build alone, even though he had long believed otherwise.

He turned his gaze to Grace, absorbed in Sesame Street, oblivious to the complexity of the world around her. Maybe that was the key. He didn't have to look for redemption in the eyes of others. Maybe he could find a beginning of peace in Grace's simple laughter, in that innocence he had to protect at all costs. But that didn't mean forgetting what he had been through. It simply meant he could finally decide, once and for all, what he wanted to become.

The resentment still burned, but he knew anger alone wouldn't be enough. He had to face his fears, his doubts. He had to listen to what was deep inside Donovan.

He reached out, his fingers gently caressing his daughter's plump cheek, her attention still fixed on the show. Grace shifted slightly in his arms, her small face settling into a sweet smile. Lyle realized he didn't have the answer. Not yet. But maybe, like Donovan, he could one day learn to mend what he'd broken, emerge from his isolation, and understand that not everything was black and white. For Grace. Maybe.

He told himself he didn't need to see him again, that it was too soon, but something inside him refused to simply move on. Lyle didn't like feeling weak, especially towards himself. But the truth, as unpleasant as it was, was that he couldn't shake the weight. He hadn't acted the way he wanted to. Not as an upright man, but as a broken man, too sensitive, too shaken by his past to see what lay before him.

His gaze fell on the clothes lying on the couch next to his. The ones Donovan had worn after his fall into the pool. Lyle remembered the scene, almost absurdly violent, the moment Donovan had tried to sneak into his backyard to talk to him. What an idiot… He had wanted to push him away at all costs, but that memory, the one of Donovan soaking wet, his eyes filled with panic, remained etched in his mind. He hadn't been gentle with him that day, and that detail haunted him. Donovan's clothes, now dry, were folded and neatly piled on the couch. Lyle studied them for a moment, as if finding an answer to his torment.

Then, as if by reflex, he stood up gently, scooping Grace into his arms and placing her in her little playpen. Grace didn't protest, still clutching Cookie Monster, her attention fixed on the puppets on the television. Lyle picked up the pile of clothes and carefully scattered them on the coffee table. He searched the pockets with methodical precision, as if hoping to uncover some clue that would allow him to justify his actions.

That's when he found the card. A small business card, simple but elegant, falling from one of the pockets. Lyle took it in his fingers. The hotel logo was plain, and he read the text quietly: Sunset Bay Hotel, California. No address, just a phone number written in black ink.

A wave of puzzlement washed over Lyle. Donovan had never spoken about this hotel, nor about his stay in California. Why had he kept this card in his belongings? And why hadn't he told him? Donovan wasn't one to hide, unless he had a good reason. A shiver of hesitation crept through Lyle. He'd never intended to get back in touch, ever. But deep down, something inside him told him this card was the only way to find Donovan.

He sat back down on the couch, looked at the phone number on the card, and then his gaze fell on the landline phone on the small table by the couch. Lyle hesitated. The idea of ​​picking it up, calling that hotel and asking for Donovan… It seemed almost incongruous, like another world, a world he wasn't sure he wanted to explore. Lyle took a deep breath, then, with a trembling hand, reached for his phone, keeping the hotel card in his other hand, the number feeling like a fragile promise.

But deep down, he knew he had no choice. He had to know, at least. Know if Donovan was trying to fix what he'd broken. And if he, too, had a chance to fix what he'd destroyed.

Lyle took a deep breath and moved the phone closer. The sound of the cord unwinding seemed to echo as loudly as Sesame Street on TV. Lyle slowly dialed the number on the card. He hadn't planned on doing this, not today, not with all this weight on his chest. But he had no other choice.

The phone rang, each dial tone seeming to drag on until it became an echo in his mind. Lyle bit his lower lip, waiting, his heart beating faster with each passing second. Then, finally, a female voice came on the other end, calm and professional.

"Sunset Bay Hotel, hello. How may I help you?"

Lyle stared at the card again. He hadn't planned on doing this, on finding himself asking something so... personal. But he couldn't back out now.

"Hello... I'm looking for a man named Donovan Goodreau. I think he's at your hotel. I… I wanted to know if he was available to talk.” He quickly realized he hadn’t phrased his request very clearly. What am I supposed to say?

"Just a moment, I'll check." The receptionist seemed intent, tapping away at her keyboard. Lyle waited, his palms sweating. He felt as if he'd crossed a line.

A few seconds passed before the voice on the other end spoke again. "Mr. Donovan Goodreau is indeed staying with us. May I ask you to clarify your request?" There was a slight hesitation in her voice. Perhaps it was standard procedure, but Lyle could tell the receptionist was a little surprised by the nature of the request.

Lyle took a deep breath, the pressure building inside him. He was going to have to ask, or this would have been for nothing.

“Is it possible to get his room number? I… I’d like to speak to him, please.”

The receptionist was silent for a moment. Lyle felt a lump in his throat. He knew this wasn’t a typical request, but there was no going back. He needed these answers.

“I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t give you a guest’s room number without their prior consent. It’s against the hotel’s privacy policy.” Her voice was polite but firm.

Lyle bit his lower lip. Of course. He should have thought of that. But he hadn’t imagined it would be this difficult. He forced himself to stay calm, to keep frustration from creeping up on him.

"I understand..." He paused. Then an idea crossed his mind. Perhaps there was another option. "Would it be possible to leave him a message? You could tell him that... that someone from his past wants to speak to him. I'm... a friend, if that would help him understand."

The receptionist was silent for a few moments, probably considering the best course of action. Finally, she replied, "I'll leave a message for Mr. Goodreau, but he'll have to contact you if he wishes. If it's okay with you, I can give him your contact information."

Lyle felt slightly relieved, even though it wasn't the answer he'd hoped for. At least he'd taken a step, even if it wasn't direct. It was better than nothing.

"Thank you... thank you very much." The gratitude in his voice was genuine, though he wasn't sure how it would go.

He hung up slowly, his fingers still clenched around the receiver. Lyle stared at the hotel's business card and realized he'd just taken an important first step. A message. That was all he could do for now. The rest would be up to Donovan.

He stood up, a weight in his chest. The hotel was miles away, and he had no idea what Donovan would do with that message. But he knew he'd acted on his feelings. He'd made his choice. Now he couldn't control anything.
Lyle started pacing back into the room, hands in his pockets, Grace's chirping and the voices of the Sesame Street puppets piercing the silence. He didn't even know if he'd done the right thing, but one thing was certain: he'd just taken a step forward. He had reached out, one way or another, and now there was nothing to do but wait.

~~

And then, that evening, like a sudden gust of wind, the landline phone on the living room table began to ring.

Lyle froze, his heart pounding. He hadn't thought it would happen so soon, but at the same time, he knew it would eventually. The seconds stretched, hanging in the air. The phone rang, each beep resonating like a hammer blow against his eardrums. He didn't even have time to prepare himself.

He quickly picked up, his breath hitching, and the phone pressed against his ear.

"Hello?" His voice was strained, almost frail.

There was a moment of silence on the other end, and Lyle felt his throat tighten. Then, a familiar voice, tired but resolute, broke the silence.

"Lyle?"

It was Donovan.

Lyle felt his heart skip a beat. He hadn't expected Donovan to react so quickly. Not this evening. He forced himself to catch his breath. "Donovan..." Lyle's voice trembled a little, a strange warmth rising in his chest. After all this time, hearing his name from Donovan again brought back a whirlwind of emotions. He was surprised to hear it, and at the same time, he felt like he'd been waiting for it for years.

"You left a message at the hotel." Donovan spoke in a low, almost hesitant voice, as if he hadn't really planned to act at that moment." I... I wanted to call you back right away. I think I... I needed to hear your voice."

Lyle closed his eyes for a moment, trying to compose himself. It was faster than he'd imagined, more direct. He felt like the ground was unfurling beneath him, as if everything was moving too fast, but somehow, he couldn't have stopped even if he'd wanted to.

Lyle leaned back against the sofa, his fingers clenched around the receiver. He'd already taken a step forward by sending that message, but suddenly, he was faced with the magnitude of what he'd just done.

"I know this is a little abrupt, but I wanted to talk to you before I overthought it. What I mean is..." Donovan took a deep breath, as if he were about to say it all at once. "I'm sorry, Lyle. I fucked up. I'm sorry I didn't react sooner. I really wanted to apologize for everything. And I know I made a terrible mistake, and…" He stopped abruptly, as if afraid of saying too much, but he continued anyway." I just want you to know that… everything is my fault, and I'm willing to do anything to make it right, if you'll give me a chance.

Lyle's heart was pounding so hard it almost hurt. Donovan's words echoed in his mind, but they were still too muddled, too ambiguous. It was hard to tell if Donovan was being sincere or just playing catch-up. But what he'd just said... it rang true.

"You know, I threw you out..." Lyle's voice cracked slightly. It was a harsh truth, one he'd never fully accepted. "I said things to you...Horrible things."

"I know..." Donovan's response was almost immediate, but without judgment. "I haven't been better. I gave in to fear, Lyle. To the fear of losing everything, even though I let you down. But I swear I want better. I want you to know I'm willing to explain myself, to listen, better than I did last time, if you don't mind."

Lyle ran a hand over his face, a little exhausted by the intensity of the conversation. There's no going back, Donovan, he thought. But deep down, a small voice told him that what he was experiencing right now was exactly what he had feared, but also what he had hoped, deep down. He didn't know if Donovan would be able to fix everything that had been broken, but maybe he could at least try.

"Well..." Lyle hesitated, trying to channel his thoughts. "How long are you staying in California?" It was a question that had been burning on his mind ever since he learned where Donovan was. Distance, both geographical and emotional, played a major role in all of this. Donovan wasn't supposed to be there for long. A simple question, but one that changed everything.

He heard his breathe on the other end of the line.

"I... I'm going to stay a few more days, Lyle. I have some business to attend to here. But I don't really know what I'm going to do afterward. Why?" Donovan seemed to be trying to understand why Lyle was asking, a little surprised.

Lyle didn't answer right away. His hand was shaking a little, but he placed it against his temple, feeling the warmth of the phone against his skin. A few days. It was barely enough. But maybe it wasn't time that mattered, but what they chose to do with it.

"Just... I thought... I could call you again, before you leave." Lyle tried to formulate his thoughts without giving too much away. The situation was complex, but he felt he should try to clarify things a little. "I don't want to rush this, Donovan. But you know, if you stay here a little longer, maybe we could get together."

Donovan took a moment before responding, as if weighing his words.

“If you want to see me, I’ll be here. I hurt you, but I really want to make it right. No matter how long I stay, it won’t change.” He paused, before adding softly, almost with a sincerity that touched Lyle deep down. “Thank you for taking the time to listen to me, Lyle.”

Lyle was silent for a moment. The conversation was only just beginning. But for the first time in a long time, he felt able to face what he didn’t want to face.

“We’ll see.” His voice was softer, more measured. “But thanks for calling back. It’s a start, I guess.”

“Yes, a start.” Donovan replied in a voice that sounded more relaxed, but just as sincere. “So, if that’s okay with you, we could meet again on Friday afternoon. We could meet at your place, if that’s easier. I understand that you don't want to show yourself in public. I respect that, Lyle."

Lyle felt a weight lift in his chest. Staying home was the most logical idea. No paparazzi, no prying eyes. Just them, somewhere he felt safe.

"My place is perfect." Lyle nodded slightly, as if agreeing with his own words. "Friday. We'll do that." He took a moment before adding, almost to himself, "I just want it to be quiet. No distractions."

"I understand completely." Donovan's voice was more reassuring now, as if Lyle's offer brought him some kind of relief. "I'll see you Friday, then. Thank you, really, Lyle." He seemed to hesitate for a moment, then hung up.

Lyle stood frozen for a moment after putting his ear to the receiver, his gaze lost in space. The telephone cord swayed gently, but he felt as if something had just been released, something that had been weighing heavily on his shoulders for months, even years.

He heaved a deep sigh, his heart lighter than it had been in a long time. It was only a small step, but it was a step. A gesture, a breach in everything he had bottled up inside. The sound of the phone being placed on its cradle echoed through the empty room, a final note that, despite its simplicity, seemed to mark the end of a long silence.

He stood up and walked unhurriedly toward the stairs. The house, vast and silent, welcomed him like an isolated world, almost suspended in time. His feet brushed against the steps, and his mind was elsewhere, floating between his memories of Donovan and the strange but growing hope he had felt during their conversation.

Arriving at the top of the stairs, Lyle stopped in front of Grace's bedroom door. He pushed it gently, silently, and entered the room. The dim light of the bedside lamp dimmed the atmosphere, as if the outside world no longer existed. Grace slept peacefully in her crib, a gentle expression on her face, her small hands resting quietly beside her. The duvet was pulled up to her chin, and a faint, almost imperceptible smile touched her baby lips.

Lyle approached silently, lightly, and knelt by the crib. He observed his daughter for a moment, letting the warmth of the room envelop him and the tranquility of the place soothe his tormented mind. He gently ran a hand through her hair, thinking back to everything he had experienced with Donovan: the pain, the lies, the betrayals.

He remembered the time when he and Donovan had been inseparable, when nothing seemed to be able to tear them apart. But the years, the trials and errors had taken their toll, driving a gulf between them, until they finally found each other again, in a situation full of unspoken words and regrets.

Was this a sign of weakness ? Lyle wondered. Maybe. But I don't want her to live in a world of resentment, not her. Not Grace. He closed his eyes for a moment, a slight shiver running down his spine. I want her to grow up in a place where love and forgiveness still exist, even when all seems lost.

He watched Grace sleep and thought back to the promise he'd made to himself: to protect his daughter at all costs. But in that moment, he realized he couldn't protect everything, especially not his past. And maybe, like him, Donovan simply needed a chance to heal.

Lyle stayed there for a long moment, crouching by her crib, his hand on the mattress, watching his daughter's calm, steady breathing. Friday, he thought. That's what I said. He didn't yet know what he would find in this meeting with Donovan, but he had taken a step. A small step, but a step nonetheless.

He stood slowly, the sweetness of the moment in his eyes. As he crossed the threshold, he took one last look back, a silent promise to himself, to his daughter, and to everything he had yet to rebuild.

The night stretched outside, quiet and full of uncertainty, but Lyle felt, for the first time in a long time, ready to face what was to come.

Chapter Text

Lyle had been turning the situation over and over in his mind all week. He kept thinking back to the conversation with Donovan, especially to this sentence: "A child needs a father and a mother." Those words obsessed him. He had always made it a point to protect Grace from anything related to Christy. Only he had the right to decide what was best for her.

He had called Erik in the middle of the week. His brother was at university, but conversations with him had always had a calming effect. Lyle confided everything to his little brother, from his doubts about Donovan to his apprehension about seeing him again soon.

"Listen, Lyle," Erik said in a calm voice, "I know it's hard, but you can give him a chance to make amends. It's not about erasing what he did, but maybe a gesture from you, even a small one, could ease all this. Grace needs a father who lives at peace with himself. And so do you."

Lyle didn’t immediately find an answer, but his brother’s words resonated within him. They were like an invitation to let go. Not of everything, but of what really mattered. He knew he had to take one last step toward Donovan to make sure their friendship story ended on a more peaceful note, even if it wouldn’t erase the betrayal.

That first step from Lyle toward Donovan when he contacted his hotel was both an invitation and a challenge. He didn’t know what it would lead to, but he knew it was the only way to find out if Donovan was truly ready to face everything that had been broken.

Friday afternoon arrived faster than he had imagined. Lyle got up early that morning, not only to take care of Grace but also to prepare himself and try to clear his mind. He knew this meeting would be crucial. Not to fix everything, but maybe to ease some of the pain. He had spent a good amount of time reflecting, weighing every word, every gesture. He had drawn a boundary between his expectations and doubts, ready to welcome the moment without taking it lightly.

When the doorbell rang exactly at 2 PM, Lyle felt his heart race. He took a slow breath and moved toward the door. Behind it, Donovan stood there, eyes tired but determined. Lyle could see, in the way he was dressed, in the slight tension of his shoulders, that Donovan was not here as a former best friend, but as a man who knew what he had done couldn’t be fixed in the blink of an eye.

"Hi," Donovan said, his voice softer than usual, almost shy.

Lyle simply nodded, without smiling. "Come in."

Donovan stepped over the threshold, but something in the air had changed. There was still tension, but it was no longer anger. It was relief. Lyle hadn’t yet shaken off his bitterness, but he had taken that first step, and that mattered more than he thought.

They sat down in the living room, just like during their first meeting, but the silence between them was no longer as heavy. For the first time, Lyle made an effort not to let bitterness take over. Donovan began to gently rub his hands together, unhurriedly, as if searching for his words.

"I… I’m sorry, Lyle. For everything I said and did. I let you down. I know I already told you this last time, but I want to say it again. Also, I’m sorry for what I said about Christy... I shouldn’t have gotten involved in that. If you don’t want her back in your life, that’s completely your right"

Lyle looked at him for a long moment, not answering immediately. He hadn’t known what to think the first time Donovan apologized when he showed up at his place, but now he realized he needed to hear it. He needed to feel that Donovan finally understood the depth of the pain he had caused, not just to him, but also to his brother, to the whole family.

"You know," Lyle began, his voice a little hoarse, "you broke me, Donovan. Not just by testifying against me, but by leaving me in the shadows, without support when I needed it." He paused, eyes lost in the distance. "Do you want to know what hurts me the most? It’s not even that. It’s that you still think it could be that simple. That Grace’s story, my family’s story… is something we could just fix like that."

Donovan looked away, a deep sigh escaping his lips. "I never said it was easy, Lyle. But I know I screwed up by suggesting that, by putting pressure on you. But… maybe someday, if you want, we could just talk. Not about Grace, not about Christy, just the two of us."

Lyle was silent for a moment, reflecting on his words.

"I don’t know if I can forget everything, but… maybe someday, we can start again. No expectations. Just… two guys who went through the same crap," Donovan added.

Silence settled between them one last time. Lyle stayed with his back to Donovan, his gaze lost outside, while the latter hesitated to stand. The tension had eased, but a weariness had taken hold of the room. Not the weariness of the body, no — but of the soul. That of two men who had lived through too much to say it all, and too many silences to erase them in a single conversation.

A faint muffled sound rose from upstairs.

Lyle slowly turned his head. He knew what it was. There were only two things that could crack his armor today : his brother’s voice and his daughter’s cries.

Donovan rose slowly. "Do you want me to leave?" he asked softly.

Lyle took a moment before answering. "No... not yet."

He left the living room without a word and climbed the stairs quietly. Once alone, he leaned against the wall, closed his eyes, and the memories overwhelmed him.

Flashback — The Room in Princeton

The cramped room smelled of old leather and scattered lecture notes on the desk. A lamp with tired shades cast a yellow light that contrasted with the icy darkness of the campus outside.

Donovan was slouched on his bunk bed, a legal case file in hand but with a vacant look, lost in his thoughts.

“Another damn constitutional law exam tomorrow,” he grumbled, closing the booklet.

Lyle, sitting by the window, absentmindedly picked up a crumpled t-shirt, waiting for Donovan to speak.

“Do you think we can really pretend none of this ever happened?” Donovan finally asked, his voice heavy.

Lyle glanced toward the small bedside lamp where yellowed photos rested: smiles of children before everything fell apart. Then he shrugged.

“I don’t know. But I try to live. To pretend, at least.”

He remembered the last party outside campus, when they laughed with some girls, trying to hold on to those fleeting moments of lightness. Lyle had even danced, forgetting his nightmares. A night of oblivion stolen from his demons.

“We have to keep pretending,” Donovan added, a bitter smile on his face. “Like everyone else, who doesn’t care what we carry.”

Lyle lowered his eyes, clutching the hem of his t-shirt.

“We didn’t choose our stories. But we can choose what we make of them. Right?”

Donovan looked at him thoughtfully before nodding.

“So, we act like we’re just two kids from Princeton. Not broken children.”

Lyle finally smiled, a fragile but sincere smile.

“We stick together. Always.”

Their silent pact settled in the room, between books and torn dreams, like a fragile promise of light in the shadows.

Lyle remained silent for a moment, then in a calmer tone said, "Maybe." He stood up and walked toward the window, watching the landscape.

Back in the present, Lyle slowly came down the stairs, carrying Grace in his arms. She was dozing peacefully, her eyelids gently closed, her tiny fists clenched against her father's shirt. He joined Donovan in the living room, who had sat back down on the large couch, and Lyle settled beside him, still holding Grace.

Donovan froze, surprised by the tenderness in Lyle’s gaze.

“She has your eyes,” he murmured, as if he had just discovered a hidden part of his friend.

Lyle gave a tired smile, gently stroking Grace’s head.

“Yeah…” He hesitated for a moment, the words coming with difficulty. “And she has that look… that look that forces you to be honest with yourself, that tears you open sometimes. She sees everything, Donovan. Not just what I show the world, but everything I hide.”

Donovan nodded slowly. “That’s the real gift of a child, isn’t it? They hold a mirror up to us—whether we’re ready or not.”

Lyle sat down and placed Grace in the small cradle near the couch with infinite care. He folded his hands on his knees, eyes lost in the void.

“I thought Grace’s birth would bring me peace, but it’s like it woke everything up inside me. The fear, the anger, the pain… And then the love, huge and terrifying.”

Donovan moved closer, sitting across from him, his voice softer.

“You’re carrying a huge weight, Lyle. But you’re not alone. Even when everything seems to be falling apart, you’ve managed to create something beautiful, something real.”

Lyle let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head.

“Beautiful? Really? I’m a single father who almost lost his daughter because I can’t trust anyone. I fight my demons every day, and the worst part is, I don’t even know if I’m good enough.”

Donovan placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

“No one ever feels good enough, Lyle. But you have this strength in you, this resilience. That’s what matters.”

Lyle looked over at the cradle, breathing unsteadily. “And what if one day she pushes me away? What if she never understands why her mother left, why I’m so distant?”

Donovan gently squeezed his shoulder.

“You can’t predict that. But she’ll feel that you love her. That she’s your priority. That’s what will make all the difference.”

Heart heavy, Lyle ran a weary hand through his hair, realizing how far he’d come in recent years.

“Sometimes I feel like a fraud. A guy who made it out of hell but still doesn’t know how to be a dad. I’m scared that this life I’m trying to build for her… is just a house of cards.”

Donovan watched him seriously, feeling a sharp pang in his chest as he saw Lyle slowly break his shell to reveal his vulnerability.

“You’re not a fraud. You went through hell, yeah, but you’re still here. You survived. And you chose to love that little girl. That makes you a damn hero.”

Lyle gave a bitter laugh. “A hero? I’m just a guy who did terrible things. I… I killed my parents, for fuck’s sake. I was a ticking time bomb, a messed-up kid. I almost got my brother and me thrown in prison. I let Christy walk away. I nearly lost everything.”

Donovan felt his stomach twist and moved a little closer on the couch. “You can’t control the past, Lyle. But you can choose what you do now. You have the strength to give her a better life.”

Lyle looked down. "And what if she comes back ? What if her mother comes back and wants a place in all this ? I don’t know if I’m ready to share it. Not after everything I’ve had to endure.”

Donovan hesitated a moment, then gently placed his hand on Lyle’s broad shoulder. The contact made both of them shiver.

“You don’t have to deal with this alone. You’re not that isolated kid from Princeton anymore. I’m here, and I’m staying.”

Lyle looked up, his features more relaxed.

A silence settled between them—heavy, but soothing. Lyle placed a hand on Donovan’s, a simple gesture full of gratitude. That unexpected contact sent a long shiver down Donovan’s spine.

“Thank you. For being here today.”

A faint smile crossed Lyle’s face, though his eyes still held a trace of exhaustion.

“You know, back at Princeton, I just wanted to forget it all. Pretend we were just students, not two boys carrying way too much past. We laughed, we went out, tried to have fun… But deep down, I was always wondering if I was going to make it.”

Donovan nodded, eyes glistening with memories.

“I remember. That night we danced till sunrise, despite everything. We just wanted to feel alive... that the past didn’t define us.”

Lyle nodded, a nostalgic breath escaping him.

“And yet, even in that moment, I felt like I wasn’t free. Like the ghosts of my past were standing just outside the door.”

Donovan placed a hand on his arm.

“We were scared, yeah. But we had each other. Even when I did what I did during the trial, it was never easy. I owe you more than just an apology.”

Lyle met his gaze, his eyes shining with an emotion he had buried for a long time.

“I know. And that’s why I called you. Because deep down, despite everything, I want us to try. Not to erase the past, but to move forward.”

A shared silence settled in, broken only by the quiet breathing of Grace.

“You know what scares me the most ?” Lyle asked, his voice lower.

Donovan tilted his head, inviting him to go on.

“That Grace will suffer from what we lived through. That the innocence she has today will be destroyed by my own ghosts.”

Donovan gently squeezed his shoulder.

“Then protect her. Protect her with that strength I know you have. And know that I’ll be here—not to judge, but to support you.”

Lyle took a deep breath, feeling some of the tension ease. "Thank you, Donovan. For being here, despite everything.”

Donovan offered a genuine smile.

They stayed like that for a while—two men bound by a complicated past, but also by a friendship being reborn—fragile, imperfect, yet full of hope.

Lyle looked at his daughter, a flicker of hope in his eyes.

~~

Night had fallen, and the house was bathed in a soft light, filtered by half-drawn curtains. On the living room rug, Grace lay on her back, eyes wide open, mesmerized by the colorful mobiles hanging above her. Donovan sat beside her, gently tickling her belly, triggering a small, crystal-clear laugh that made Lyle smile.

Lyle came closer, knelt beside them, and placed his hand on his daughter’s head.

“You know,” he murmured, his voice slightly trembling, “I never thought I’d ever feel this… calm.”

Donovan looked at him, his gaze attentive. “Calm, or at peace ?”

Lyle gave a sad smile. “Maybe a bit of both. After everything we’ve been through, it feels strange to have a night like this. Just… laughing, talking, being here.”

Donovan nodded.

“I know. I think we both spent too much time looking back, reliving our wounds.”

Lyle turned his eyes to Grace, who was cooing and reaching her hands toward Donovan.

“She doesn’t know any of that,” he said softly. “She only knows this moment. And I want it to last. I want her to grow up with memories like this—not with fear.”

Donovan smiled. "You're doing an incredible job, Lyle. What you're giving Grace is love. And that's all that matters."

A comfortable silence settled between them, broken only by the steady breathing of the little one. The fire in the fireplace crackled softly, casting dancing shadows on the living room walls. Sitting side by side on the expensive sofa, Donovan grabbed a cushion and tossed it clumsily at Lyle, who chuckled as he dodged it.

“Remember that night at Princeton ?” Donovan asked, a nostalgic smile on his lips.

Lyle nodded, his eyes gleaming.

“Senior ball, yeah. We snuck in past all the guests. Ended up dancing all night in the empty hall, listening to that old jazz on the turntable.”

“And you tried to convince me you were some kind of dance expert,” Donovan laughed, “but you were totally off beat.”

Lyle smiled, shaking his head.

“That was the only time I ever felt normal. Just Lyle. Not the kid with the heavy past.”

They exchanged a look full of shared memories—a silent understanding that reminded them of lighter days.

Suddenly, a small coo caught their attention. Grace had crawled toward them, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. She grabbed Lyle’s sleeve and, with a soft giggle, leaned against his arm. Lyle gently picked her up, holding her close with infinite tenderness.

“Look at her,” Donovan murmured, “she’s got that sharp gaze, that energy… It’s like she’s already a little explorer.”

Lyle stroked his daughter’s silky hair, his face softened. “She’s everything to me. And sometimes, when I look at her, I wonder if everything we went through was worth it… or if we can ever really make it out.”

Grace’s laughter still echoed through the room as Lyle gently placed her on the rug. She began crawling toward Donovan, who carefully picked her up, his eyes glowing with unexpected gentleness.

The soft light from the table lamp and the fireplace cast a warm halo around them. Grace, nestled in Donovan’s arms, reached for strands of his hair, her tiny fingers brushing his skin with surprising delicacy.

Lyle watched the scene, his heart tight with a new kind of tenderness—but also with a stirring emotion he struggled to name.

“You know,” Donovan began, his voice barely a whisper, “I’ve spent so many nights wondering what could’ve been—if we hadn’t been broken by everything we went through. If we had a real chance.”

Lyle turned his eyes away, seeking refuge in the gentle outline of Grace. His voice trembled slightly as he replied.

“Donovan,” he murmured, his voice low, almost cracked with emotion, “I never knew how to say this… but those years when we lost each other—they broke me. I thought I’d never be able to rebuild anything.” He paused, eyes fixed on Grace. “And then she came along. And with her… the idea that maybe I could actually heal.”

Donovan nodded. “She’s incredible. I can see it in your eyes when you look at her. That’s the kind of love that saves you.”

Lyle gave a faint smile—a mix of gratitude and vulnerability.

The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting amber reflections across the living room walls. Grace, lulled by the warmth and their quiet voices, had fallen asleep with a half-smile, nestled between two cushions.
Lyle and Donovan remained seated side by side on the rug, their legs folded in front of them. The laughter had slowly faded, replaced by a quiet tenderness that lingered in the space between them.

Donovan slowly turned his head toward Lyle.“It feels strange to be here… to be back. You’ve built something. A real life.”

Lyle let out a short laugh—without bitterness, but heavy with weariness.

“If you can call it a life… I spent so long hiding, avoiding any feeling. Grace—she changed everything.”

Donovan nodded, his eyes resting on the sleeping child.

“You’re lucky to have her. She saved you.”

Lyle looked down, then replied in a quieter voice:

“Sometimes I wonder if I even deserve all this.”

A silence fell between them—heavier this time, but not burdensome. Donovan hesitated, then placed a hand on Lyle’s shoulder: “You do. And so much more.”

Their eyes met.

Something passed between them—a fleeting, silent intensity that lingered just a little too long. Neither of them moved, but their bodies had inched closer without them noticing. Lyle almost flinched when he felt their hands brush against each other.

Then he looked away, clearing his throat softly, unsettled by his own reaction.

“Crazy, isn’t it?” he said under his breath. “We’ve been through the worst together, and even now, I still don’t know how… how we’re supposed to live like normal people.”

Donovan gave a faint, slightly uncertain smile.

“Me neither. But maybe it’s okay if it takes time to figure it out.”

They sat there in silence, shoulders nearly touching, neither daring to move further. The moment was tender, but tinged with a quiet tension—not yet love, not quite romance, but the shadow of something more complex, something deeper than friendship alone.

Grace stirred softly in her sleep. Donovan leaned over to tuck a small blanket around her, and as Lyle watched him, he felt his chest tighten.

No certainty.

But a possibility.

Maybe.

~~

In the morning, a few hours after Donovan had left, Lyle woke up with a knot in his stomach.

He had stared at the ceiling for a long time, motionless, with Grace asleep against him, her tiny hand clutching his T-shirt. He hadn’t dared to move. He didn’t even know what was holding him still anymore—his daughter, or the obsessive thought looping in his mind:

What happened last night?

Now, standing in the kitchen, he watched his coffee grow cold in the cup, his elbows resting on the counter, his back hunched as if he were still carrying the weight of the past.

He’d replayed the scene at least ten times. The couch. The silence. Donovan’s gaze.
That closeness—so familiar, and yet, somehow different.

He wanted to believe it was nothing. Just an evening between two old friends, worn out by their own wounds, glad to reconnect.
But something had changed.

That moment when their hands had brushed.

That glance, held a second too long.

That strange shiver when their shoulders touched.

He shook his head, annoyed with himself.

"You’re tired. Emotional. That’s all it is." He muttered the words like a lifeline to reality, but even his voice sounded hollow.

Grace let out a small cry from her playmat. Lyle leaned down to pick her up, as if searching for something to ground him.

He looked at her closely. She had his eyes, but the peaceful expression of someone who didn’t yet know the complications of the world.

“It’s not supposed to be this complicated, is it ?” he whispered. “You either feel something… or you don’t. But right now, I just don’t know.”

She cooed softly, placing her hand on his chin.

He sighed.

~~

Donovan had barely slept. He had spent the night tossing and turning, staring at the shadows on the ceiling of his hotel room, listening to the faint sounds of the street slipping through the curtains.

Nothing about last night had been planned. He hadn’t expected that intimacy. Not that soft, almost dangerous closeness. And especially not that strange, dull ache—the quiet longing to stay. Just a little longer.

He had woken up with a heavy heart.

Too many scattered thoughts.

Too many what ifs…

He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands.

Had he misread Lyle’s gestures ?

Was it just nostalgia, a shared need for comfort in the silence ?

Or worse—had he let something slip, something he’d been burying for far too long?

He got up and moved to the window. The California sky was a pale, hesitant blue—the kind of quiet morning where everything feels suspended in time.

He remembered the weight of Lyle’s hand on his.

That look in his eyes.

That slight pull-back at the end, as if something had nearly tipped over.

None of it was clear. Nothing made sense.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered. “We need each other, but not like this. Not… now.”

But even as he said it, the voice in his head wasn’t convinced.

Because deep down, it wasn’t just need.

It was something else.

Something just beginning to stir—blurred, uncomfortable, almost impossible to name.

And what unsettled him the most… was that the idea wasn’t as frightening as he might have expected.

Chapter Text

Late afternoon sunlight bathed the garden in a warm, golden glow. Donovan was playing in the garden grass with Grace, using her toys to pretend to attack her. She burst into laughter, her little legs kicking. Lyle watched them from the porch, arms crossed, a faint smile at the corner of his lips.

For a few days now, Donovan had been coming back regularly. Always under the pretense of forgetting something : a cap, a notebook, that kind of things. Lyle hadn’t made a fuss. He wasn’t sure whether he felt relieved or increasingly nervous with each visit.

That evening, Donovan had suggested gardening a bit — just to help out. In truth, neither he nor Lyle had touched the shovel. They had let themselves be caught up by Grace, by the softness of the evening, and by that false calm hanging around them.

Lyle forced himself to breathe calmly, but his shoulders remained tense — as if something could shatter the fragile balance of the moment at any time.

And he was right.

"Well, well. Didn’t think I’d see you two together again one day."

The voice came from the fence. Lyle turned sharply. Frank, the next-door neighbor, was holding a paper bag full of groceries, looking more curious than ever.

Lyle didn’t like Frank. Too talkative. Too often outside “accidentally” overhearing conversations. He reminded him of those people who read newspapers just for the crime stories.

“Hi, Frank,” he said coldly.

Frank’s eyes stayed fixed on Donovan, who had frozen, still holding Grace in his arms.

“I thought I’d seen you somewhere before. Not in person, you know. But on TV. You were at the Menendez trial, right?”

Lyle felt his stomach tighten. He descended the three steps from the terrace, approaching the fence.

Frank continued, as if commenting on an old entertaining memory.

“You were one of the witnesses. You were the guy who dropped some serious stuff on him, I think. Up on the stand, you looked… let’s say, tense. Like you regretted it.”

Donovan slowly straightened up. He said nothing. His cheeks had flushed, but he held Grace even more gently.

Lyle shot Frank a cold look. “That was years ago.”

“It’s not that long ago, for that kind of story, you know. You don’t forget easily when it’s sordid,” Frank smiled, as if apologizing for having a good memory.

Then he raised his eyebrows, feigning surprise.

“And now you’re friends again? Funny how things turn out.”

“Not funny,” said Lyle, jaw clenched. “Just… none of your business.”

Frank shrugged with a small laugh.

“You’re right. It’s not my business. But neighbors talk, you know.”

“Want some advice, Frank?” Lyle said, stepping back a step, his gaze dark. “Talk less.”

Frank looked surprised but only raised his eyebrows and backed away. He gave a vague wave and disappeared along the fence.

Silence.

Lyle turned to Donovan. He avoided his gaze, lips pressed tight, as if wondering whether he should apologize again.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

But Lyle shook his head nervously.

“No. It’s not you. It’s people like him. They cling to your worst moments and smile while stirring up the mess.”

He took Grace back in his arms without asking. Donovan handed her over without resistance.

“I didn’t think he’d recognize me,” Donovan said again. “I thought I was just… a face among others.”

Lyle looked at Grace, who babbled while playing with the button on his shirt.

“You weren’t ‘just’ a face to me either, back then. That’s the problem.”

He wasn’t shouting. He wasn’t accusing. But his words carried the weight of resentment. Not burning anger — no. More like a slow burn, an old wound scratched open again.

Donovan stood still, hands in pockets, shoulders slightly slumped.

“I was wrong, Lyle. That day, I said what I was pushed to say. Not what I really felt. I… I was under a lot of pressure not to reveal what I’d been through. I didn’t want… my family to know…”

Lyle finally looked at him.

“And what you felt… you never wanted to tell me?”

“I was scared. We were all scared.”

A silence. Heavy, but not hostile. Just painful.

Lyle nodded. He turned around and went back inside with Grace. Donovan followed quietly.

And in the living room bathed in soft light, no words were exchanged for several minutes. Just the sound of Grace playing, as if none of it concerned her.

But in the air, everything remained suspended. Not broken. Not fixed. Just… balanced.

~~

The light was dimmed, filtered through a small cloud-shaped nightlight that cast a soft hue on the floral-patterned walls. Lyle had crouched by the crib, knees aching on the wooden floor. He rested his chin on the wooden edge, eyes fixed on Grace’s little face.

She was half asleep. One fist against her cheek, the other folded on her pink blanket. Her breathing was slow, uneven, the kind of rhythm babies have when they’re still on the edge of dreaming. A tuft of black hair stuck to her forehead.

Lyle watched her with almost painful concentration. Some days, she seemed like the only real thing in his life. And then others… she reminded him too much of where she came from. What he had lost. What he had fled.

He gently touched her belly with two fingers, just enough to feel her warm breath against his palm. The contact reminded him she was really there, tangible, not a fantasy or memory.

But his mind drifted elsewhere. To Frank. To Donovan. To that phrase, thrown with that kind of satisfied smile:

“You were the guy who dropped some serious stuff on him, I think.”

Lyle felt his jaw clench.

That memory, he had buried it. That moment when, in the cold courtroom, Donovan had stood up, trembling slightly, answering a question while carefully avoiding his gaze. That day, Lyle said nothing. He just listened. Clenched his fists. And told himself: it’s over.

But tonight, it wasn’t over. Donovan was here. In the house. Not as a threat — no — but like a heartbeat too loud in a tired chest. He was waking something up. An old anger. A buried tenderness. And that fear he had never really dared to name.

He closed his eyes.

What do you really want, Donovan? To ask forgiveness, or for me to reach out like nothing happened?

He opened his eyes again. Grace was asleep. And he wasn’t sure anymore if he was watching over her… or if she was holding him back from falling apart.

~~

The living room was plunged in darkness except for a halo of light coming from the kitchen. Donovan sat cross-legged on the soft rug, surrounded by Grace’s toys he hadn’t had the heart to put away.

He held a small wooden rattle, engraved with the little girl’s name. He rolled it between his fingers without really thinking, his gaze lost in the shifting shadows on the ceiling.

The incident with the neighbor spun in his head like slow poison. Frank’s voice. His smile. His insistence. “You were the guy who dropped…”

In the Menendez case, Donovan felt like the traitor, the Judas who betrayed Jesus. He wanted to stand up, tell Lyle once and for all that he never wanted that. That he was scared. That he thought he was doing the right thing — then hated himself for months. But what’s the point? Those kinds of phrases always sound hollow after the fact.

He let out a long sigh, leaned his head back against the edge of the sofa. The fabric’s texture slightly scratched his neck. He closed his eyes.

He saw Lyle at Princeton again. The Lyle before the tragedies. The one who laughed while pouring coffee at 2 a.m. in the dorm kitchen, who tossed around famous trial quotes like punchlines, who once confessed, drunk, that he didn’t believe in love but believed in someone who stays when it’s ugly.

Donovan opened his eyes abruptly. He hadn’t been that someone.

And yet, he was here. Now. And this “now” seemed more fragile than a child’s secret. More precious, too.

He glanced upstairs. He hesitated. A step. A word. A hand on Lyle’s shoulder. But no.

He stayed there, frozen. Unable to move forward. Unable to flee.

Two men, separated by a hallway, locked in their regrets and hopes.

And between them, a sleeping child who understood nothing of it all, but who, without knowing it, might already be starting to fix everything.

~~

The sun poured in through the sliding glass door, warming the kitchen with a soft golden light. On the table, two half-drunk steaming cups of coffee showed evidence of a late awakening. Lyle prepared a bowl for Grace, who babbled happily in her child-sized seat.

Donovan, sitting on a slightly wobbly chair, watched the scene with a faint, almost hesitant smile. He hadn’t spent the night at his hotel this time, Lyle having allowed him to stay over in one of the rooms. He saw it as yet another step forward in rebuilding their relationship.

When Lyle placed the baby food bowl in front of Grace, she clapped her little hands, thrilled by her food.

“You know, she reminds me a lot of my sister, the way she gets so excited about food. I remember every time it was mealtime, she literally threw herself at her bottle like no one fed her here,” Donovan said with a slight smile at the memory of his little sister.

Lyle didn’t answer, not knowing what to say as Donovan seemed briefly lost in his memories.

“My sister… she was the only one I could really tell everything to when I was a kid. Even my worst mischiefs.”

He smiled, melancholic.

“And you, did you have someone like that?”

Lyle took a sip of coffee, stared at the light filtering through the blinds, then let his words come, heavier this time.

“Erik. My little brother.”

Donovan felt almost foolish for asking such a question. Erik, of course.

Lyle looked at Grace, then continued in a softer voice.

“You already know but… our family was… complicated. Sometimes violent. Often distant. A place where you had to be strong or not exist at all.”

He gripped the bowl tightly.

“I took on the role of big brother like a shield. For him. For me. I wanted him not to know what I’d been through. To be protected, no matter what.”

Lyle sank back into painful memories he had buried deep inside. All those years spent fighting to protect his little brother, taking the blows, the insults, hiding his own pain so he wouldn’t seem weak in Erik’s eyes. He had been forced to grow up too fast, becoming a shield, a fortress, to protect both himself and Erik from the cruelty of their parents.

“But protecting someone in a burning house means making choices you’d never want to make.”

Lyle swallowed hard, as if swallowing painful memories.

“I was ready for anything. For the irreparable. Because the idea of losing him… it would have broken me.”

A silence settled, heavy and tender at once.

Donovan nodded, understanding.

“That’s a huge burden. Having to be strong for two.”

Lyle gave a sad smile, thinking back to their broken childhood.

“Yes. And sometimes, I think that burden also drove me away from Erik… after what we did. After that fateful night, we could no longer face each other’s eyes or the weight of what we had done. Fortunately, we reconnected after the verdict and managed to rebuild a somewhat normal relationship, although we avoid talking about what happened.”

He shook his head, bitter.

“When you carry all that, there’s not much room left for yourself. For what you really feel.”

He looked Donovan straight in the eyes.

“And you, with your sister, how was it?”

Donovan took a deep breath. Even though he had confided his own abuse to Lyle years ago, he had always been fairly discreet about his family life. Family was a subject they always tried to avoid.

“She was my refuge. In that chaos too. But she was fragile. Too fragile. Sometimes I felt like I had to carry her.”

Lyle nodded, aware their stories intertwined in this shared pain.

“That’s what a dysfunctional family is. You get lost. You protect yourself by hurting yourself.”

A tired smile passed over their faces.

Grace, awkwardly eating with her spoon while holding a toy in her other hand, then handed her toy to Donovan, babbling happily. He took it, played with her for a moment, his face softening.

Donovan gently set the toy on the table, still absorbed in his thoughts.

“You know,” he murmured, “what hurt me the most wasn’t so much what I went through… It’s what I had to keep silent about.”

He looked away for a moment.

“There are things I never dared to tell anyone. Not even my sister.”

Lyle nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on Donovan. He knew exactly what he meant.

“We both have secrets… memories I carry like invisible chains.”

He clenched his fists, then slowly opened them as if to free himself.

“The worst is that dull anger, that weight that eats you up inside without being able to express it.”

Donovan nodded. “And fear. The fear that by showing your weaknesses, everything will collapse around you.”

Lyle sighed. At that moment, he felt like he had taken a leap back several years, to when Donovan had first talked to him about the abuse by his uncle, while they were at a Chinese restaurant. So much had happened since then, and he felt like he had lived a thousand lives since.

“Yes. I’m afraid Grace will grow up with that same pain.”

He lowered his eyes to his daughter, babbling cheerfully, carefree.

“I want to be strong for her. But sometimes, I don’t know how anymore.”

Donovan moved closer gently, as if to fill the void.

“We don’t choose our wounds, but we can choose how they define us.”

A faint smile split his face.

“And sometimes, you just need someone to remind you that you’re not alone.”

The silence that followed was no longer heavy but charged with an unspoken promise.

Lyle looked at Donovan, a little hesitant.

“Thanks… for being here.”

Donovan answered with a simple, sincere smile.

~~

The sun was already high, but the house remained in semi-darkness, as if Lyle refused to let the light fully in. In the living room, the curtains were half drawn. A gentle silence prevailed, broken only by the soft gurgles of Grace on her play mat. She kicked her feet in the air, her clumsy hands trying to grab a rattle hanging above her.

Lyle, sitting cross-legged close to her, kept a constant eye on the window, barely seeing the street outside. He was never truly relaxed. Never fully present.

Donovan, leaning against the doorframe, sipped lukewarm coffee he had made himself, since he hadn’t been invited to anything else. He was in this house only by the patience and forgiveness of its master. And he knew it. He didn’t take advantage of it.

He had been watching Lyle and Grace silently for several minutes. It wasn’t a perfect picture. Lyle seemed ready to spring at the slightest alert, yet in his movements — when he replaced the pacifier, when he adjusted a lock of his daughter’s hair — there was a harsh tenderness. Like someone afraid of hurting unintentionally.

Donovan finally broke the silence, in a measured voice.

“You know… I saw a park not far from here. Small, quiet. A bit out of the way.”

Lyle raised his eyes, wary. He didn’t answer, but it was as if he immediately raised an invisible barrier.

Donovan continued calmly. He knew he had to tread carefully, like walking through a minefield.

“It’s really calm. Not the one where the local families go. The one behind the housing estates, a little rundown. I passed by twice while walking. Three moms with strollers and an old guy feeding pigeons. That’s all.”

Lyle turned away, pretending to adjust Grace’s comforter. He almost whispered, “Why do you say that?”

“Because you could go. With her.”

Lyle froze. “I’m not going to expose her. Not to that.”

Donovan took a step forward, just one. "To what? The sun? The grass? Hearing other kids laugh?”

Lyle stood up slowly, taking Grace into his arms. He held her tightly, almost too tightly, as if afraid someone would try to take her away. “To me. To people who remember, like Frank. To people who judge.”

He paused, jaw clenched. “To those damn journalists. The photos. The headlines she’ll read one day.”

Donovan let him speak. Let him say it. He knew the refusal came from fear, not rejection. And that fear sometimes needs to be heard to lighten.

“Lyle… You lock her up to protect her. I understand. Really. But she also needs to discover. And you… you need to breathe.”

Lyle laughed, a joyless laugh. “I breathe just fine here.”

He thought Donovan was exaggerating. He didn’t keep Grace from going out either. There was the garden, and he took short stroller walks with her, limiting himself to the neighborhood, always looking around to see if anyone was watching. Moreover, that recent unpleasant incident with the neighbor Frank had only made him more cautious.

“No. You survive here. It’s not the same.”

A silence settled. Grace placed a hand on her father’s cheek, as if to bring him back to the present. Her little fingers slid against his rough beard. A simple gesture, but it broke something.

Lyle lowered his eyes to her. She looked at him as if he were the only man in the world. The only refuge. And maybe he was.

He sighed. Deeply. Then raised his head to Donovan.

“Not a word to anyone. No sideways looks. You walk behind me. You say nothing. And we leave at the first sign of trouble.”

A faint smile appeared on Donovan’s lips. Not triumphant. Just a gentle relief.

“Deal.”

~~

He had said yes. Or something close to it. But for Lyle, it was already a huge breach in the fortress he had built around himself over the past year. He didn’t want to think of it as just a trip to the park. For him, it was an operation. A mission. And missions required plans.

He started as soon as Donovan left the room, as if he’d been waiting for that moment alone to switch into tactical mode. He pulled out a crumpled map of the neighborhood and surroundings from his office. It had quiet streets marked, shortcuts, places without cameras. Scribbles, notes, red circles. The kind of map a stranger might think came from a crime novel.

He placed a blue dot near the park Donovan had mentioned. Then two more dots on adjacent streets: the spots where he would park the car, just in case a quick escape was needed. A third dot marked a side exit, a dirt path.

Donovan, returning with a hot coffee, stopped again in the doorway. He understood it was an invisible threshold: entering the office uninvited was like setting off an alarm.

“Planning an escape?”

Lyle didn’t look up. He took out a small pair of sunglasses for Grace. They looked ridiculous, pink with little hearts. He’d bought them the day he caught himself imagining a normal future. They’d stayed at the bottom of a drawer ever since.

“She can’t stand them for more than two minutes,” he said, placing them near the stroller. “But just in case. The less she’s recognized, the better.”

Donovan raised an eyebrow. “You’re afraid someone’ll recognize a six-month-old baby?”

“You know what journalists are capable of. One photo, a zoom, a rumor, and it’s back on. They only need one angle.”

Then he packed two diapers, a small water bottle, a beige hat without any logo, and a thin blanket. Everything was neutral. Nothing that would scream wealthy heir or child of a media scandal.

“If someone follows us, we change direction. If someone takes a photo, you say nothing. I speak.”

Donovan stepped closer, this time without being pushed away. He set his cup on the desk.

“Do you do this every time you go out?”

Lyle didn’t answer. He gently placed the folded blanket in the diaper bag. Then he straightened up, hands on the back of the chair. “I don’t go out often.”

A thick silence settled.

Donovan didn’t try to tell him it wasn’t a life. He knew Lyle already knew.

So he simply said: "There are two of us today. You don’t have to carry it all alone.”

It wasn’t a magic sentence. But it stayed there, somewhere. Like a warm stone in a pocket. And Lyle, without a word, nodded.

The car stopped silently along a sleepy sidewalk, three blocks from the park. Lyle had insisted: no way to park right in front. Too visible. Too easy to find. He wore a plain cap pulled low over his eyebrows, cheap sunglasses, and a shapeless hoodie. His look was painfully ordinary. Invisible. Unrecognizable.

Donovan got out first, without a word. He grabbed the stroller and laid out the folded blanket, following Lyle’s strict instructions. Lyle slowly took Grace out, almost ceremoniously, holding her close like a fragile treasure.

He quickly scanned the surroundings. A woman walking her dog. A cyclist passing by without slowing. Nothing suspicious. Nothing visible, at least.

He looked at Donovan.

“Let’s go.”

They walked along the sidewalk, Lyle slightly ahead, Grace in his arms, Donovan pushing the empty stroller a few steps behind. No words. No smiles. Just eyes scanning everything.

The park was there, at the corner of a small tree-lined street. No big entrance, no sign. Just a slightly worn gravel path, and some tired wooden benches. The grass was poorly kept, but the place had an intimate feel. Forgotten. It was perfect.

Lyle paused for a moment at the edge of the path.

“I’ll take that spot,” he said, pointing to a somewhat secluded corner, shaded by a maple tree. No bench nearby. Good visibility on both exits. Nothing behind them but a wooden fence.

Donovan nodded without arguing. He now recognized that look — the look of a man who never feels entirely safe.

They settled on a blanket laid right on the grass. At first, Lyle stayed back, keeping Grace on his lap, his eyes constantly shifting between her and the surroundings. It was warm, but he kept his sweatshirt zipped up. His hand gripped the small water bottle in his bag out of habit, as if waiting for an invisible signal to run away.

But Grace was discovering. Her eyes grew wide as she watched the leaves gently move above her head. The rustling, the soft bird songs, the light dancing on the blades of grass. She waved her arms and let out a little cry of joy.

Donovan smiled. “She likes it.”

Lyle pressed his lips together. “She’s never seen this many trees before.”

Donovan looked at him for a moment but said nothing. Instead, he crouched down to Grace’s level and pretended to wrestle with a ladybug that had landed on his shoe.

“Careful, Grace, this little bug is fierce. It does karate.”

Grace burst out laughing. A clear, genuine laugh that tore through the air. Even Lyle jumped, surprised by the strength of such a tiny sound. He looked down at his daughter as if he were seeing her for the first time in days.

She looked back at him, eyes shining, as if waiting for him to join the game too. He hesitated, but instead of forcing a smile, he reached out and gently brushed her fine hair.

“She laughs at everything. She doesn’t understand yet that the world is dangerous.”

Donovan sat down beside him, legs crossed. “Or maybe she knows, but she doesn’t care. She’s looking at you. Not the world.”

Lyle didn’t answer but lowered the hood of his sweatshirt slightly — a small, telling gesture.

Several minutes passed like that. A child ran by in the distance, chased by his father. An old man walked a small dog. Lyle observed everything, but with less tension. His breathing was calmer. His hands less clenched.

Grace finally started to squirm. He gently set her down on the blanket, letting her roll a bit to one side. Donovan handed her a blade of grass.

“She wants to give it to you,” he said, smiling.

Lyle looked at his daughter, who was holding out the grass proudly as if she’d found a treasure.

He reached out and took it without a word.

And for the first time in a long while, he smiled. Not a big smile. Not a show. Just a subtle crease at the corner of his mouth. But real.

And Donovan, who had seen him collapse at the trial, saw him come back to life a little there, under the trees.

Grace babbled out loud now, as if the whole world were a giant echo chamber waiting for her song. Her hands tried to catch the shadows the leaves cast on the blanket. She kept trying over and over with the same comical determination.

“She’s going to catch them eventually,” Donovan said with a tender half-smile.

Lyle shrugged lightly, but his eyes never left his daughter. He seemed fascinated. Rediscovering with every moment that this little being he’d protected behind closed doors since birth… was capable of happiness.

Grace awkwardly rolled onto her stomach, lifted her head, and let out a triumphant cry as if she’d just climbed a mountain. Donovan softly clapped.

“See that? First public roll. You’re doomed now, Dad.”

Lyle let out a small, muffled laugh. Light. Almost involuntary.

“She’s going to ask me to send her to school soon.”

“That’s the point, isn’t it?”

Lyle froze at that sentence, as if suddenly the idea of a future had just slipped into his mind. A future with people. Looks. Judgments.

He looked away. But at that very moment, Grace raised her arms toward Donovan. Without hesitation. She babbled something unintelligible but full of intent.

Donovan blinked, surprised. He looked at Lyle.

“Can I?”

A moment passed.

Then Lyle nodded, almost reluctantly, but not out of mistrust. It was something else — the difficulty of accepting that his daughter could feel safe in arms other than his own.

Donovan took her gently. She nestled against him without resistance, her little hand gripping the fabric of his shirt.

“She’s braver than both of us combined,” he said softly.

Lyle nodded. “She hasn’t learned to be afraid yet.”

They stayed like that for a few minutes, in an almost supernatural calm. The world seemed to have paused around them. Just the rustling of leaves, the distant song of a blackbird, and the peaceful breath of a baby against the chest of a man who had spent too many years running away.

And then... it happened.

At first, it was just a detail. A male figure, standing on the path about thirty meters away. A lone walker, a little too still. No dog. No book. Just a backpack and a cap pressed on his head. He seemed to be looking at the trees. Or maybe at them.

Lyle saw him immediately. His body stiffened instantly. The kind of reaction you don’t need to explain to someone who’s lived through the war of glances.

“Over there,” he said in a low voice, barely nodding toward the silhouette.

Donovan turned discreetly. He frowned.

“He has a camera around his neck.”

Lyle jumped up, gathering the blanket and grabbing Grace without gentleness, but without making her cry. His voice was cold. Dry. It didn’t tremble; it commanded.

“We’re out of here.”

Donovan didn’t ask questions. He folded the stroller hastily and tucked it under his arm. Lyle, already on the path, glanced quickly behind him. The guy hadn’t moved. But he was watching them. It was clear now. Too clear.

They left the park from the back, taking the path they had spotted on the map. Not a word between them. Just the sound of their footsteps on the gravel and Lyle’s quickened breathing.

When they finally reached the car, he strapped Grace into her seat without a word, his hands barely trembling. Donovan put the stroller in the trunk, then climbed into the passenger seat. The silence inside the car was heavy, thick like fresh concrete.

Lyle stared at the road but didn’t start the engine right away.

“That’s why I don’t go out. Because even when you think it’s over... someone is there. Someone’s watching.”

Donovan slowly turned his head toward him.

“Maybe. But she laughed today. And you did too.”

Lyle closed his eyes for a second. Then he started the car.

Chapter Text

Over the past few days, Donovan had slowly settled into Lyle’s home. He was no longer just a passing visitor, a ghost from the past, but almost a companion on the road. Lyle had even given him the guest room — a simple but clean space where Donovan could sleep at night. What had initially felt like a strange closeness gradually became an unexpected source of comfort for Lyle — a reminder that he wasn’t entirely alone in facing his past. And though neither of them would admit it, something more fragile, more profound, had begun to take root between them.

That morning, light barely filtered through the kitchen blinds, casting golden stripes across the polished wooden floor. Lyle, still tired, held a trembling cup of coffee in his hands. His shirt was still wrinkled from the day before, and the dark circles under his eyes betrayed a nearly sleepless night.

Grace slept peacefully in her crib. The ticking of the wall clock echoed like a silent countdown, while the soft notes of a jazz tune barely drifted from the radio.

Donovan, leaning back against the wobbly kitchen chair, absentmindedly flipped through a new issue of People Now he’d found on the coffee table, between two empty bottles and a chewed-up stuffed toy.

His finger suddenly stopped on a double-page spread. He frowned, straightened slightly.

“Lyle… Look at this.”

Lyle took the magazine with a hesitant hand, his heart tightening even before his eyes met the image. And when they did, he felt sick to his stomach: himself, in the park, holding Grace in his arms, his face half-hidden under a cap and sunglasses — but still recognizable. There was no doubt. It was him. And it was her.

The image looked still, almost gentle… but was twisted by what it represented, by what it was about to unleash.

The headline, in bold, screaming red letters, shouted across the page:

“Lyle Menendez and Daughter: First Public Outing in the Park Since the Trial”

And below it, a snide, almost mocking subtitle:

“After months of hiding from public opinion, the man with a tragic past reappears… but for how long?”

Lyle felt his stomach clench. Cold sweat trickled down his back. He slowly lifted his head, meeting Donovan’s worried gaze.

“H-How?”

“The guy at the park. The one who kept staring. He called his paper, right away.”

Lyle threw the magazine onto the table, his jaw so tight it hurt. His fists clenched slowly, his shoulders drawn like a bowstring.

“Goddamn it… I just wanted a quiet moment with my daughter. ONE FUCKING WALK !”

He stood up abruptly, his chair screeching across the floor. He paced the room like a caged animal, movements jittery, breath uneven. His eyes darted across the walls and windows, as if the journalists’ stares could pierce through them.

“So this is the truth now ? You can never escape what they want to see ? Like you’re stuck with some label for life ? Like it’s branded on your skin ?”

“No.” Donovan spoke in a calm, steady voice. “It’s not the truth. It’s just what they want to sell. What they think people want to read.”

But Lyle wasn’t listening anymore. In his mind, images collided: the courtroom, the flash of cameras, whispers in the streets — and now this.

And above all, a cold, gnawing fear that cut deeper than the anger: what Grace would one day see. What people would tell her about him. What that damn photo would leave behind.

He stopped, leaning against the counter, head bowed, eyes burning with rage and exhaustion. Donovan joined him in silence and placed a hand on his shoulder. A simple gesture — but grounded.

“You can’t protect her from the whole world,” he said softly. “But you can show her something else. That you’re still standing. That you’re here, even when they want to knock you down.”

Lyle closed his eyes. His voice was barely a whisper: “I hope I’m strong enough…”

~~

The phone rang incessantly, like a buzzing insect pressed against the eardrum. Sometimes, Lyle would yank the cord out of the wall. Other times, he just sat and stared at it, paralyzed, as the voicemail inbox filled up. Voices of journalists. The curious. The opportunists. Sometimes even thinly veiled threats.

And on screens, in newspapers… the story unfolded without him. The photo had made the rounds on talk shows. More than his presence in the park, it was the familiar figure beside him that had stirred the frenzy.

“Is Lyle really ready to turn the page?” one anchor asked with raised eyebrows. “And what about Donovan Goodreau, the former friend who testified against him ? Forgiveness — or strategy ?”

The headlines were everywhere:

“Lyle Menendez Seen With the Man Who Brought Him Down?”

“Unexpected Alliance or Media Move?”

“Goodreau and Menendez: Reconciliation or Manipulation ?”

Lyle read it all with hardened eyes, his heart twisting with pain. He wished he could explain. But there was nothing to say. Nothing they wanted to hear.

Donovan was not the traitor they thought. He was the only one who knew the truth. The only one who bore the same scars — deep, invisible. The only one who looked at him without fear.

And yet, outside, the stares were shifting. Some neighbors looked away. Others watched with cold detachment.

One evening, coming back from downtown with Grace in his arms and the empty stroller rolling at his side, he heard a voice behind a hedge:

“So, he made peace with the traitor... poor kid.”

Lyle froze. A shiver of rage ran down his spine. He held Grace a little tighter. She was asleep against his chest, breathing softly. She didn’t understand — not yet. But one day… maybe.

Donovan, walking a few steps behind, caught up and placed a hand on his back. Lyle didn’t move.

“You can’t force them to understand, Lyle."

Lyle closed his eyes, exhaled slowly. He wanted to scream. To tear it all down. But instead, he answered, his voice low and tired:

“I know. I just… want them to let me breathe."

~~

Night had long since fallen, but Lyle couldn’t sleep. Sitting in the living room, he stared at the wall across from him, fists clenched on his knees. Grace was already asleep in her room, safe from a world that seemed determined to take everything from her.

Donovan, settled in the armchair beside him, stayed silent, attentive. He knew these moments were rare — and precious.

Finally, Lyle broke the silence, his voice rough: "You know what it’s like? When everyone looks at you like you’re a fucking monster? When every outing with Grace turns into a goddamn scandal?”

He got up and started pacing the room.

“I’ve been fighting for years to prove I’m not who they think I am. And now they throw your face into the mix — you, my ‘old friend’ — just to drag me down even more.”

Donovan looked away, but his voice remained calm. “I get it. I fucked up. But I’m here now. Not to knock you down again — to stand with you.”

Lyle stopped, his breathing uneven. “It’s hard to believe that the one seen as the person who betrayed me... might be the one to save me.”

Donovan nodded. “I’m not here to erase the past. I’m here to build something new. With you.”

A silence settled. Lyle looked at Donovan, searching his eyes for a truth he could hold on to.

“I need that,” he said quietly.

He sat back down, more slowly this time, like the weight of exhaustion and emotion had finally caught up to him. Donovan didn’t move, his gaze still fixed gently on Lyle — patient, steady.

“You know,” Lyle murmured, his voice softer now, “sometimes I feel like we’re the only ones who really get each other. The people who look at us — all they see are two guys with fucked-up pasts. They don’t understand the pain."

Donovan nodded again.

“That’s true. But maybe that’s exactly why we can be there for each other. Not just as two guys… but as something more.”

Lyle squinted, surprised by the weight of those words. There was a sincerity in Donovan’s voice he hadn’t fully noticed before.

“You think we can really get out of all this?” Lyle asked, voice trembling.

Donovan smiled — a small, almost fragile smile. “I want to believe it. For you. For Grace. For us.”

A quiet understanding passed between them. Lyle felt the tension ease just a little, replaced by a new warmth — a silent promise.

He placed a hesitant hand over Donovan’s. That simple touch felt like opening a door they had both kept shut for far too long.

“Let’s try, then,” Lyle said.

Donovan gently squeezed his hand, a glimmer of hope shining in his eyes. Lyle stood up slowly, the weight of his emotions heavy on his shoulders, and made his way to Grace’s room. Donovan followed, silent. The baby was sleeping peacefully, her tiny hands barely gripping the blanket. Lyle knelt by the crib, a tired but genuine smile on his lips. He gently brushed his daughter’s cheek, his gaze overflowing with love and protection.

Donovan stepped closer, leaning lightly against the doorframe, watching the scene with a new tenderness.

“She’s incredible,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Lyle turned toward him, a soft laugh caught in his throat.

“Yeah. She’s the one who keeps me going.”

A quiet peace settled over the room, until Donovan took a few cautious steps forward.

“You know... I don’t just want to be here because of the past, or to shield you from the outside. I want to be here — really be here.”

Lyle met his gaze, searching Donovan’s eyes for something steady to hold on to.

“Me too,” he whispered.

They stayed there for a long moment, suspended between fear and hope, bound by this fragile moment of calm.

After one last glance at sleeping Grace, Lyle stood slowly and walked toward Donovan. The air felt lighter now, as if the house itself had begun to breathe again.

“You want a coffee?” Lyle asked, his voice calmer than before.

Donovan nodded, a shy smile tugging at his lips. He followed Lyle down to the kitchen, his heart beating a little faster than he’d care to admit.

Each holding a steaming mug, they sat on the sofa — close, without speaking at first — just the soft sound of hot liquid swirling.

Then, like a door creaking open, Donovan broke the silence. “I know it’s been a long time since we really talked... Not like this.”

Lyle nodded, eyes locked on his. “Yeah. We lost each other.”

A bitter laugh escaped his lips.

“But maybe we can try to find our way back. Not as ‘former friends,’ not as the ones who screwed up... but as two guys who want to move forward.”

Donovan smiled, more confidently now. “I want that, Lyle.”

Their eyes met — full of a fragile, but sincere promise.

Lyle gently rested his hand on Donovan’s. The touch was light, but charged with a new emotion.

“It won’t be easy, but… we’ll make it work.”

Donovan softly squeezed Lyle’s hand, a warm shiver running between them.

The silence stretched — heavy with unspoken words and buried feelings. Lyle could feel Donovan’s warmth beside him, the softness of his gaze asking for nothing but to be near him. A new closeness, unsettling in its quiet intensity.

And then, like a blade slipping beneath the skin, the realization struck.

This wasn’t just gratitude.

Not just the relief of finally being understood.

No.

It was stronger.

Deeper.

It was...

Something forbidden. Something he had never allowed himself to feel.

His breath caught in his throat. A brutal rush of adrenaline surged through his body, leaving him dizzy. He felt like the room was tilting, like the air had grown thinner.

Shit… Fucking shit. I feel something for him.

His heart pounding, Lyle mentally pulled back, as if struck by an electric shock. He tensed slightly, eyes fixed on nothing, as though he expected something to collapse. His thoughts spiraled, disordered.

This isn’t normal. This isn’t me. This isn’t who I am. It’s just the loneliness. Just the intensity of the moment. Nothing more. Nothing real. And besides… he’s a man. He’s Donovan. This isn’t supposed to happen.

A fleeting memory flashed through his mind — his father’s cold stare, a whispered slur the day Lyle had dared show too much softness. The voice of one of the lawyers, suggesting during the trial that he was “unstable,” too “sensitive.” All the signs he had learned to fear. To avoid.

What if he was wrong ?

What if he was just inventing feelings — because he was lonely, broken, too tired to think straight ?

He slowly withdrew his hand from Donovan’s, as if burned. His eyes didn’t meet his — fixed instead on a vague spot on the coffee table.

“I…” His voice was hoarse, choked. “I think I… I feel lost. I’m not sure what I’m feeling… about any of this.”

He gestured vaguely to the space between them, unable to articulate more.

Donovan, surprised, didn’t move. He watched Lyle calmly, attentively, without judgment.

“You know…” he said softly, “I’m not really sure what I’m feeling either.”

Lyle looked up, unsettled. “What do you mean ?”

Donovan took a long breath. “This closeness… it unsettles me. What it could mean. I’ve always believed I had to keep my distance to keep from falling apart. But now… with you… it’s not that simple.”

He looked away for a second, then met Lyle’s gaze again.

“I’m scared too. Scared of what this could change. Scared of losing everything.”

Lyle felt a weight lift slightly. He wasn’t alone in his confusion.

“So we’re both lost…” he murmured, a faint, trembling smile on his lips.

Donovan smiled too, this time with quiet sincerity.

“Yeah. Two messed-up guys just trying to figure out what the hell’s happening to them.”

A thick silence settled — not awkward, but dense with emotion.

Lyle had straightened up on the couch, his back hunched, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped as if to keep them from shaking. He stared at the floor, his jaw tight, thoughts pounding in his head like a violent storm.

Donovan still hadn’t moved. He was there. Simply there. Not pressing, not intruding — present.

At last, Lyle spoke, his voice rough, nearly inaudible: “It’s not that I don’t want you here… it’s not that.” He shook his head slowly. “It’s that I don’t even understand what I’m feeling.”

He sat up, ran a hand over his face as if to wipe off a layer of shame. Then turned his head slightly toward Donovan.

“I spent so many years trapped in this fucking fear. The fear of slipping up, saying the wrong thing, smiling at the wrong person. Anything could be used against me. So I learned to become a version of myself no one could hurt.”

His shoulders slumped. “And then you came back. And you ruined everything.”

Donovan furrowed his brows, worried. But Lyle raised a hand.

“Not in a bad way. You tore down my walls. My comfortable emptiness.”

A short, nervous laugh escaped him.

“Now I feel everything all at once. I look at you and I feel angry, because you weren’t there when I needed you. But I look again and… I feel something else. And that… scares the hell out of me.”

Donovan opened his mouth slightly, but Lyle went on: “I’m scared I’m getting it wrong. That I’m making something up just because I’m lonely. Lost. Starved for connection. And I’m scared that if I let you in…you’ll leave again. And this time… I don’t know if I’ll survive it.”

The silence that followed was thick, nearly tangible. Donovan slowly placed a hand on Lyle’s forearm.

“I don’t have the answers, Lyle,” Donovan said quietly. “I don’t even know exactly what I’m feeling either. But I know I want to stay. I don’t want to run. Not this time.”

Lyle closed his eyes, emotion tightening in his throat. He nodded, slowly. Then, gently, he slid his hand back over Donovan’s.

“I’m broken, you know.”

“We all are.”

They stayed like that, frozen, each lost in his own inner chaos, torn between hope and fear. Lyle felt his heart race, a confusing warmth flooding his chest, while his thoughts clashed — was it really desire, or just loneliness playing tricks on him? He struggled between what he wanted to admit and what he feared to face.

On his side, Donovan felt an unusual nervousness, a mix of apprehension and attraction. He surprised himself wanting to close the distance between them, but a part of him still held back, like an old protective reflex stopping him from crossing the line.

The silence between them was no longer a barrier, but a nearly tangible presence, filled with what had just been said and the unspoken truths they both knew they still had to face. It was like a shared breath, fragile but necessary.

Their gazes met, heavy with meaning, searching to read each other’s soul. That intense, deep eye contact unleashed a wave of vulnerability neither had expected.

Then, almost against their will, their eyes slowly drifted down to the other’s lips — this silent shift betrayed their desire, mixed with a palpable hesitation. Dilated pupils, slightly tensed muscles, they were both drawn to and scared by what might come next.

A shorter breath escaped, almost a whisper, their breathing subtly speeding up. It was a suspended moment, where every detail — the slight rise in heat, the rapid beating of the heart, the gentle trembling of their hands — felt overwhelmingly significant.

Their movements were almost imperceptible: a hand clenched the fabric of a garment, a finger brushed an object nearby unconsciously, while a subtle shiver ran down their skin, revealing that their bodies recognized what their minds still hesitated to accept.

Then, a small, muffled cry pierced the silence — fragile, urgent, impossible to ignore. Lyle blinked, suddenly yanked back from the suspended world he was lost in, the weight of reality crashing over him like a cold wave.

Grace.

The name echoed silently in Lyle's mind. His gaze snapped away, as if turning from a mirage, shaking his head slowly to clear the lingering fog that clouded his thoughts. Without a sound, he rose from the sofa, moving with deliberate softness, careful not to disturb the fragile quiet. Each step was measured, cautious, as if afraid that any sudden movement might shatter this delicate moment.

Donovan remained still for a moment longer, frozen in place as the tension broke. He exhaled deeply, releasing a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding for too long — a breath heavy with relief and something else, a complex mix of hope and fear.

Then, as if pulled by an invisible thread, he pushed himself up and followed Lyle quietly. There was no rush, no urgency, only the shared understanding that some things were bigger than the silent tension between them. That small cry had shattered the fragile bubble, reminding them both where their true priorities lay.

Together, they moved toward the bedroom where Grace lay sleeping, the faint glow of the nightlight casting gentle shadows across the room — a sanctuary amid the storm of emotions they both carried. Grace was stirring in her crib, surrounded by Lyle’s childhood stuffed animals. She wasn’t fully awake, not quite, but her tiny arms waved at the air — as if she had felt the fragility of the moment she had just interrupted.

Lyle approached, placing his hand gently on her belly. His touch soothed her almost instantly. He watched her for a few seconds in silence, his own breathing finally slowing.

Donovan lingered behind, watching — not Grace, but Lyle. The way his shoulders had relaxed. The nervous tenderness that radiated from him, no matter how much he tried to hide it.

He spoke softly, without breaking the peace. “You know… you might be scared of letting people in. But she already has all of you. Completely.”

And that bond — so strong, so absolute — stirred in Donovan a quiet admiration he had never quite been able to put into words.

Lyle didn’t answer right away. His eyes stayed on his daughter.

Then he murmured, more to himself than anyone: “With her, I didn’t have a choice. She came into my life… and I just knew I could never let her down. It wasn’t a decision. It was instinct.”

He turned slowly toward Donovan. “With you, it’s different. It’s not instinct. It’s… blurred. Uncontrollable. And I still don’t know if that’s a good thing.”

Donovan nodded, eyes steady and sincere.

“Maybe it’s not up to us to decide if it’s good or not. Maybe we’re just supposed to feel it. And see where it takes us.”

A long silence followed.

Then, as if led by something deeper than thought, Lyle moved closer. His shoulder brushed against Donovan’s — and slowly, he let his head rest against him.

It wasn’t surrender. It was permission.

Donovan didn’t move. He accepted the gesture with a rare softness, his gaze fixed on Grace — who now slept peacefully, unaware of the quiet rebuilding happening so close to her.

In that room, bathed in warm light, there was no past.

No verdict.

No fear.

Only a suspended moment. And two men — still standing, despite it all.

~~

The room was plunged in darkness, with only the curtains letting in a sliver of moonlight. Lying on his back, arms folded behind his head, Lyle stared at the ceiling without really seeing it.

Donovan. Still him. His warm breath on his face.

The look Donovan had given him—almost pleading, almost tender. Their faces had drawn closer, in slow motion. Too slow to be accidental. Not fast enough for him to know how to respond.

Then… Grace’s cries. A sharp, precise wail that shattered their suspended bubble. And everything froze.

That almost-kiss replayed in his mind like a song he couldn’t shake. He closed his eyes, but his heart pounded too loudly to let him sleep. He flipped onto his side, then the other, but nothing helped. The empty space beside him in the bed felt bigger, colder than ever.

He saw again Donovan’s gaze—hesitant, painful, yet tender. Too tender for a man who had broken his heart once before in court. And yet, Lyle couldn’t hate him. He didn’t know anymore.

He turned onto his side again, then back onto his back. The rumpled sheet clung to his skin, but he wasn’t sure if it was the heat or the anxiety. The void beside him in the bed felt heavier than ever. Ridiculous, wasn’t it ? It had only been a moment, a suspended second… and yet it had overwhelmed him from the inside.

He remembered telling Donovan to leave. The cold tone, the cutting voice, almost cruel. A defense reaction. A habit. Not letting anyone get too close. Not risking being broken again.

But Donovan hadn’t backed away. He had stayed. He had spoken. He had reached out. And to his own surprise, Lyle had taken his hand.

He closed his eyes, trying to stem the thoughts, to quiet the turmoil. But nothing worked. It felt as though something had cracked inside him—a barrier he thought was solid, shattered by the warmth of a look.

A sudden cry pierced the night. He sat up immediately, heart racing. Not panic—just a sob.

Grace.

On autopilot, he threw on the sweater lying on the chair next to the bed and left the room with soft steps. The hallway was dark, but he didn’t need light. He knew the path by heart.

When he entered Grace’s room, he was met by the soft blinking of the star-shaped night-light, casting dancing reflections on the ceiling. The little one was wriggling in her crib, arms flailing, face twisted with tears. Her cheeks were wet, her eyelids still heavy with sleep.

“I’m here, sweetie… shh, Daddy’s here,” he whispered in a gentle voice as he approached.

He held her in his arms with infinite tenderness, settling her gently against his chest. She clung to him instantly, her tiny hand grabbing a bit of fabric from his sweater as if her life depended on it. The contact soothed her almost immediately. Her breath, warm and uneven, now brushed softly against his collarbone.

He began to walk slowly around the room, each step careful, almost ceremonial. The familiar scent of milk, soap, and sleep floated around them. She was so small, so vulnerable… and yet she was the only thing in his life that felt unshakable. She was the thread keeping him afloat.

Then, without warning, a wave of emotion crashed over him. His throat tightened. He closed his eyes, fighting the tears welling behind his lids.

Like an old film playing against the walls of his mind, he saw his own childhood. The coldness of the family home. The walls too thick. The silence. The harsh stares. The unpredictable rage. The violent touches. The rough sex. The times he’d crawl into Erik’s bed just to escape the yelling. The fear that took root and never left. The smiles that never felt real. The love that was conditional. Calculated.

And now… Grace.

This little life he had created. She was loved. So deeply loved. A fragile light among his ruins.

He slowly sat down in the armchair beside the crib, still holding her close. She had returned to a peaceful rhythm. Her tiny hand now rested on his cheek. He looked down at her, and something in him cracked. A single tear slipped down in silence.

"You won't live what I lived," he whispered, his voice broken but steady. "I promise you. You’ll never be afraid to come home. You’ll never wonder whether you’ll be loved today… or ignored. You’ll be free. You’ll be happy. And you’ll be loved. Truly loved. And if one day I falter, if I lose myself… I’ll look at you, and I’ll remember. I promise."

He stayed there for a long time, rocking her in silence, his gaze lost in the fine strands of her hair.

The house had gone quiet again. And in that stillness, for the first time in a long time, Lyle felt something like peace.

Donovan would return to his thoughts in the morning. But for now, there was only her.

And that was enough.

~~

Donovan hadn’t closed his eyes. He lay on the guest room bed, in the dark, staring at the ceiling as if he could read the answers he couldn’t find within himself.

Lyle. That name kept swirling in his mind for hours, like a whisper that wouldn’t stop. He saw his face again, just inches from his own. His lost gaze, trembling fingers, that way of dropping his guard while still keeping a hand on the door, ready to flee if things went too far.

And then that moment. That almost-kiss. Their eyes drifting, hesitant, toward each other’s lips. Breath held. If only Grace hadn’t cried…

He closed his eyes, breathed slowly. No. It wasn’t just frustration. He was deeply unsettled. Because he’d been so sure, all his life, that he didn’t want to get attached. That he shouldn’t open up. And now, every minute spent in that house chipped away at the shell he’d built around himself.

Lyle was complicated — a mix of guilt, shame, and the past. But he was also tenderness and forgiveness. And that look he’d given tonight, that gesture — resting his head against him — was a confession stronger than any words.

But Donovan was afraid too. Afraid of being a burden. Afraid of ruining something that was barely beginning to heal. Afraid of wanting more when nothing was fixed yet.

He slowly sat up in bed, pushed the covers back, and planted his bare feet on the cold floor. The house was silent. Only the ticking of the hallway clock broke the stillness, muffled and soft.

What if I stay… and end up messing everything up again?

He stood and walked slowly to the slightly open door, his bare feet brushing the floor. Just checking. Just making sure none of it was a dream.

As he passed Grace’s room, he glanced inside. She was sleeping peacefully, her tiny hand resting on her cheek. Lyle was asleep too, in the armchair by the crib, as if he didn’t want to leave his daughter after that tough night.

Donovan stopped in the doorway, breath caught in his throat.

He watched him sleep. The face he had known when he was younger — once shattered by despair, anger, and injustice — now worn by time, loss, but also softened by a new kind of gentleness. A defensive tenderness, yes — but real.

Deep inside, Donovan felt something he refused to name. You care about him. Not just because you regret the past. Not just because you want to fix things. You care about him differently.

He placed a hand on the doorframe, holding himself back from stepping closer. What if he feels the same ?

But he didn’t move.

He stayed there for a few more seconds, then quietly stepped back. He returned to the guest room and closed the door behind him.

And this time, when he lay down again, he didn’t close his eyes.

Because he knew that night, something had changed — not just for Lyle, but inside him too.

Chapter Text

The morning light slipped gently through the curtains, bathing the living room in a pale, warm glow. Silence hung in the house, still drowsy from the night. Donovan, awake long before the rest of the world, had quietly slipped out of the bedroom, drawn by soft, discreet sounds coming from the nearby room. A gentle whimper, a little coo.

Barefoot on the cold wooden floor, he let himself be guided almost instinctively toward Grace’s room. When he carefully opened the door, she was already awake, lying in her crib amidst scattered stuffed animals. Her eyes wide open, a hand in her mouth, she stared at him with a disarming intensity—and the moment she saw him, she let out a small, sharp cry, brief but clear, as if he was late for a tacit appointment.

An involuntary smile tugged at Donovan’s lips.

“Hey there,” he whispered, approaching. “Did you sleep well, princess?”

He moved slowly, as if not wanting to break the bubble of calm that surrounded them. He extended his arms, still a little hesitant, but she reached out hers in return, trusting. This simple gesture caught him off guard.

He lifted her carefully, her fragile warmth against his chest triggering a strange, almost foreign sensation. It wasn’t just tenderness—it was deeper. An instinctive calm. A need to watch over her. He cradled her against him, gently closing the door behind him, passing by the armchair where Lyle had fallen asleep the night before. Empty. He imagined Lyle still asleep, worn out by the fatigue of the previous night. Donovan knew what it had cost him. What it had cost both of them.

In the kitchen, Donovan settled on the bench by the window, Grace in his arms. She cooed softly, gripping the collar of his sweatshirt with both hands, then resting her cheek against his chest as if she’d found the exact spot where she belonged.

He smiled, holding her close as if she had become his anchor. “You’re gonna make me go soft…,” he breathed almost to himself. “And I’m not even your father.”

His fingers gently brushed through her downy hair. It wasn’t just affection. It was silent acknowledgment. She asked for nothing. She judged nothing. She was there, whole, and loved unconditionally. A part of him was still surprised by what he felt for her. It wasn’t simply tenderness; it was a kind of need to watch over her, to protect her. To love her without conditions—something he didn’t yet think he was capable of.

He rested his chin softly on the top of her head, closing his eyes for a moment.

This calm had something almost unreal about it. After the chaotic night of emotions he’d endured with Lyle, finding himself here, in the early morning, with this little girl in his arms, was like emerging into another world. Slower. More fragile. More real.

Donovan looked at her, her face barely creased by sleep, her eyelids still heavy. She looked like Lyle—especially the eyes. His heart tightened. It was absurd, but he found it hard to believe he’d been allowed to get so close to something so intimate.

What the hell am I doing here, really?

He didn’t have time to sink deeper into his doubts. A clear voice, a little too loud for a house where everything seemed to be spoken in half-words, cut through the quiet silence of the hallway, bouncing off the walls.

“It’s me ! Lyle, are you awake ?”

Donovan froze. One second. Two. He hadn’t heard that voice in… years. But it carried with it an immediate weight, a familiar tension, an echo of memories too vivid. Memories tied to a time he had tried to bury.

He slowly straightened up, Grace still nestled against him. Barely had he taken a step toward the hallway when Erik’s silhouette appeared in the kitchen doorway.

Silence fell instantly, as if someone had muted the world.

Erik stopped dead, hands in his pockets, his breathing a little quickened, as if he’d climbed the stairs too fast—or maybe it was the emotion. His eyes first landed on Donovan, frozen for a moment, then dropped down to the child in his arms. There, his gaze lingered, hesitated, and something fragile flickered briefly across his features: surprise, a slight furrow between his brows, an old protective reflex.

His tone, when he finally spoke, was harsher than usual—but controlled, held back like a word he might regret. “I… didn’t expect to find you here.”

Donovan forced a smile. The kind of polite, almost nervous smile you wear when you don’t yet know if you’re welcome. “Hi, Erik.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Not hostile, but charged. As if every memory floated between them, suspended above this too-quiet kitchen. Then Erik stepped forward a few paces. He kept some distance, his step slow, calculated, as if not to wake something fragile.

Grace felt none of this. At the sight of her uncle, she stirred slightly in Donovan’s arms, turned her head with a small, sharp, joyful cry. Her chubby legs kicked the air softly.

“Well, that’s quite a welcome,” Erik murmured, a half-smile of surprise breaking his otherwise closed-off face.

He stepped closer, and immediately Grace reached out an awkward arm toward him in a gesture that held no uncertainty. She knew him. She loved him. And in her eyes, there was neither suspicion nor reserve—just the simple expectation of a familiar touch.

Erik extended his hand, cautiously at first, then more naturally. He brushed the little girl’s cheek with his fingertips, and she responded with happy babbling, grabbing his fingers in a clumsy but determined gesture. She tugged gently, as if to say, “Come on?”

A flash of emotion passed fleetingly through Erik’s eyes. “She’s always done that with me,” he said softly. “Ever since she learned to reach out, she does it whenever I walk into a room.”

Donovan looked at him, momentarily disarmed. Far from any rivalry, there was something obvious between uncle and niece. He sat back slightly on the bench, letting Erik sit opposite him. Grace, between them, seemed perfectly in place.

“She doing well ?” Erik finally asked, seeking some footing in this strange moment.

“She woke up early, but she’s calm. I… I thought I could stay with her.”

He didn’t need to justify himself—but he did anyway, because it wasn’t really Erik he was reassuring. It was himself.

Erik nodded slowly. His gaze lingered once more on Grace’s small hand, still resting on Donovan. But something in his shoulders relaxed. His niece’s sincere and spontaneous attachment had just chipped away at his doubts—a little.“She likes you too, it seems.”

Donovan managed a tired smile. “She’s helping me understand things I never learned. Like… how to love without having to earn anything.”

There was silence. Less hostile, but still heavy. Erik leaned back against the chair’s backrest, arms crossed.

He studied Donovan for a long time. His gaze shifted from Donovan’s face to Grace’s, then back to the man he hadn’t seen in years. He finally dropped his eyes, sighed—a very particular kind of sigh—the one you release when you accept something you don’t yet fully understand.

“I guess I’m still getting used to this image.”

Donovan gave a smile, this time less forced. “Me too.”

Erik pressed his lips together as if holding back something else, then resumed: “It’s funny. I was the one who told Lyle that if he needed to turn the page… to talk to certain people from the past, then he should do it. That it was up to him to choose.” He paused, raised an eyebrow, half amused, half thoughtful. “I didn’t think he’d take me literally.”

Donovan briefly glanced down at Grace, whose tiny fingers had curled around his shirt collar. She was calm, almost as if she sensed the tension hanging around them and had decided, for once, not to add her cries to it. “He hesitated, you know. He didn’t want to. He even kicked me out at first.”

Erik nodded slowly. He didn’t seem surprised, and Donovan realized it was obvious Lyle had told him about their frosty first reunion.

Erik said nothing, but his jaw clenched in subtle waves. He seemed to weigh his words carefully, determined not to explode despite the memories, despite all Donovan represented in their story.

“And yet, here you are.”

"I’m here because he’s letting me stay." Donovan held Erik’s gaze, not flinching. "But if you want me to go, I will."

A tense silence settled again. Erik stared at him for a long moment, arms crossed over his chest. Then, slowly, his expression softened—just a little. A tired but honest half-smile cracked through the tension in his face.

"I just want to be sure you’re not here to hurt him. Or to fill a temporary void. It took him too long to get back on his feet. Are you planning to stay? Not in the house—" his voice lowered slightly, "—in his life?"

Donovan held Grace a little tighter, as if she were his anchor in that exact moment.

"I don’t know yet what I am to him. But I know I’m here because I need to be, too. I’m done running."

Erik exhaled sharply through his nose—a short breath, half a laugh, but without humor. Then he reached out and gently brushed his fingers over Grace’s head. It was the gesture of an uncle—or maybe of a brother who sees in someone else’s eyes a pain he knows too well.

He lifted his chin slightly, and for a second, something strange flickered in his gaze—the kind of light you see in someone who recognizes a familiar wound in another’s words. He didn’t respond right away. He didn’t need to.

Then, with a sudden calm :"Lyle’s in his room ?

Donovan nodded. "Still asleep, I think. Long night."

His words were simple, but what they carried wasn’t. Erik didn’t ask for more—he already knew. He knew what long nights left behind: silences, tremors, old wounds reopened. His gaze drifted off for a moment, like he was trying to imagine what had happened while he’d been gone. Maybe a part of him regretted not being there.

He didn’t move. He didn’t even take a step toward the hallway.

Instead, he looked back at Donovan. And this time, his eyes had changed. Less sharp. Less defensive. There was something almost human now, almost brotherly—a quiet recognition. Not yet forgiveness, but maybe the beginning of it.

"So, I’m going to wait for him to wake up. And you…" He slowly rose from the edge of the bench, his ice-blue eyes locked onto Donovan’s with a deeper intensity now. Less like a suspicious brother, more like a man who knows too well what it means to carry scars for too long. "…Stay. For now."

He didn’t look away this time. He stayed there, in the kitchen, standing, hands in his pockets, as if waiting for something.

The silence that followed was no longer tense. It was suspended. Full of possibilities.

Donovan pulled Grace a little closer, as if the warmth of her small body helped keep him grounded. He didn’t answer right away. There was nothing left to say. He glanced briefly at Erik. And for the first time since their reunion, he didn’t feel like an intruder. He remained seated, arms around Grace, while Erik leaned slowly against the doorframe.

The two men didn’t speak again, but something had shifted.

A breach had opened.

Not a triumph.

Not a reconciliation.

But a first truce.

~~

Lyle came down the stairs slowly, his bare feet touching the cold wood. But first, like every morning, he had stopped by Grace’s room. The door stood slightly ajar, letting in a faint light. His heart skipped for no real reason—or maybe out of habit—when he saw the crib empty. He froze, a wave of panic tightening in his chest. But almost immediately, a calmer thought settled in: Donovan.

He took a shaky breath, resting his hand on the edge of the empty crib. Yes, it made sense. Donovan had probably heard Grace wake up and taken her with him. It had happened before. And she liked him. A lot, even.

Still, it took Lyle a few seconds to slow his racing heart before he resumed his path, still fogged by a restless night. He’d slept in fits and starts, haunted by too many thoughts. Donovan’s gaze. His breath, so close. Their fingers brushing too long. The heaviness of their shared silences.

Downstairs, a murmur of voices had just faded. A sliver of light spilled from the kitchen. He expected to find Donovan with Grace. But it was Erik he saw first, leaning against the counter, arms crossed, calm expression… though there was nothing casual about the look in his eyes.

Lyle paused for half a second, surprised. He masked it behind a sigh and rubbed the back of his neck. “I didn’t know you were coming by.”

Erik shrugged a shoulder. “Had a break at the university. Thought I’d drop by this morning, see how you were doing. Didn’t expect to-” He trailed off, but his eyes said the rest.

Lyle walked to the sink, poured himself a glass of water, and stayed turned away. The tension between them was subtle, but present. Erik never yelled anymore—not for a long time. He watched. He read between lines. And Lyle knew it.

“He got up early. Grace was awake,” Lyle said, taking a sip, trying to keep his tone even.

“He was there with her. Natural, somehow… surprisingly so.”

Lyle turned around slowly. Erik’s tone was polite. Too polite.

“He helps, sometimes. He doesn’t try to impose.”

Erik stepped closer. He was still calm, but his words were deliberate.

“You know, I told you once—if you ever felt the need to talk to him again, to forgive him… that it was your choice. Your story.”

Lyle nodded slowly. “I remember.”

“I just didn’t think it would bring you here.”

A pause.

“He’s been sleeping here?”

Lyle took a deep breath. He leaned back against the counter, his gaze drifting slightly. “Not all the time. But… yeah. Sometimes. In the guest room.”

Another silence followed.

Lyle let his eyes drift toward the large window. And there, outside in the dew-covered garden, he spotted them.

Donovan was sitting on the bench near the shrubs by the pool. Grace was on his lap, still in her pajamas, pacifier in hand, giggling softly as he made one of her stuffed animals dance in front of her. He was smiling. Not the kind of smile people wear to look reassuring, but a real one. Tired, tender, and almost surprised to exist at all.

Lyle lingered on the scene—simple, peaceful, almost unreal. And something inside him tightened. A mix of hope and fear. Longing and caution. He murmured, mostly to himself: “She’s happy with him.”

Erik stepped closer without a sound, his eyes following Lyle’s gaze through the glass.

“She looks for him, you know?” Lyle went on. “Even when he’s not around. That has to mean something.”

Erik stayed silent for a few seconds. His gaze quietly studied his brother. There was no anger—just a kind of calm alertness, the caution of a man who’s seen too much to trust appearances alone.

“And you? Where are you with all of this?”

Lyle looked at him for a moment, then dropped his eyes to his glass. His jaw tensed. “I don’t know.”

Erik came a little closer. There was no hostility in his voice, only genuine concern. “Lyle. You’ve always been the rational one. Always protected yourself. Even in the worst of times, you held the line. But now... I feel you shifting.”

Lyle swallowed hard. He set down his glass and crossed his arms, like he was trying to hold something in.

“It’s not that I don’t understand what I’m feeling. It’s that I’m scared to believe in it.”

He looked up at Erik again, his features tight with raw honesty. “I’m scared to open something that’s gonna consume me. Grace is getting attached to him, I can see it. And I keep thinking… What if she gets hurt ? Because of me ? Because of the choices I make ? I’m scared he’ll stay—and I won’t know how to handle it. I’m scared he’ll leave—and it’ll wreck me.”

Erik nodded slowly. “He’s already hurt you once. And you survived. But this time, it wouldn’t just be betrayal. It would be abandonment.”

Lyle closed his eyes for a second, the word abandonment hitting too close to the bone.

“I’m already halfway in. I know that. But I don’t know if it’s real… or just loneliness. Or need.”

“Have you talked to him about it?”

Lyle shook his head. “I think he feels it. But when I’m in front of him, I just… I can’t put it into words.”

Erik was quiet for a moment, then spoke gently: “You know… I never wanted to be the one telling you what to do. But if there’s even a chance that what you’re building together could be real, then yeah—you have every right to be scared. But you don’t have the right to stay silent.”

Lyle took a slow breath, eyes distant. “And what if I’m wrong?”

Erik gave a faint smile. “Then you’ll get back up. Like always. But at least you’ll know.”

Lyle took a long breath. His eyes drifted back to the garden. Donovan was laughing softly. Grace babbled in response. And everything seemed suspended in a moment he’d never imagined himself living.

“I hate feeling this,” he whispered.

“You shouldn’t,” Erik said quietly. “What you’re feeling isn’t a flaw. It’s a sign you’re still alive.”

Lyle ran a hand down his tired face, emotions tearing at him from every side. “I just want to be sure.”

Erik placed a hand on his shoulder—firm, but kind. “You will be. In time.”

And in the silence that followed, between brothers, there was an unspoken understanding : That fear didn’t cancel out the possibility of loving again— But it had the right to exist, too.

~~

The sun bathed Lyle’s backyard in a soft, golden light. The branches of the old oaks swayed gently in the breeze, their shadows dancing across the perfectly trimmed lawn. Birds chirped on the fence, as if unaware that behind these hedges, the world could be cruel.

On a blanket spread across the grass, Grace, nestled in Lyle’s arms, babbled happily as she played with a tiny flower she had just plucked. Her tiny fingers clung to the petals like they were treasure. Lyle smiled, completely absorbed in his daughter, his gaze lingering now and then on the brown curls stuck to her forehead, damp with heat.

Erik watched the scene from a short distance away, leaning against the trunk of a tree. He didn’t need to speak for his affection to be visible. His eyes—a mix of pride and caution—remained fixed on his brother. Beside him, Donovan stood a little stiffly, hands clasped behind his back, the weight of the past heavy on his shoulders—but his gaze held light. The warmth of the sun didn’t calm him nearly as much as the warmth of Grace.

“You know,” Erik murmured, still watching the child, “she really does have a way of softening everything.”

Donovan nodded, a genuine smile touching his lips. “She does... You forget everything when she laughs like that.”

A comfortable silence settled between them, broken only by Grace’s cooing, the rustle of leaves, and the faint laughter of children in another yard. Donovan glanced now and then toward Lyle—then back at Erik, uncertain. He was still in that fragile in-between space, not sure if he was merely tolerated or truly accepted.

After a moment, Lyle slowly stood, gently laying Grace down next to her little toy basket. “I’m going to get some water. Keep an eye on her,” he said simply.

He headed toward the house, his silhouette disappearing through the glass doors, leaving Erik and Donovan alone beneath the shifting shade of the oak.

Donovan inhaled, glanced sideways at Erik, then decided to break the silence.

“So... tell me. How’s life treating you ? I guess university must be nonstop.”

Erik shot him a cautious look, like he was still measuring the intention behind the question. But then his shoulders relaxed—just slightly.

“Yeah, I’m at UCLA. Studying art. I’ve always liked it, but... you know, with everything we’ve been through, I needed some kind of outlet.”

Donovan lifted his head, genuinely curious. “Art, huh ? That suits you. You paint ? Draw ?”

“A bit of both. I try to capture moments, feelings... it’s how I let things out.” He paused, eyes drifting to the flickering light through the leaves. “And you ? What do you do—outside of all this ?”

Donovan sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Still working for the same company back in New Jersey, but I manage to escape now and then. And... I’m still fighting off some old demons. But I’m working. Trying to rebuild something. For myself. For the people I care about.”

The word care hung between them, quiet but weighted. Erik didn’t interrupt.

“It’s not easy. After everything.”

Erik’s voice carried no judgment, only the calm restraint that seemed natural to him.

Donovan dropped his eyes, then lifted them again with quiet honesty. “Lyle... he’s different now. Harder to reach. But I feel like he’s starting to open up. And that scares me too, you know? Because I’m afraid I’ll mess it up.”

Erik studied him for a moment, then placed a hand on his shoulder—a simple gesture, but heavy with meaning.

“You’re not the only one who’s scared. But that’s life, right ? We move forward anyway, even when we have no idea where it’s going.”

Donovan smiled, the tension easing just a bit. “Thanks. It helps to say it out loud.”

A light laugh rang out behind them. Lyle was returning with a tray—two glasses of water and a small juice for Grace, who was waving her arms excitedly at the sight of him.

Erik turned slightly toward Donovan, his voice dropping just enough to remain between them. “You know, Lyle took a real hit when Grace’s mom left.”

Donovan’s heart jumped at the mention of Christy.

“She disappeared overnight,” Erik went on. “Didn’t want to be a mom. He was suddenly left alone with a newborn.”

Donovan felt his throat tighten.

“It wrecked him,” Erik continued. “He shut down. All he did was feed her, change her, soothe her. He stopped sleeping. He was there physically—but checked out. And he refused help. Even from me. When Grace was born, he let me in, but there was always this tension in him. His need to protect her was almost obsessive.”

Silence fell for a moment. Donovan watched Lyle kneel in front of Grace to wipe her hands clean, every gesture delicate, like she were made of glass.

“He had to become a father overnight. No preparation. No support. And on top of that, he had to protect her from the world.”

Donovan nodded slowly, beginning to understand the armor he’d seen on Lyle—the fierce restraint.

“The media.”

Erik exhaled, a joyless laugh caught in his throat.

“They’re everywhere. The moment he steps outside, someone’s there to photograph him, stick a mic in his face, make him stumble. They never accepted the acquittal. And he feels it every single day. They try to hassle me too, but my life's apparently less interesting. They’d rather go after my brother,” Erik added, bitterness lacing his voice.

Donovan lowered his eyes. “It’s so oppressive…”

Erik nodded. “But it's also what makes him strong. He does all this for her. And despite everything, he’s trying to give her as normal a life as possible.”

He didn’t say it lightly. His gaze returned to Lyle, as if digging into that quiet strength, that silent courage. Lyle was crouched beside Grace, his hand gently brushing her fine hair as she babbled against his shoulder. The sun cast golden highlights across their profiles, framing them like a scene suspended in time.

Donovan followed his gaze, and in his silence, a newfound respect took root. He saw the barely noticeable tremble in Lyle’s fingers when he picked up the small toy that had fallen to the ground. He noticed how carefully he straightened Grace’s little sun hat to shield her. Tender gestures, soaked in weariness, yet wholly genuine. And he understood.

Silence settled over them—respectful and admiring—as Grace cooed once more in Lyle’s arms, oblivious to everything else, a fragile symbol of fragile but enduring hope.

Suddenly, a bush rustled and caught their attention. A sharply-dressed man—with a camera slung over his shoulder and a notepad in hand—burst into the yard. He moved swiftly, almost aggressively, his piercing gaze scanning everything like a predator locking onto prey.

“Mr. Menendez !” he called out in a loud, cutting voice. “Any words for your fans?”

Grace’s bright smile vanished in an instant, her little eyes widening with a mix of confusion and fear. Lyle sprang to his feet, his face tightening, his features hardening with instant alertness.

Before the journalist could fire the flash, Lyle stepped forward, propelled by contained fury. His gaze turned icy and steel-sharp, piercing through the intrusion. His jaw clenched violently, knuckles whitening as he raised a deep, menacing voice that sliced through the tense air:

“Listen to me carefully. You take one more step into this garden, and I swear you’ll regret it.”

Momentarily rattled by his outburst, the journalist stepped back—only to let his arrogant, provocative smile return seconds later.

"I'm just here to ask questions, nothing more. Do you really think the public will just let this go ? Lyle and Donovan, after everything that happened… People want answers. Why are you hiding ?"

A wave of anxiety surged in Lyle, mixing with a slow-burning anger that pounded against his temples. His whole body tensed, ready to explode.

“Are you fucking kidding me ?!” he spat, his voice hoarse, burning with a fire he had been holding in far too long.

The sun was starting to set, casting a soft golden light that clashed with the storm brewing in the air. The journalist, unbothered, stepped forward again, ignoring the warning stares.

“You can run all you want, but the public deserves to know the truth. Why reconnect with Donovan ? What are you hiding, Lyle ?”

Lyle’s jaw clenched so tightly his teeth nearly cracked. His eyes lit with a cold, blistering fury. “You don’t understand anything,” he murmured, his voice choked with emotion, his breath short.

Donovan took a step toward him, arm half-raised in a calming gesture, but Lyle raised his own hand—unyielding.

Sensing a crack, the journalist raised his camera again, ready to catch another shot. And then, without warning, Lyle lunged. His hands clamped down violently on the camera, fingers crushing the cold metal, ripping the lens from its mount with a sharp snap.

“I SAID THAT'S ENOUGH !!” he shouted, his voice vibrating with barely contained rage, a threat barely held back.

He threw the camera down with a sharp motion. The glass shattered in a burst of light across the grass, scattering like fallen stars into the soil.

A heavy silence dropped over them. The journalist, stunned, stumbled back, breath short, eyes wide.

“You’ve lost it ! You can’t do that ! I’m doing my job ! People need to know what’s really going on !”

But instead of backing off, his gaze flicked to Grace—something cruel and twisted behind his eyes. “And what about the little one ? How does she fit into all of this ?”

It was like setting off an alarm. Lyle’s body locked up, eyes widening as fury surged through him like wildfire. “TOUCH HER and you’ll regret it for the rest of your life !!” His voice was raw, threatening—almost feral.

Erik immediately stepped between them, placing a firm but steady hand on Lyle’s chest. “Lyle, stop. Don’t let this spiral.”

Donovan stepped in, too, grasping Lyle’s arm with a mix of strength and gentleness. But Lyle was shaking, fighting the chaos inside him, muscles taut, breath ragged, fists clenched as Grace burst into tears—overwhelmed by the rising storm in the air. Lyle began to stroke her head in a vain attempt to soothe her, without taking his eyes off the journalist, a murderous gleam in his gaze.

“Don’t push me to do something I’ll regret,” Lyle whispered, voice trembling, caught between fear and fury. “You know what I’m capable of.”

The journalist, now clearly alarmed, took another step back, finally realizing he’d gone too far.

The garden—once a peaceful haven—had turned into an emotional battlefield, old wounds rising fast and sharp like exposed nerves.

Erik pulled Lyle into a rough but grounding embrace, placing his hand over his brother’s heart. “That’s enough. This guy needs to leave. Now.” He stepped forward, toward the journalist, calm but unwavering. “Look, you’re way out of line. You’ve crossed every boundary. This garden, this family—it’s private. You don’t belong here.”

The journalist, confronted with Erik’s steel gaze and quiet fury, slowly raised his hands in surrender and backed away.

“Alright, alright… I’m leaving. But this isn’t over.”

He turned and retreated around the side of the house, leaving behind a silence so dense it felt like it might collapse under its own weight.

Lyle, shoulders sagging, head bowed, practically collapsed into Erik’s arms.

“I never asked for any of this…”He gently touched Grace’s head, his fingers trembling, his eyes misted with emotion. “I didn’t choose to be hunted. To be judged. To live like a fugitive in my own life. I’m just trying to protect what I have left.”

Donovan stepped closer, his voice soft as he laid a steady hand on Lyle’s shoulder. “We’re here. We’re not going anywhere.”

Lyle looked up, searching their eyes for a promise—and that glimmer of sincerity in their eyes gave him a painful tug at his heart.

The sliding glass door leading to the backyard closed softly behind them, a discreet click marking the end of the outside turmoil. Instantly, the air grew heavier, gentler, almost tangible in its protection — as if the walls of the house formed a fragile bubble, a sanctuary against an aggressive and merciless world.

Inside, the muted light filtered through the sheer curtains, casting delicate shadows on the worn wooden floor. The atmosphere breathed calm after the storm, a precious, almost sacred pause.

Grace, still a little unsettled, was gently placed on the soft couch. Her tiny fingers fluttered, captivated by a piece of fabric hanging from the cushion, while her wide eyes silently scanned the room. Erik, beside her, watched with a mix of tenderness and wonder. He delicately took her hand, softly playing with her tiny fingers, a tender smile lighting up his face.

Donovan, meanwhile, settled on the second couch next to the one where Erik and Grace were sitting. His hands rested calmly on his knees, his relaxed posture betraying a willingness to simply be there, without forcing anything. Lyle sank heavily into his favorite armchair, the one he often sought for a little respite. His shoulders seemed weighed down by fatigue, but his eyes, despite their weariness, remained alert, attentive — like a man ready to face whatever might come.

Lyle, his eyes momentarily lost in the void as if searching for words deep within his thoughts, finally broke the silence with a whisper. “I always feel like I’m being watched, judged... every single day. Even here, at home. I avoid crowds, I avoid journalists, but it always catches up with me."

Donovan, silent until then, looked sincerely at Lyle. His voice, calm but firm, rose. “You’ve put on armor, man. To protect yourself, to protect Grace too. But it’s costing you.”

Lyle took a deep breath, his hands tightening gently on the armrests of the chair, searching for an anchor in the moment. “Christy left shortly after Grace was born. It changed everything. I had to learn to be alone. To be everything for my daughter. But I also had to look out for you, Erik. I was always worried about you, even after the verdict. It’s a huge burden.”

Erik smiled sadly, a smile heavy with painful memories. “After everything we went through, I saw how much you isolated yourself. You took all the responsibility on your shoulders. You were both a father and a brother at the same time, even when you just wanted to let go.”

Donovan moved closer and placed a comforting hand on Lyle’s shoulder, a simple gesture filled with support. “You were never really alone. Even though it was tough, you have people around you who care about you.”

Erik nodded, his eyes shining with that simple but essential truth. “We’re here, big bro. We all have our wounds, but we can move forward together.”

A soft silence settled, almost soothing, only broken by the gentle babbling of Grace who, carefree, brought a fragile light to the room filled with memories and scars.

Lyle gave a tired smile, the tension in his features softening. “Thank you. Really, thank you.”

~~

The door had closed with a soft, almost imperceptible click—enough to mark a separation. Erik had left, taking with him the restless air of the outside world, leaving behind an almost sacred silence. The bedroom, bathed in soft, muted light, seemed to envelop every detail in a protective veil. The nightlight cast a warm, orange glow, projecting dancing shadows on the walls, caressing the familiar contours of the furniture.

At the center of this calm bubble, Grace’s cradle rested near the bed. The baby slept deeply, her breath light and steady, matching the quiet rhythm of the night. Her tiny fingers weakly clutched a cotton blanket, its soft texture evoking security and tenderness. Occasionally, her lips parted slightly, as if to whisper a secret dream.

Donovan had quietly sat on the edge of the bed, his eyes never leaving Grace’s peaceful silhouette. He felt the fragility of the moment, this precious truce amid the chaos that surrounded them. A few steps away, Lyle leaned against the wall, carrying the invisible weight of his turmoil. His gaze lost in the void, his tired face betrayed a vulnerability he tried to hide.

A heavy silence, full of unspoken words, settled between them. Only the regular breathing of the little girl, like a reassuring metronome, punctuated the pause. The tension hung softly but palpably in the air.

“You know,” Donovan began gently, “this mess with that damn journalist reminded me of what we went through... and how it changed us.”

Lyle nodded without raising his eyes. “It’s complicated. We both have that wound, that fear that sticks to our skin.”

Donovan finally met his gaze, searching for an answer in his eyes. “But despite everything, I feel like we can find something real. Not right away, not like before, but... something different.”

Lyle breathed in slowly, his shoulders relaxing a little. “I told you... I’m scared, Donovan. Scared it’ll break again. Scared to open that door and get shattered once more.”

Donovan rose from the bed and moved closer. At first hesitant, he gently took Lyle’s large hand in his own.

“We don’t have to rush. We can move at our own pace. I’m here. Not to hurt you, but to support you.”

Lyle’s breath quickened slightly, a new emotion hanging in the air. “I don’t really know what that means... what I feel. But it’s been a long time since I’ve felt alive except when you’re here.”

A faint smile appeared on Donovan’s lips, lighting up the dim room.

They stayed like that, in the soft darkness, Donovan’s hand in his, Grace’s steady breathing like a calming lullaby a few steps away.

But suddenly, an invisible wave overwhelmed Lyle. A tension built over years, buried fears, unspoken regrets—all surged up at once, breaking through his defenses.

His body stiffened, his heart pounding wildly, and his eyes closed briefly, as if to hold back the torrent threatening to spill over.

Images flooded his mind : the massacre from that August night in 1989, endless years in court, the accusing gaze of the world, his little brother’s tears,, the fear of a life ruined by prison or worse, painful childhood memories, the dull, cold pain of Christy who had disappeared, leaving an immense void behind.

Then, amid the chaos, Donovan’s unexpected presence, his return, his apologies, and that strange warmth in his chest he hadn’t felt in a long time—that new impulse that unsettled him.

His voice broke, rough, almost choked : “I... I thought I was strong. That I’d mourned all that. But... it’s like the pain is still there, just beneath the surface. Like a stormy sea threatening to swallow everything.” He took a deep breath, trying to calm the inner turmoil, but the tears rose, burning and humiliating. “And you... you come back. And it shakes everything up. I don’t really know what I feel. Anger, fear... but also something... more.”

A heavy silence settled, thick with a mix of fragility and hope. Donovan gently squeezed his hand, his eyes reflecting sincere compassion.

“It’s okay to feel lost. It’s okay to be afraid. But it’s not weakness. It’s what makes us real men.”

Lyle opened his eyes, and for the first time in a long while, he saw in Donovan’s gaze not judgment, but an invitation to move forward, to heal. A tear slowly rolled down his cheek, which he wiped away awkwardly. “I’m scared of losing again... of trusting and getting burned. But... with you, I want to try.”

Donovan smiled, soft and reassuring, and slowly leaned his face closer without rushing, respecting the fragile balance between them.

The silence stretched between them, filled with everything they had not yet dared to say.

Donovan felt his heart race as he looked at Lyle, every detail of his face illuminated by the faint glow of the nightlight. Without thinking much, he slowly raised his hand, placing it with infinite tenderness on Lyle’s tear-streaked cheek.

This light touch made Lyle shiver, and he looked away, breath a little short.

But instead of pulling back, Lyle timidly sought Donovan’s gaze, hesitation in his movements. Their eyes met, full of still-undefined emotions, doubts mingled with a budding desire. Donovan leaned a little closer, his thumb tracing a slow line on Lyle’s skin. Lyle closed his eyes briefly, letting the moment wash over him like a silent first promise.

Then, with a sigh, Lyle placed his hand over Donovan’s, squeezing it gently, a sign that he wasn’t ready to retreat. Their foreheads brushed, as if to come closer without haste, exploring the delicacy of a new, fragile, precious bond.

They stayed like that, suspended in time, listening to their slow heartbeats calm little by little.

Then, almost reluctantly, Donovan whispered : “I’m here. Not just tonight.”

Lyle answered, voice trembling but sincere : “Me too.”

A shy smile bloomed on their lips, a small step toward what could be a different future, far from the shadows of the past.

Their eyes didn’t leave each other, suspended in a fragile balance. Each read in the other a complex mix of apprehension, desire, and fear—but also a silent recognition, as if they were finding each other again after years of wandering.

Donovan felt his heart pounding violently against his chest, as if wanting to escape. His hands were clammy, fingertips tingling slightly, nervous—but he didn’t want to pull back. Not this time.

He took a slow, almost hesitant step toward Lyle, who didn’t move. Eyes wide open, Lyle sought a sign, a silent permission. His breath slowed, suspended in anticipation. Donovan’s warm breath brushed his face, awakening an unexpected shiver that ran down his spine.

With an almost unreal delicacy, Donovan raised his hand, as if the mere act of touching him could break something. His fingers trembled slightly as they brushed Lyle’s cheek, following the curve of his cheekbone like tracing a scar one is not allowed to forget.

Lyle closed his eyes briefly, absorbing the warmth of that contact. A dense moment of silence, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. The weight of years, regrets, loneliness faded, leaving only the texture of that skin beneath emotional fingers. Their faces drew closer still, the distance shrinking to the slow rhythm of their heartbeats. Until their lips finally met in a touch as timid as it was hesitant.

The kiss was soft, uncertain, like a secret whispered for the first time.

Lyle parted his lips slightly, inviting Donovan to deepen the gesture. The kiss grew slower, gentler—laden with everything they’d never dared to say, never known how to say. Donovan’s hands slid slowly around Lyle’s neck, pulling him close. Lyle, in turn, placed his hands on Donovan’s chest, feeling the uneven beat of his heart—as a drum beating in unison with his own.

Each second was both burning and suspended.

When they pulled apart, their foreheads remained pressed together a moment, sharing a common breath, mixed with silent confessions. Their faces, barely separated, bathed in a silence charged with electricity.

Donovan kept a hand on Lyle’s cheek, his gaze anchored in his. In that suspended silence, neither knew whether to retreat or continue surrendering.

Lyle finally breathed out, in a barely audible whisper:

“What’s happening to us...?”

Donovan let out a short, nervous, almost sad laugh, a choked breath of lucidity:

“I don’t know... but it feels real.”

They could have pulled away. Taken a cautious distance. Thought it through.

But instead, their faces found each other again, as if drawn by a force they no longer controlled. This time, the kiss was less hesitant. More direct. More urgent. Like an emotional dam breaking after too many years of tension.

Their bodies drew close, brushed, embraced with a soft urgency. Lyle pulled Donovan against him, lips burning with desire, relief, and a buried need he’d never known how to name until now.

They retreated to the bed, their hands seeking each other’s skin with clumsy sincerity, collapsing on the sheets, tangled. The bed creaked softly, their breaths intensified. There was nothing but this shared warmth, this feeling of finally being seen, finally touched without defense.

Donovan slid a hand behind Lyle’s neck, feeling the warmth of his skin. Lyle, trembling, grabbed the bottom of Donovan’s shirt, his fingers sliding along the line of his stomach.

But then—a sound.

Faint.

Almost nothing.

A sigh. A tiny squeak.

They froze, as if trapped in amber.

Their breath held.

The cradle, a few meters away, made a slight rustling sound. A tiny hand waved above the blanket.

Silence fell like cold rain.

Donovan sat up, still panting, eyes wide. Lyle ran a hand over his face, caught between embarrassment, awkwardness, and an irrepressible guilt.

They both turned toward the cradle. Grace was still sleeping. But her mere presence, her steady breathing, was enough to break the moment, to bring them down from that floating intensity.

An awkward silence settled.

Lyle slowly backed away, sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, gaze to the floor. “Damn...”

Donovan mimicked him, straightening his clothes discreetly. Then, in a nearly tender whisper : “She’s here. She’s not looking at us, but... she’s here.”

Lyle closed his eyes briefly.

“I didn’t want it to happen like this. Not... like we were escaping from our heads just because we’re hurting.”

Donovan looked at him for a long moment, then nodded slowly.

“I get it.”

He stood up, picked up the shirt he’d half-removed, and headed toward the door. Before leaving, he turned around, his gaze softer.

“We didn’t ruin anything, Lyle. Nothing at all.”

Lyle looked up at him. “Are you going to sleep in the guest room ?”

A small smile crossed Donovan’s lips. “For tonight, yeah. But...” He hesitated. “I’m not far.”

He closed the door gently behind him.

Lyle stayed seated a moment in the shadows, listening to the returned silence. He turned his head toward the cradle. Grace slept peacefully, fists clenched, face relaxed.

He got up, approached her, and gently covered her legs with the blanket again.

Then he returned to sit on the edge of the bed, heart still pounding, troubled but alive. More alive than he had been in a long time.

Chapter Text

The morning had settled softly in the room, with that pale, golden light of the early hours, the kind that doesn’t really illuminate but makes everything feel more real. The house was silent, barely disturbed by the timid songs of birds through the slightly open window. On the carpet, not far from the bed, the small white cradle rocked gently, as if carried by Grace’s calm breathing.

Lyle had been awake for a long time. Sitting on the edge of the bed, shirtless, he stared at the floor, his elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped in front of his lips. His jaw was clenched, his thoughts drifting, disorderly. Every now and then, he cast a quick glance toward the cradle, making sure Grace was still sleeping peacefully, then returned to his silence.

He heard the door creak softly. He didn’t need to turn around to know it was Donovan. He recognized his footsteps. Hesitant steps, like someone unsure if they still had the right to be there.

“You’ve been up long?” Donovan asked, his voice still husky with sleep.

Lyle nodded without looking at him.

“I don’t think I really slept, actually.”

Donovan moved forward slowly, as if walking in a sacred place. He was wearing one of Lyle’s t-shirts, too big for him, falling down to his thighs. He looked uneasy, but not in a regretful way. More like the strange strangeness of waking up in a new reality.

“Because of Grace or... because of last night?”

Lyle let out a breath, almost a weak laugh. “Both, I guess. She fell back asleep quickly. Me... I just couldn’t stop thinking.”

Donovan sat next to him on the bed, just a few inches away. He didn’t touch him, but his presence was enough to make the air between them tremble.

“If you regret what happened...”

“That’s not it,” Lyle cut in softly. “It’s not regret. It’s just...” He paused, searching for words like one searches for balance on a tightrope. “It’s something I never imagined. Not after... all that. What we went through. What I built around myself to never feel anything again.”

He turned his head towards him. His eyes were red but clear. No tears, but all it took to know he had cried.

“And you? How do you think about last night?”

Donovan looked straight ahead for a moment, hands crossed on his knees. He spoke without looking away.

“Like a moment where I finally stopped being afraid. Afraid of what I feel. Afraid of losing you again. Afraid of myself.”

He paused, then finally turned his gaze to Lyle.

“And it doesn’t happen that often.”

Lyle listened with that nervous attention reserved for things you want to believe but haven’t quite yet.

“It’s weird,” he murmured. “I’ve... I’ve always liked women. It’s not even about preferences. It’s more like... I never had the space to think about loving differently. We were never given that space. Not with what we lived through.”

Donovan nodded slowly, his gaze lost in the void. “Me neither. It was never an option. And if it had been, I probably would have been too scared. It’s like... our bodies stayed stuck in survival mode too long. We forgot what it means to choose.”

They stayed for a moment in this tense but fragilely peaceful silence.

“I’m not sure where this leads us,” Lyle resumed in a softer tone. “I’m not even sure I’m ready for it to mean something. I have a daughter. A... patched-up life. And you... you’re the only one I have left from before. Before prison. Before the trial. Before everything collapsed.”

Donovan placed a hand over his, softly, almost like a question.

“I’m not trying to fix everything at once. I just want... for us to be able to talk again without fear. To look at each other without shame. And maybe... see what it becomes, day by day.”

Lyle let himself lean back against the headboard, his head slightly tilted back, as if trying to breathe a little better. “I forgot what it was like not to be afraid of someone.”

Donovan smiled with tired tenderness. “Then start with me. We’ve both survived worse than love.”

A small, sharp whimper broke the silence. In the cradle, Grace stirred slightly, rubbing her little fists against her eyes. Lyle immediately stood, almost mechanically, paternal instinct faster than his thoughts. He bent over her, murmuring a few soothing words.

Donovan watched him, sitting on the bed, his heart too tight to speak.

As Lyle gently replaced the blanket over his daughter, he half-turned to him, his voice lower.

“I need to take care of her.”

Donovan nodded silently. Then, with a barely visible smile: “Lyle... I’m not in a hurry. But I’m here.”

Lyle looked at him for a long moment. There was still fear in his eyes, but it mixed with something new. Something that felt like peace.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

When Donovan left the room, Lyle carefully took Grace in his arms. She was still warm from sleep, her eyes half-closed, her little fingers gripping her pajamas as if refusing to leave her dream. He rocked her gently, whispering softly as he did every morning, meaningless words but with a reassuring tone.

“Good morning, love... Did you sleep well ? Did you have sweet dreams ? Daddy’s here.”

He sat delicately in the comfortable chair near the cradle. He looked into Grace’s eyes; she stared at him vaguely, still between two worlds.

“You know, I still don’t really understand what’s happening in my life. You’re the only thing keeping me grounded. You’re all the good I have. But last night... maybe wasn’t so bad either.”

She yawned, as if answering him, and rested her head against his chest. Lyle closed his eyes for a moment. He still felt Donovan’s warmth on his skin, his light scent, the bittersweet turmoil in his chest.

After a few minutes, he slowly got up and went downstairs, Grace cuddled against him, her little head resting in the hollow of his neck. The house still smelled a little of yesterday’s coffee, and the living room curtains let in pale shafts of light. Donovan was in the kitchen, standing near the counter. He wore the same oversized t-shirt, his hair a bit messy. He had prepared a coffee but wasn’t drinking it. He looked out the window, hands around the cup, lost in thought.

He turned when Lyle entered.

“She’s okay?”

Lyle nodded, smiling slightly.

“She’s hungry. That’s the morning signal.”

He placed Grace in her baby chair set on the rug near the table, then went to fetch the sterilized bottle he had prepared the night before. Donovan watched silently, noting with surprise the fluidity of Lyle’s movements, that gentle and precise habit of a father who had learned everything on his own. He warmed the bottle in the bottle warmer, tested the temperature on his wrist, then sat down and took Grace on his lap. She opened her mouth the second the bottle approached and started sucking with a soft, steady noise.

Donovan smiled. “She knows what she wants."

“That’s the only thing she does,” Lyle replied, without mockery.

They stayed like that for a while. Donovan seated at the table, Lyle a little apart, rocking his daughter with a slow movement. The morning light was now fully entering, illuminating Grace’s face, focused on her bottle, eyes half-closed.

Then Donovan stood up without warning and approached gently. “Want me to do it ? Feed her ? That way you can... have your breakfast in peace.”

Lyle looked up, surprised. He opened his mouth to answer but no words came immediately. Except Erik, he had never seen someone do that gesture. Not without being forced. Not without expecting something in return.

“Uh… yeah. Well... if you’re sure.”

“I’m sure,” Donovan said, eyes fixed on Grace. “I just want to... be here. If that’s okay with you.”

Lyle first handed him the bottle, as if testing him, then after a second of hesitation, he entrusted him with his daughter too, with a mix of awkwardness and shaky trust.

Donovan took her as if carrying something sacred. He sat down gently with her, cradled her in the crook of his arm, then handed her the bottle with an endearing awkwardness. Grace protested slightly, then resumed sucking after a few adjustments.

Lyle had stood up but remained frozen by the counter. He watched Donovan, mouth slightly open, arms hanging loosely. He felt foolish to be so moved, but it was stronger than him. Something inside him shifted, a place long closed off, which he thought was buried forever. Seeing Donovan there, holding his daughter with such gentleness, it was...

Too much.

“You okay ?” Donovan asked without looking up.

Lyle jumped, then looked away.

“Yeah. It’s just… I’ve never seen that. You...wanting to help. For nothing. Without asking questions.”

He finally sat down, facing them, his coffee still untouched on the table.

Donovan looked at Grace with a tender smile, then raised his eyes to him. “Maybe that’s the beginning of something. No need to know what it is, not yet. Just... be there.”

Lyle didn’t answer right away. He watched his daughter, peaceful in the arms of a man he had loved and hated in equal parts, and who, today, was awakening a new form of tenderness in him. A frightening warmth, but alive.

He nodded slowly, then murmured : “Yeah. Maybe.”

Donovan was still holding Grace with a mixture of care and wonder. He spoke softly to her between two sips of the bottle, as if addressing an old soul trapped in a tiny body.

“You’re stronger than most adults I know. And you’re barely six months old. Can you imagine ?”

Lyle, sitting opposite them, watched. He tried to eat a piece of toast but had trouble concentrating. It wasn’t food stuck in his throat, it was emotion.

Seeing Donovan like this, so present, so sincere, awakened something almost painful inside him. His heart, until then barricaded, creaked with every beat like a door long closed.

“You look like you’ve been doing this your whole life,” he whispered.

Donovan shrugged, a small smile at the corner of his lips. “I think she’s the one guiding me. She calms me down, you see? Like she knows I need it.”

He looked up at Lyle, and their gazes locked for a moment. Long. Silent. Charged.

Lyle looked away, swallowing a shiver.

“I never thought I’d live this. Even in my wildest dreams... Before the trial, I imagined my life completely different. I had... plans, you see ? Simple things. A business to start. A house not too far from the sea. Maybe a dog.”

He held back from saying he had also imagined living far from his parents, but he didn’t want to bring up that painful topic.

“And a perfect woman,” Donovan added with a tender smile.

Lyle laughed softly, shaking his head.

“Yeah. A perfect woman. One kid or two. And nobody looking at me like I’m a monster on the street.”

A silence fell. Not heavy, but full of memories.

Donovan resumed, more serious : “I thought I’d end up alone. I had no plan. Just... leave far away. Live somewhere lost where nobody knew me. I always felt like I wasn’t allowed to build something. Like they stole that right from me too soon.” He looked at Grace, who had finished her bottle and was sleeping peacefully against him, satisfied, confident. “And now, here I am. And I feel... maybe I was wrong.”

Lyle felt his throat tighten. He took a sip of cold coffee just to steady himself. His gaze drifted from Grace to Donovan, then to the clear sky visible through the window. He leaned forward slightly.

“Do you think we can still have a real life? Not perfect, but... possible?”

Donovan looked at him, serious.

“I think we can try. Together. But slowly. One day at a time.”

Lyle nodded slowly, his heart beating a little too fast.

But at that moment, as if the world refused to leave them alone, the doorbell rang. Sharp. Urgent. Cutting like a scalpel through the still fragile softness of the morning.

Lyle jumped. He snapped his head sharply toward the noise, nerves raw. Grace stirred slightly in Donovan’s arms, a small plaintive sigh rising from her still-sleepy throat. Donovan immediately rocked her with slow movements to keep her asleep.

“Are you expecting someone ?” he asked in a low voice, as if afraid that speaking too loudly might wake more than just the baby.

Lyle shook his head, eyebrows furrowed, already standing. A familiar knot was forming in his stomach. That pressure in his chest. He knew. He knew without even seeing.

He quietly approached the front door, crossing the living room with neatly arranged furniture, the floorboards barely creaking under his bare feet. On a small table near the entrance, a pile of unopened mail lay beside it—bills, ads, and probably a threatening letter he hadn’t had the strength to open.

He glanced out the window near the door. His face immediately tightened.

“Shit.”

Donovan had stood up too, holding Grace close against him. She was still asleep, curled against his chest, her tiny hand gripping a corner of his t-shirt.

“Who is it?” Donovan asked quietly but firmly.

Lyle took a slow breath, fists clenched at his hips.

“Two journalists. With camera and mic. They’re already here.”

Donovan cursed under his breath, a rough murmur, then stepped back toward the kitchen, eyes fixed on Grace, who was starting to furrow her brows, disturbed by the tense atmosphere.

“They recognized us at the park,” Lyle whispered. “It’s because of that damn photo.”

Another doorbell ring. Longer. More insistent. More... arrogant. Then a voice, behind the door, too loud, too confident—the well-rehearsed tone of someone used to TV sets and pointed microphones:

“Mr. Menendez, do you have a comment on your relationship with Donovan Goodreau? And on the child? Is she your biological daughter? Where is her mother? The press deserves answers, Lyle!”

Lyle froze. His face drained of color. Not out of fear. From an old fatigue, embedded deep in his bones. The kind you carry since childhood. The kind you were never allowed to set down anywhere. Donovan stepped closer, holding Grace a little tighter, protective without being rough. She instinctively nestled against him, her cheek pressed to his chest.

“Tell me what you want me to do.”

Lyle closed his eyes for a moment. Breathed in through his nose. Slowly. He felt the floor beneath his feet, the smooth wood, the warm grain of the morning.

“We do nothing. We don’t open. They’ll leave eventually.”

He placed a hand on the table, the light wood table he had chosen himself at an antique shop on the coast. He leaned on it as if needing to hold onto something real. Something that didn’t lie.

“But it’s starting again.”

He looked up at Donovan, straight into his eyes. His gaze was dry, but something inside him wavered.

“It’s okay, Lyle. Let’s wait a bit, they’ll leave eventually. They’re not going to camp out here forever.”

For a few long minutes, silence fell again in the house, heavier than the ringing itself. Outside, voices faded only slightly, becoming a dull, indistinct background—a harsh buzzing, like wasps trapped behind glass. A brutal reminder of the outside world, of public humiliation, of unwanted exposure. Like an echo of the trial. Like a memory of hell.

But Lyle didn’t move. He stood there, hand still on the table, eyes fixed on Donovan. And on Grace. Asleep against him, peaceful despite everything.

Donovan said nothing. He respected the silence. He knew this kind of tension—that of a heart too full to speak, of a fear that turns into clarity. So he waited. Still. Present.

Finally, Lyle approached. Slowly. His eyes were troubled, caught between wanting to flee and wanting to stay. He stopped just inches away, staring at Donovan with clear eyes, tired but sharp, as if wanting to cling to him.

“When I was a kid,” he whispered, “my father used to tell Erik and me that if we wanted to be left alone, we had to be quiet. Show nothing. Blend in. And I ended up believing that’s what life was: disappearing.” He paused, throat tight, then added softly: “Yet my father was anything but someone who let himself be walked over. I think it was just another way to keep us under his control.”

He nodded toward the door with his chin. Those people... They still look at me like I’m a monster. And you, you’re here, in my kitchen, holding my daughter, and you look at me... like I’m someone possible."

Donovan held his gaze steady. A heavy silence passed between them. “Because you are.”

Lyle started trembling, just barely. Not out of fear this time. But from too many things waking up inside him all at once. From an overflow. From a need fulfilled he didn’t dare name.

He reached out a hand, and with infinite gentleness, he brushed Grace’s cheek, then Donovan’s, in the same motion. His fingers stayed there, as if wanting to anchor this moment to something real. To something that truly belonged to him.

“I didn’t know something so simple could mess me up like this,” he murmured. “Seeing you like that. With her. Like… you’d always had a place here.”

Donovan swallowed, breath short. He tightened his hold around the little one, as if to protect her better — and protect himself too.

“Maybe I always did. But we had to go through hell to find ourselves here, in a quiet kitchen, with a sleeping baby and lukewarm coffee.”

A weak, broken laugh escaped Lyle. He nodded, almost against his will.

“And journalists behind the door.”

“Just a technical detail,” Donovan replied with a half-smile.

Lyle was silent for a moment. He watched Donovan rocking Grace as if he’d done it all his life, as if this house already belonged to him a little. And inside his chest, something loosened.

There were no more barriers.

Then, with a slow but sure gesture, he leaned in. He kissed his daughter’s forehead, then another kiss on Donovan’s temple. Nothing heavy, nothing theatrical. Just a simple gesture. Full of meaning.

Donovan closed his eyes. He didn’t move. But his fingers gently tightened around Grace, as if he’d just received something he no longer dared hope for.

“Do you think we can really build something in this mess?” Lyle whispered in his ear.

“I think we already have,” Donovan answered, voice hoarse.

~~

Twilight had slowly fallen over the house, gradually erasing the traces of the morning’s turmoil. The journalists had finally left, frustrated at not getting their picture or scandal. But their presence had left a floating tension, an invisible haze in the halls.

Yet, in Grace’s room, peace had returned. She slept deeply, one arm over her head, lips parted, snuggled against her favorite stuffed animal. Lyle lingered a moment by her bed, watching over her as he did every night, then bent down to place a kiss on her forehead.

When he came back down, the kitchen light was off. But the living room light was dimmed. Donovan was there, sitting on the couch, barefoot, a cup in his hand. He was now wearing one of Lyle’s sweaters, too big for him as well, but strangely fitting.

Lyle joined him without a word, sitting next to him. The silence was no longer uncomfortable. It had the taste of intimacy shared when you no longer need words to be understood.

“She’s sleeping deeply,” he finally said.

Donovan nodded.

“She knows she’s safe.”

Lyle looked at him, features tired but relaxed.

“It’s the first time I wanted to cry just from seeing you hold her. There was a moment this morning, I don’t know if you saw, but... I had trouble breathing.”

Donovan gently set his cup on the coffee table.

“I saw. But I didn’t want to rush you. I understood what it meant. That kind of tenderness—no one taught us that. We had to invent it from nothing.” He turned his head slightly toward Lyle. “And you invented it well, Lyle. You’re doing fine as a father.”

The compliment touched him more than he wanted to admit. He lowered his eyes, hands clasped between his knees.

“I’m so afraid of messing up sometimes. Afraid that my thoughts reach her, that she feels my emptiness. And... I never thought I’d have this. One day. A daughter. A home. You.”

He looked back at him, not trying to look away this time.

“And you? Aren’t you scared?”

Donovan smiled, but it wasn’t an easy smile. It was the smile of a man tired of holding everything in.

“Of course I’m scared. I’m afraid of getting attached. Of waking up one morning and realizing I made it all up. That you changed your mind. That I’m still that kid who gets everything taken away just when he starts to believe.”

Lyle reached out a hand and placed it on his.

“Then stay tonight. Sleep here. In my bed, with me. Not so we can take it further. Not for anything more than just being here, together.”

Donovan didn’t answer right away. He looked at their linked hands, then slowly nodded.

“Yeah. I want that.”

Lyle stood up, gently pulling Donovan with him. They climbed the stairs in silence, their hands still clasped.

In the bedroom, they slowly undressed, each in their own corner, silently. Not like a mechanical gesture, but like a ritual. Not to seduce. Just to lighten themselves. They slipped under the sheets, and Lyle turned onto his side, facing him.

Donovan looked at him for a moment. Then, in a whisper : “I’ve never really slept with someone.”

Lyle answered in a low voice : “Me neither. Not without second thoughts. Not without a mask.”

They moved closer, very gently. Not to kiss, not yet. Just to touch, forehead to forehead, like two animals recognizing each other.

The house was quiet. Grace was asleep. And outside, the night could well howl.

Here, there was something new breathing.

Later that night, the room was bathed in darkness, pierced only by the pale glow of a streetlamp filtering through the curtains. The silence was thick, but not empty. There were slow breaths, overlapping sighs, and the subtle rustle of sheets each time one of them moved closer.

Lyle lay on his side, facing Donovan. Too close for it to mean nothing, but not yet close enough to fully lose himself in the other. His forehead barely brushed Donovan’s, one hand resting between them, extended but not quite touching.

Donovan opened his eyes when he felt Lyle’s warm breath against his lips. He hadn’t slept. He hadn’t even tried. He’d just stayed there, listening to Lyle breathe. Trying to understand how he had ended up here, in this bed, in this house, beside a man he had loved in silence, then lost—and now found again through the hands of a father, a survivor, a wounded heart.

Lyle spoke first, his voice rough, low, almost ashamed: "I keep thinking about it. You, here. Like this. With me. It doesn’t feel real."

Donovan answered in a whisper: "And yet, it is. It’s the realest thing I’ve felt in years."

A pause.

Then Lyle murmured: "I don’t know how to love. Not really. I learned how to seduce, to lie, to hide. But love? Letting someone in? It’s blurry. Painful, sometimes. Almost... too much."

Donovan slowly brushed his fingers against Lyle’s, barely a touch. "Me neither. But if you want, we can learn. Slowly. Together."

Their hands touched. Palm to palm. A slow warmth spread through their skin, their chests, their throats.

Lyle closed his eyes. "When you held her this morning... I felt something I’ve never felt before. A kind of vertigo. Like I’d finally found something beautiful—and I was afraid I’d ruin it just by looking at it."

Donovan gently touched Lyle’s cheek, just where the light cast a soft shadow along his cheekbone.

"You didn’t ruin it. You created it. That peace—it came from you. Not from me."

"No," Lyle breathed. "That peace came from you too. It started when you touched Grace. When you didn’t run."

Donovan moved closer until their foreheads met again. His nose touched Lyle’s, and he closed his eyes.

"I’m afraid to love you."

"Me too."

"But I’m even more afraid to walk away."

A long silence followed, but it was soft. Full.

Lyle slid his hand around the back of Donovan’s neck, drawing him closer. Not to kiss. Not yet. Just to surrender. For once. To allow himself a tenderness without armor.

They wrapped themselves around each other in the dark, wordless, with no expectations—just skin to skin, heart to heart. Their bodies aligned like they’d slept this way a thousand times before, as if their silences had synced over the years, even apart.

And in that simple contact, filled with history, scars, and hope, they slowly fell asleep.

The sun slipped gently through the curtains, soft and discreet, as if it knew not to wake too quickly what had been quietly woven during the night. Lyle was the first to open his eyes, as though surfacing from a hazy dream whose edges he no longer controlled. For a moment, his gaze searched the dim room for something familiar, but he wasn’t quite sure where he was. The world felt suspended, fragile, outside of time.

And then came the sensations—subtle, undeniable—that slowly anchored him in reality: the warm, comforting presence against his side, the light, reassuring weight of an arm wrapped around his waist, a gentle pressure that grounded without confining. And that breath, steady and warm against his neck, like a silent promise, a calm rhythm that soothed the thoughts in his head.

He slowly turned his head, almost reflexively, and there—in the soft light—he saw Donovan. Still asleep, his face relaxed, his features eased into a rare kind of peace. No mask, no visible pain. Just the quiet simplicity of a man, alive, present, right there beside him.

Lyle stayed still, eyes absorbing every detail: the lashes resting on his cheeks, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the slight curve of his lips—calm and gentle. That silent, almost sacred sight felt nearly unreal.

He realized he had truly slept. No interruptions. No nightmares tearing through the night. Just a deep, peaceful rest, wrapped in a warmth he hadn’t even known he was searching for—or hoping to find.

A soft shiver of tenderness passed through him, and slowly, almost cautiously, he moved. Not to pull away, but to get closer. To turn more toward Donovan, as if to absorb a little more of this presence that quieted his storms.

Donovan stirred at the movement. A low, rough sound escaped his throat—soft and groggy—and then his eyelids fluttered open, revealing a gaze still blurred with sleep, but instantly clear when it met Lyle’s.

“Hey,” Donovan whispered.

Lyle gave a small, quiet smile. “Hey.”

Donovan placed a hand on the blanket between them, without breaking the contact of their legs still loosely tangled.

“I didn’t dream this, did I ?"

"No.”

Silence.

Then Lyle reached out, brushing a dark strand of hair from Donovan’s forehead, as if it were an instinct he was only now discovering in himself.

“You snored,” he said softly.

Donovan let out a quiet laugh, muffled by the pillow. "Seriously?”

“No. But I liked watching you sleep. You looked... free.”

A sound came from the next room. A soft whimper. Then a rustle. Faster breathing.

Lyle slowly sat up, reluctant. Donovan followed, stretching with a sleepy, satisfied groan.

“I’ll go to her,” Lyle said.

But Donovan gently caught his wrist. “No, let me. You... take five minutes. Stay here. Just enjoy. I want to try.”

Lyle looked at him, surprised—but moved. “You want to make her bottle ?”

“I want to do everything. The bottle, the smiles, the drool.”

“And the diapers ?”

“Don’t push it,” Donovan groaned, laughing, then added with a wink, “but I’ll try.”

Lyle let him go. Alone now, he stayed sitting on the bed for a moment, the pillow still warm behind him. He listened. Footsteps. Donovan’s soft voice in the next room. Then Grace’s laugh—high and bright, slicing clean through the morning.

Lyle came downstairs soon after, barefoot, in a T-shirt. In the kitchen, Grace was in her bouncer, a bib around her neck, and Donovan—clumsy but focused—held the bottle in one hand while gently stroking her cheek with the other.

“It’s a bit more technical than I expected,” Donovan said as Lyle entered.

“She’s testing your nerves. Sizing you up.”

“She’s got your stare.”

Lyle knelt beside them. He watched Grace drink intently, then looked up at Donovan.

"Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For this. For staying. For showing up.”

Donovan shrugged, but his eyes were misty. “I think I needed this as much as she did.”

A silence followed—full, soft, suspended.

Lyle placed a hand on the back of Donovan’s neck. Their foreheads touched for a brief moment. And behind them, Grace sneezed. Loudly.

They burst out laughing, both of them—caught off guard, relaxed.

That morning, something resembling a “we” had quietly settled between them.

Not a perfect couple.

Not a storybook family.

But a new kind of presence. A budding balance.

~~

Grace was sleeping deeply in her crib in the living room, a small blanket draped over her, her breathing barely audible. Cookie Monster rested against her arm, which she clutched like an instinctive treasure. Outside, the sky was heavy, filled with gray clouds that filtered the light. It hadn’t started raining yet, but the air carried that particular weight of a storm in waiting — as if the world itself were holding its breath.

Donovan was on the couch, legs folded up, a book open but forgotten on his lap. He was watching Lyle, who sat on the floor not far away, back against the wall, his gaze lost in a corner of the ceiling as if searching for something beyond the visible.

There was something heavy in his posture. A silent tension, a new kind of fragility, different from the days before. Donovan had felt it descend on him like a veil, little by little, since that morning.

So he said nothing. He waited.

And finally, Lyle spoke, his voice slow and deep, hoarse as if rising from a well within.

"It’s always there. Even when everything seems calm. Even with her. Even with you. It’s there, like... a part of me I drag behind and can’t put down."

Donovan gently closed his book, without taking his eyes off him.

"What’s there, Lyle?"

He hesitated a moment. Then he looked up at him. And this time, he spoke.

"The trial. The memory of my parents....their bodies." He swallowed hard, a shiver running down his spine. "And my brother... Erik’s face when they read the verdict. He cried, you know. Not tears of relief. Real kid tears. He cried like none of it changed anything. Like even being free, we were already broken."

He ran a trembling hand over his face.

"I still hear the people in the courtroom. The whispers. The camera flashes. The stares, like needles. I’ve never felt so exposed. And I was there, next to him, playing the big brother, and I couldn’t do a damn thing. Nothing."

A low rumble, faint, made the windowpanes vibrate. Thunder, far off, without lightning yet, but present. Donovan glanced briefly at the windows, then looked back at Lyle, more attentive than ever. The sky, like him, seemed on the verge of breaking.

Donovan stood and slowly sat down beside him on the floor. He didn’t speak. He didn’t even move, except to gently place a hand on Lyle’s arm.

"And after… after all of that, I did exactly what I shouldn’t have. I rushed. I tried to start over. To forget. Christy… she wasn’t part of the plan. She showed up right after the verdict. We’d seen each other a bit before, but then... I just needed to cling to something alive. And she—she had this sort of sad smile, this look that said she saw me differently than the others."

Lyle shook his head, bitterly, before continuing:

"She got pregnant really fast. Too fast. She was older than me, almost forty at the time, so we thought there wasn’t much of a chance she could still get pregnant, like before. And me, like an idiot, I saw it as a sign. A second chance. A family. This time, my father wasn’t there to ruin it like the first time. I absolutely didn’t want her to have an abortion. Not this time. Maybe that was selfish of me in hindsight, but... I just couldn’t bring myself to it."

He bit his lip, eyes shining with emotion.

"Christy… she was trembling all the time, but she never said anything. She gave me these half-smiles, nodded when I talked about a baby’s room, strollers, names. I think she wanted to believe. But not for herself. For me. She wanted to be the person who would fix me. And she held on until the birth. I was there. I held Grace in my arms. She was screaming, she was tiny and warm, and I cried. Like a kid. I’ve never loved another human being so instantly. She wasn’t an idea. She wasn’t a project. She was her. My child. My daughter."

He paused. His hands were trembling. His shoulders too. Donovan tightened his hold on his arm slightly.

"And Christy… she looked at me, and I knew it was over. She told me a few weeks later that Grace was a mistake. Not cruelly. Just... like a fact. She said she couldn’t do it. That she didn’t want to live in the shadow of all this. That she thought she could love the story, but she was wrong."

Lyle closed his eyes for a moment. "She just left. Just like that."

Lyle’s voice barely trembled, but each word carried the weight of months of solitude and unanswered questions.

"And even though I was hurt, angry, emptied out… part of me couldn’t really blame her. Because I knew she was running from a fire I was still stoking without realizing. I carried too much pain, too much buried rage. And she… she didn’t have the strength for that. But I was so… so devastated that she could call Grace a mistake. It brought back the awful things our parents used to say to Erik and me. Awful things no child should ever hear."

He lowered his head, and his shoulders briefly tensed, as if the words still struck him right in the chest.

"Grace... she's anything but a mistake. She's my daughter. My life. My anchor. She came at the worst possible time, and yet she saved me — without even knowing how." His fingers clenched slightly on his knees, his jaw tightened. "And just for that, I think part of me will never truly be able to forgive Christy."

A silence settled — dense. Not heavy — respectful.

Donovan didn’t answer right away. He didn’t need to.

He slowly raised an arm and wrapped it around Lyle’s shoulders, pulling him close with infinite gentleness. Lyle didn’t resist. He let it happen. He gave in to that simple gesture like a castaway finally reaching solid ground. His head came to rest against Donovan’s collarbone, right where he could hear his heart beating — steady, soothing, human.

"You weren’t wrong to love her," Donovan whispered into his ear. His voice was barely a breath, but each word resonated with sincerity. "And you didn’t fail. You held on. You carried her for a time. Her… and Grace. Even when you were drowning. Even when you hated yourself. And today… look."

He tightened his embrace, his fingers slowly brushing Lyle’s shoulder through the fabric of his t-shirt.

"You’re here. You didn’t run. You’re raising her. You love her. You never stopped."

He pressed a kiss to Lyle’s temple, soft, slow, almost sacred. As if that single gesture could mend every fracture, every crack, every corner where the pain had taken root.

He wasn’t asking for anything.

He was giving. Simply. Unconditionally.

"And I’m here too," he added in a whisper. "I’m not running anymore either."

Lyle let go. Completely.

For the first time, without restraint. Not to be comforted.

But because the mask had cracked. Because he no longer had the strength — or the need — to pretend that everything was fine.

His tears came silently, but they were full, round, burning. They rolled slowly down his cheeks, disappearing into Donovan’s warm skin, who didn’t move. He just stayed there, holding him.

Containing him.

The way you hold someone who is finally collapsing.

Not out of weakness — But because they no longer need to pretend to be strong.

In the crib nearby, Grace stirred gently, letting out a barely audible sigh. Her tiny hand lifted into the air, as if sensing, even in sleep, that something had shifted. That the air had lightened, despite the clouds still gathering above the house.

But she didn’t wake.

After a long silence, Lyle finally broke the fragile bubble that surrounded them:

"You know… Grace was my guardian angel, Donovan." He took a deep breath, his voice hoarse, heavy with a weight he could no longer hold back. "After the trial, all that chaos, the fear, the hate that felt like it was going to devour me — it was her that kept me standing. That fragile little being… she made my heart beat when I thought it had died long ago. But… there’s this fear eating at me. A dull, deep fear that comes from somewhere I can’t even name. Because I know that one day, she’ll find out. She’ll see the images. She’ll read the headlines. She’ll hear the voices. She’ll discover what we did… what I did."

His throat tightened, and for the first time, a tear slid slowly down his cheek, glistening in the light.

"How do I tell her I’m her father when I’m also the monster in the newspapers ? How do I tell her that despite it all — despite the mistakes — I love her more than anything ? That I’d give everything to protect her… even from the weight of that truth ?"

Donovan leaned forward slowly and placed a warm, steady hand over Lyle’s, as if to pass on a little strength.

"Lyle… no one can erase their past. But what you do today, every day, with her — that’s what really matters. The love you give her, the life you're building — that’s what makes you a father. Not the images. Not other people’s words."

A distant rumble rolled softly through the windows, almost swallowed by the thickness of the sky. The clouds had thickened over the afternoon, spreading in opaque layers across the Californian sky, like a leaden shroud hanging just above them. Lyle looked up, met Donovan’s intense gaze, and read in it a sincerity that made him falter.

“I wish I could believe that. But this fear is still here, every day. It will grow with her. And I’m afraid she will never see me any differently than through this past. That she will look at me as a stranger. Or worse… as someone to run from.”

Donovan gently squeezed his shoulder, his gaze soft and reassuring.

“Then we’ll face it together. Not today, not tomorrow. But the day she wants to understand, she’ll know she has two men — three, with Erik — who love her, even with their wounds.”

A breath, a silence. Lyle let himself lean against Donovan, his shoulders sagging a little, finally exhausted from carrying this burden alone.

A second tear fell silently, and Donovan held him close, as if to mend every shard.

“Thank you…” whispered Lyle, his voice broken.

Silence settled between them, heavy yet gentle, rocked by the wind and the soft rustling of the trees outside. The weight of words had just fallen away, giving way to a new, almost fragile closeness.

Their eyes met, and suddenly, everything around them seemed frozen. Outside, the sky had turned almost black, yet here, in this room, a fragile warmth had settled — like an intimate bubble, impermeable to the outside world. Lyle’s eyes were glazed with tears, those sparkling pearls on the edge of his eyelids, silent witnesses to an ancient pain mixed with a newfound spark of hope. The reflection of his emotions in those fragile drops betrayed both his wounds and his desire for healing.

Donovan gently tilted his head to the side, his eyes sinking deeply into Lyle’s, seeking to read not only his words but also his silences, his invisible scars, every held breath. His gaze was an invitation, a silent promise of tenderness and understanding, offering refuge from the inner storm that shook Lyle.

Lyle looked away for a moment, overwhelmed by the intensity of the eye contact, unable to bear the weight of emotions. Then, slowly, he returned his gaze to Donovan, his pupils trembling, vulnerable, as if ready to fully open up despite the fear.

A subtle lightning bolt streaked across the distant sky, invisible from where they were but perceptible in the dimming light, casting the room in a deeper shade.

Without a word, Donovan extended a hand trembling with tenderness. With infinite delicacy, he placed his thumb on Lyle’s wet cheek, then brushed away the still-warm tears, the simple touch triggering an almost sacred, imperceptible shiver that ran through Lyle’s body.

“Let me take care of you,” whispered Donovan, his voice broken with emotion, fragile and sincere.

Lyle nodded, unable to speak, his lips sealed by the intensity of the moment.

Their faces slowly drew closer, guided by a force stronger than fear, doubt, or pain, an irresistible force pulling them toward each other like two souls hungry for comfort.

Then, finally, their lips met.

This kiss was nothing like the first: it was no longer a hesitant exploration or a timid spark, but a staggering revelation. It combined urgency and softness, anger and forgiveness, need and soothing. It was a silent promise, the expression of a nascent love, fragile but determined.

Their breaths mingled, warm and fast yet controlled, as if they sought not to rush anything. Donovan’s hands slid slowly to the back of Lyle’s neck, holding him close with assured tenderness. Lyle clung to Donovan like a refuge, an anchor in the storm of his emotions.

They stayed like that for a long time, eyes closed, carried by this kiss that seemed to pass through them, carry them away, and save them, at least for a moment, from their ghosts.

When they finally parted, their foreheads remained pressed together for a moment, sharing a common breath charged with all the fragile strength of what they had just experienced. Outside, thunder rumbled again, louder this time, like a full stop to the silence.

Lyle opened his eyes, and in Donovan’s gaze, he found the strength he thought he had lost, the one that would give him the courage to move forward.

“I’m here,” Donovan whispered, gently and firmly.

“Me too,” Lyle answered, his voice broken but full of a fragile and precious breath of renewed life.

~~

The coffee dripped slowly into the pot, filling the kitchen with its strong, woody scent. The golden morning light filtered through the blinds, casting pale lines across the pale walls. Lyle, in a crumpled t-shirt, barefoot on the wooden floor, held an empty mug in his hands, frozen in an almost contemplative posture.

He hadn’t slept deeply, but he hadn’t been haunted either. That was already a lot.

It was the second time Donovan had slept here. Not on the couch, nor in the guest room. In his bed. With him.

The first night, they had shared the space with awkward caution, each tense on the edge of the mattress as if afraid to cross the invisible boundary. There had only been a brush of hands, a head timidly resting on his shoulder, a calm silence.

Last night had been different. Not more carnal, no — but freer, more open. Less awkwardness, less tension. Donovan had gone to bed without asking questions. Lyle had turned toward him naturally. And when Donovan’s hand brushed his under the sheets, he didn’t just take it: he held it. For a long time.

Donovan had fallen asleep with his head resting on Lyle’s collarbone. Lyle had felt his calm breath against his skin, his hair against his jaw. And he, for the first time in what felt like an eternity, had found a semblance of sleep that didn’t feel like an escape.

Soft footsteps in the hallway pulled him from his thoughts. Donovan entered the kitchen, still marked by the night. He wore Lyle’s too-big gray sweater — the one he’d been dragging around since university — the collar slipping off his shoulder, the sleeves too long. His hair was tousled and he looked half awake.

He stopped for a few seconds, silent, observing the scene. The soft light. The calm. The man he had known, destroyed, then found again. All of it still felt unreal to him.

A slight smile appeared on his face.

“You still make that awful coffee, or have you made it worse since yesterday ?” he asked, his voice still sleepy.

Without looking away from the coffee pot, Lyle raised an eyebrow.

“I hesitated with one of Grace’s old bottles. If you want to compare, there’s still a drop in the sink.”

Donovan let out a small laugh, creaky but sincere. He stepped closer, took two mugs, and set them on the counter. Their fingers briefly brushed. They didn’t flinch.

“You know,” Donovan whispered, “I think it’s been years since I woke up like this.”

He turned his head and looked at Lyle. His gaze was neither accusatory nor nostalgic. Just… honest.

“Without that kind of tightness in my chest. Without being afraid of what I’d feel when opening my eyes.”

Lyle stared at him silently. “Me neither,” he finally murmured.

Then a coo came from upstairs, followed by a small joyful cry. Grace. Awake.

Lyle pretended to set down his mug, already ready to go, but Donovan gently placed a hand on his forearm.

“Let me. I’ll go see her.”

The gesture wasn’t commanding. There was nothing intrusive in his voice. Just a desire. An effort. A first step toward a daily life he didn’t know but seemed willing to tame.

Lyle hesitated for a moment, as he often did when someone else took the lead with Grace. She was his daughter. His refuge. His world. But that hand on his arm… it didn’t imprison anything. It offered. It shared.

He nodded slightly.

Donovan disappeared down the hallway, barefoot, silent. Lyle stayed alone in the kitchen. He closed his eyes.

A shiver ran down his neck. He breathed deeply. And a single tear rolled slowly down his cheek. A calm tear. No pain, no remorse. Just a release. A muscle relaxing. A breath regained.

Chapter Text

The sun was slowly setting behind the hills, bathing the house in a warm, coppery light. In the living room, the radio softly played Cat Stevens’ Father and Son, like a distant echo of all the things they still didn’t dare say.

Lyle sat on the floor, his back resting against the wall, legs stretched out before him. He had taken off his shoes, and his worn socks betrayed his habit of staying indoors, away from the world. On the brightly colored play mat, Grace babbled happily, grabbing her little elephant plush toy. Her chubby fingers explored the soft fabric with an almost solemn concentration, her brow furrowed as if she was really thinking.

Lying opposite her, Donovan played the devoted accomplice, mimicking ridiculous voices with a tenderness he no longer tried to hide. His laughter rang out like a new note in this long-frozen house. He wasn’t acting. He had simply surrendered to the moment, as if just being there was enough.

“She likes you,” Lyle said, a faint smile at the corner of his lips, almost surprised to hear himself say it.

“She doesn’t judge me,” Donovan replied, laughing softly. “Not yet.”

“She can sense people,” Lyle said after a pause. “Sometimes better than I can.”

A gentle, dense silence followed. Not awkward. Just full—like a safe space neither dared to disturb too much.

Then Donovan asked, almost in a whisper, his eyes still on the child:

“Can I give her the bath tonight?”

Lyle turned his head, surprised. He opened his mouth, ready to say no. An automatic reflex—this need to control everything, to keep the routines of everyday life as a barrier against intrusion. But he stopped himself. Donovan’s gaze wasn’t demanding. It was just there, offered, almost vulnerable.

And for once, Lyle felt that this gesture, this sharing, wouldn’t be a loss, but maybe a breath of fresh air.

“If you want,” he breathed.

A little later, in the small lavender-walled bathroom, gently warmed by a space heater, Donovan crouched in front of the bathtub. His sleeve rolled up to the elbow, he held a small blue plastic cup, pouring water over Grace’s fine hair, concentrating as if handling crystal. The warm water splashed softly against the sides, and Grace, in her bath, laughed wholeheartedly, splashing the air wildly around her. Her cheeks were rosy, her hair tousled, and her feet tapped the water in a joyful rhythm.

Lyle, leaning against the door frame, watched them silently. He hadn’t expected it to affect him so much. Seeing someone else care. Being gentle. With her. With what he held most precious.

Donovan carefully lifted her from the water and wrapped her in a starfish-shaped towel, its points too large for her tiny body. He handed her to Lyle, and their hands brushed. A brief contact, but electric. Lyle took her in his arms, holding her close, breathing in the sweet, warm scent of Grace’s skin.

“Do you want to stay tonight?” he asked, almost without thinking, as if the words escaped despite himself.

Donovan blinked, caught off guard.

“In the bed,” Lyle clarified, in a deeper voice.

A simple nod from Donovan, but loaded with everything they still didn’t say.

They returned to the living room. Grace was nestled against Lyle’s chest, her tiny hands clutching his sweater, her head resting in the hollow of his neck. Her eyelids fluttered, heavy with sleep, and her warm breath gently caressed her father’s skin. Lyle held her with that instinctive tenderness he had learned to cultivate since her birth, a mix of fragility and strength, as if he were carrying a treasure that could be taken from him at any moment.

Calm reigned in the house. The fire crackled softly in the fireplace, casting golden reflections on the walls, and Donovan sat at the end of the couch, silent, his hands clasped between his knees. He said nothing, but his gaze rested on Lyle and Grace with a tenderness that Lyle couldn’t ignore.

Then suddenly, the landline phone, resting on the kitchen sideboard, rang. The dry, metallic ring shattered the calm like a breaking window. Grace stirred slightly, groaned, but did not wake.

Lyle jumped a little, his heart racing. He wasn’t expecting any calls. Very few people still called that line, and every ring made him fear bad news, a crack in the bubble he tried to protect around himself and his daughter.

“Give her to me,” Donovan murmured, reaching for Grace.

He said it in a soft, almost trembling voice, as if asking for more than he dared. Lyle hesitated for a second. But the weight of fatigue in his arms, and maybe a part of himself he wasn’t ready to admit, pushed him to accept.

He gently handed his daughter to Donovan, their hands brushing again, and watched for a moment as the man’s face softened at the touch of the child. Donovan held Grace gently against him, with that awkward but sincere caution of someone who has never had to rock a child, but understands their fragility. His face softened almost instantly, as if the child in his arms had the power to dispel the shadows of his past.

Lyle looked away, his heart tight for reasons he couldn’t quite understand. He walked to the kitchen and lifted the receiver with a hand that wasn’t entirely steady.

“Hello?” he said, his voice slightly tense.

“Lyle, my darling!” exclaimed a voice, vibrant and warm, familiar, filled with sunshine and old memories.

Lyle felt a sharp, almost painful pinch in his chest, but also a warmth.

Aunt Marta.

“Marta...” he breathed out, like a gasp of fresh air after days of holding his breath.

“How are you, my dear? It’s been a long time since I heard from you… I wanted to make sure you were okay. Tell me… how’s little Grace ? She’s growing, right ? She must be driving you crazy already, huh ?”

Her warm voice filled the kitchen with a softness he no longer knew where to put inside himself. A balm, but also a reminder of everything he had left behind.

“She’s fine. She’s growing fast… She’s healthy.”

“That’s a relief. Tell me, is she eating well ? Sleeping a bit at night ? Are you managing, my dear ? I know it’s not easy, but you’re a good father, you know.”

Lyle nodded gently, a sincere, subtle smile stretching his lips. He glanced toward the living room. Donovan had stood up and was walking slowly with Grace, rocking her the way Lyle had seen him do, with a touching awkwardness. The scene felt almost unreal.

“Yeah, I’m trying... I’m doing my best.”

“I know, my child. But take care of yourself too. You know that without you, she’d be nothing. You are all she has.”

He took a slow breath, feeling his shoulders grow heavier under that truth. Then Marta’s voice lost some of its softness and became more serious.

“And, Lyle… I wanted to talk to you about something. That man, Donovan. I saw that photo of him at the park on TV. I recognized him immediately. I know what he did to you, what he said during the trial.”

Lyle closed his eyes, clenching his fingers around the receiver. Tension rose inside him like a black tide.

“Don’t you think it’s dangerous to let him back into your life ? Especially now… with everything that happened ?”

He leaned against the countertop, lowering his eyes, voice almost strangled.

“It’s complicated. I know what he did. But it’s not that simple. He’s trying, I see it. I watch him, and I can’t deny that he wants to change. He doesn’t want to be who he was.”

A long, deep sigh crossed the line like a wind sweeping away ashes.

“I don’t want to scare you. But I want you to be careful. He betrayed your trust. That doesn’t erase in a week, nor with a few looks. You have a daughter now. You can’t afford to hope blindly. How can you be sure he won’t do it again ? And above all… that he won’t do anything that could hurt Grace ?”

Those words hit Lyle right in the heart. He looked up toward the living room. Donovan had sat back down, Grace asleep in his arms, his face peaceful, almost tender. His hand gently stroked her back in slow, steady motions. The image was beautiful. Yes. But beautiful didn’t mean safe.

Marta was right. He knew it. But he no longer knew what to do with his feelings.

“I’m careful, aunt Marta,” he murmured. “I don’t want her to suffer.”

A silence. Then Marta spoke again, softer but firm.

“And Erik ? How is he at UCLA ?”

“Erik’s fine. He likes UCLA. He visits me whenever he can. He loves Grace. We… we avoid talking about the past.”

"Lyle…" Marta whispered. "Your family is fragile. Broken, but not beyond repair. You have to be strong for them. For yourself. For your daughter."

She fell silent for a moment. Then her voice, lower, almost motherly, resumed:

"I know you want to move forward. I can feel it. But move forward with your eyes open. Donovan has to earn your trust. Not just yours, but your daughter’s as well. He has to earn this second chance. You’ve already paid. Don’t pay again for mistakes that aren’t yours anymore."

Lyle closed his eyes, a silent tear sliding down his cheek.

"I’ll be careful, aunt Marta. I promise you."

"It's what I want to hear," she said, a smile noticeable in her voice. "Call me whenever you want. I’ll always be here. I love you, my child."

"Me too." He hesitated. Then, in a breath : "And… my uncle ? My cousins ? How are they ?"

"Your uncle is true to himself," she replied with an affectionate laugh. "He spends his days in his garden, talking more to his tomatoes than to me. And Andy… he talks about you and Erik often. He’s waiting for you both to come back together."

A shiver slowly ran up Lyle’s spine, like an invisible hand waking a part of him he had put to sleep. That name—Andy—hit him with a bittersweet tenderness.

He closed his eyes for a moment. In the darkness behind his eyelids, images returned without warning : Andy running barefoot in the grass, wearing that old oversized t-shirt, a blue kite tied to his wrist; his laughing voice during summer meals; their last Christmas together, just before everything changed. Bright memories, almost unreal now, as if someone else had lived them in his place.

Andy had been more than a cousin. He was like a brother, a partner in crime. Someone who always knew when Lyle needed silence, or, on the contrary, a silly laugh. He was one of those who never asked questions to judge, but to understand.

And he had lost him, too.

Or rather, he had drifted away, voluntarily. He had cut ties after the trial. Too much shame. Too many buried secrets. Too much fear of what the reunion would awaken. He had been afraid of no longer recognizing in Andy’s eyes that old bond, that childhood tenderness that might turn into a look of doubt, or worse… pity.

He swallowed painfully. His throat burned.

“I miss him,” he murmured, almost without realizing it.

It came out on its own, like a sigh held in for too long. Not a confession. Not a declaration. Just a bare truth, floating there, between him and Marta.

He had buried that absence for years. He had convinced himself that some bridges had to stay burned. That it was simpler.

But Andy’s voice, his warmth, his childlike loyalty—all of that came back now like a slow, steady tide, irresistible.

That world seemed so far away… summers at the lake, board games scattered on the floor, evenings inventing ridiculous scenarios with Erik and Andy…

“Tell him I’m thinking of him. Tell him I love him.”

“I will, my dear. You have a family who loves you, even when everything seems complicated. Never forget that.”

Her voice barely trembled, but Lyle felt his heart tighten even more. He bit the inside of his cheek, unable to speak right away.

“You know,” Marta continued softly, “Andy often asks if you and Erik are okay. He doesn’t blame you, you know. He just wants you to remember that he’s there. That you grew up together. That he’s still waiting for you.”

A warm shiver rose in Lyle’s chest, mixed with a dull sadness. It was so simple, said like that. And yet, so heavy to bear.

“Do you think he’d want to talk to me ?” he finally asked, almost in a whisper.

“I think he’s been waiting for that,” Marta answered gently. “He really misses you and Erik. And he’s ready. He never stopped believing in you both.”

Lyle lowered his head, a silent tear falling onto his palm.

Maybe it wasn’t too late.

Maybe not all broken ties were irreparable.

They exchanged a few more tender words—those that heal without anyone noticing. Then Marta concluded softly:

“Take care of yourself, and your princess. And call me soon. You’re my light, Lyle. Even from afar.”

“I promise, aunt Marta. I love you.”

“I love you too, my dear.”

Lyle hung up. He stayed there a moment, his hand still on the receiver, as if breaking contact with Marta shattered something warm and safe inside him. Then he slowly turned his eyes toward the living room.

Donovan had fallen asleep, his head resting against the back of the sofa, Grace still in his arms, peaceful. A tender scene. A fragile painting.

And Lyle, caught between two worlds, felt a strange emotion rise within him. Fear, yes. But also… hope.

~~

The house was bathed in soft twilight, wrapped in the reassuring calm of the night. Only the flickering glow of a bedside lamp faintly illuminated the study, casting amber light over walls lined with books and old photographs. The steady tick-tock of an old clock marked the silence.

Lyle sat at his dark wooden desk, his back slightly hunched, as if crushed under the weight of a too-heavy memory. In front of him, an open notebook, blank. His hand held a pen but hung suspended, motionless, as if unable to begin. His gaze, blurry, was fixed on a slightly dog-eared photo resting at the corner of the desk. Three faces, frozen in the happiness of another time: him, Erik, and Andy, arms around each other’s shoulders, broad smiles, tousled hair, standing in front of an old lake under the summer sun.

This photo had survived hell.

Andy. His cousin. His brother of heart. The benevolent shadow who had carried them, Erik and him, when they had no words left. When they had no strength left.

A long, painful sigh escaped Lyle’s chest. His throat tightened, as if every emotion, every memory, surged all at once.

Andy had been the first to know. The first to hear the dirtiest, most buried secrets. The humiliations. The screams behind the walls. José’s abominable acts. And he had been there, to the end, standing in that cold courtroom, his voice trembling with a courage even Lyle didn’t fully understand today. He did it for them, unconditionally. Even when others had turned away.

But since then, nothing. Silence. An emptiness maintained by shame, fear, exhaustion. Like a thread no one dared to pull for fear it would snap.

He reached out for the landline phone, hesitated for a second — then picked up. He searched through the small address book Marta had mailed him, handwritten in blue ink. His fingers barely trembled.

He dialed the number.

The ringing echoed sharply through the quiet house, piercing, almost brutal in this hushed atmosphere. Lyle closed his eyes for a moment, holding his breath.

“Hello?” came a man’s voice, full of surprise but warm, like a fire thought extinguished.

A shiver ran down his spine.

“Andy ? It’s me… Lyle.”

A silence. Not an awkward one. A heavy, loaded silence, saturated with buried emotions.

“Lyle… Jesus Christ. I… I didn’t expect to hear from you. It’s been so long.”

Andy’s voice seemed to tremble slightly, as if crossing the years of distance and pain.

“Yes… too long. I know I ran away, disappeared. But I want to… I want us to see each other, to talk. I need you.”

Andy let out a long breath on the other end, as if allowing himself to believe again.

“You know I’ve always supported you and Erik. From day one. The trial… everything. I never let you go. Even when you thought everyone would.”

Lyle felt a tear well at the corner of his eye. He let it fall.

“I know. And I’ve never forgotten. You were our confidant, Andy. The only one to reach out without judging. I think back on everything we went through… and it tightens my chest. Sometimes it feels like it happened yesterday. And sometimes… I feel like it’s another life.”

“We were broken, Lyle. But not destroyed. We’re still here. And you know why ? Because we found each other. Because we held on, even in the dark.”

There was a small laugh in his voice, soft, vibrant.

“You know… I’ve often thought about Grace. About her, what she represents. She has a father who’s been through everything, and who’s still standing. She’s lucky, Lyle.”

“Thank you, Andy. That… that feels good to hear. I’d like us to reunite. For real. Not just words on the phone. I want to see you. I miss you, my brother.”

“You too, Lyle. Give me a date, a place. I’ll move heaven and earth to come.”

They stayed on the phone for a few more minutes, speaking like people after a shipwreck. Promises. Memories. Smiles they thought were forgotten.

Then, finally, they hung up.

Lyle kept the receiver against his cheek a moment longer. His heart felt lighter. A gentle warmth settled in his chest. A glimmer of hope, faint but real.

He gently set down the receiver, then stood and turned toward the study door, which slowly opened.

Donovan appeared in the doorway, wearing a t-shirt and pajama pants, hair a little tousled, eyes still tired but full of curiosity.

“Everything okay?” he asked quietly.

Lyle quickly wiped a tear, surprised by his own vulnerability. He nodded.

“I just called Andy. My cousin… the one who was there for Erik and me. He was the first to know. The first to believe us. The first to testify.”

Donovan approached silently and sat beside him, eyes fixed on him with calm attentiveness.

“That must have been powerful,” he said softly. “To talk to him again. To reconnect with someone who saw you before… all that.”

Lyle nodded, voice a little broken.

“It’s like… like finding a piece of myself. Something I had tucked away in a drawer, too painful to look at. But now, it gives me hope. Maybe we can heal. For real. With him… with you.”

Donovan slowly reached out and placed his hand on Lyle’s, gently, without force.

A silence, this time calming.

Lyle looked down at their intertwined hands, then lifted his gaze to Donovan. He smiled. A true smile, tired, trembling, but sincere.

~~

Morning slowly awakened, and with it, the house was bathed in a warm, golden light. The curtains let in a gentle breeze, carrying the scent of the garden and the familiar smell of warm milk. In the still quiet living room, only the soft ticking of the wall clock could be heard.

Lyle sat on the large beige rug, leaning against the sofa, legs stretched out. Grace was nestled against his chest, wrapped in a pastel-striped pajama. She was quietly sucking on a corner of her blanket, eyes half-closed, caught in that fragile space between waking and dreaming.

Lyle gently rested his chin on her head, closed his eyes for a few seconds, then whispered:

"You know, princess... there’s someone I want to tell you about." His voice was soft, almost shy, as if he wasn’t quite sure he had the right to speak of this part of his heart. "His name is Andy. He’s my cousin... but to me, he has always been more than that. He was there before anything else. Before people knew what we were going through at home, before the world got involved. He knew how to listen, he believed us."

Lyle paused, softly stroking Grace’s fine hair.

"You know, sometimes, when you’re a child, you think no one will see you. That you can disappear into the pain and it won’t matter. But Andy... he saw me. And he saw Erik too. "

Grace looked up at him, curious, as if she felt, in her father’s voice, something important, something precious.

"He was the first to know. The first to hear our secrets. We asked him to keep everything we told him about what we were going through at home a secret, and he did—even though I know it cost him. But when we needed him to speak up, he did. He could have stayed silent, out of fear, like so many others. But he spoke up for us. He told the truth. He broke the silence. He reached out his hand... and I believe that saved us."

Lyle smiled faintly, his eyes shining.

"I missed him. Every day. But we’ll see each other again. Soon. He wants to meet you. And you’re going to love him, I know it. He has that laugh that fills a room. He’s a little crazy, talks too fast when he’s nervous, and he used to make me weird sandwiches when I was a kid... but he’s the most loyal person I know. And I want him to be part of your life."

He paused, placing a long, silent kiss on the top of his daughter’s head.

"I spent so much time afraid, Grace. Running from everything that reminded me of what we went through. But Andy, he reminds me that we’re not just the sum of what we endured. He reminds me that we can heal. And sometimes, family isn’t what you’ve lost. It’s what you choose to keep."

Grace let out a little laugh for no reason, her eyes sparkling, and grabbed the collar of Lyle’s t-shirt with her tiny hands.

He laughed softly in return, tears threatening to fall but held back by the warmth of the moment.

"You and I, we’re a team. But I think we can make the circle bigger. He deserves to know you. And you deserve to know where you come from... and who was there to keep us standing."

He stayed there for a long moment, rocked by his daughter’s calm breathing. The house was peaceful, for once. And in that peace, he felt a new certainty growing inside him: some wounds only heal through the ties we decide to reconnect.

Night had fallen quite a while ago. The house was bathed in reassuring darkness, barely lit by the golden light from the kitchen left on like a discreet beacon. Outside, crickets chirped beneath the cypress trees; the world seemed to have retreated far away, very far.

In the bedroom, Donovan lay on his side, his head resting on his folded arm. He watched Lyle, who sat cross-legged on the edge of the mattress, holding a still-warm mug in his hands. They hadn’t turned on any lights. The hallway’s glow outlined their silhouettes in half-tones, like a frozen scene out of time.

Lyle’s gaze was lost on the wall opposite. He seemed to have been thinking for several minutes, saying nothing.

Donovan gently broke the silence : "What are you thinking about ?"

Lyle didn’t answer right away. He slowly twirled the mug between his fingers, his eyes unfocused.

"Andy..." he finally whispered. "...again. He’s one of the few faces from my past I don’t associate with fear. Like I told you, he was the first to know. The first to understand. And instead of looking away, he listened, he believed us. He wanted us to talk, but we were too scared. He used to tell us sometimes that silence would eat me up from the inside."

"He was right", Donovan replied softly.

Lyle nodded gently.

"He came to the trial. He testified. He told what he knew, what he saw, what I had told him one night, almost crying, half drunk on fear and exhaustion… He gave me a voice when I had none left."

Donovan lowered his eyes, hands folded over the sheets.

"And how long has it been since you talked to him ?"

"Since the year of the verdict" Lyle breathed. "He tried, but I… I was sinking. I thought I deserved nothing anymore. Neither family, nor friendship. And least of all someone like him in my life." He slowly lifted his eyes to Donovan. "We’re going to see each other again."

Donovan smiled softly, but his eyes remained watchful, as if weighing every nuance.

"Have you told him about me ?"

"Not yet. Not like that. He’s probably heard things. And he knows who you are. Marta must have talked… or he saw the photos at the park on TV and in magazines. And I know it’s not going to be easy. Andy knows me. He’ll see you right away for who you are. And if you hurt me… he won’t let you."

Donovan slowly nodded, without defending himself. "He’d be right."

A silence. Then Lyle leaned forward, set the mug on the bedside table. He stayed for a moment with his back to Donovan, shoulders a bit hunched.

"You know what it felt like, saying his name out loud ? Talking about him to Grace ? I felt like… maybe I wasn’t stuck there anymore. In that damn house. In that trial. In that fucking verdict. Maybe by finding Andy again… I find a version of myself I thought was dead."

He turned around, eyes shining.

"And I want you to know that version. Not the one you saw at the trial. Not the one who just survives. The one who stands tall. Because she finally decided to love without fear."

Donovan straightened up, knelt on the bed to be at his level. He gently took Lyle’s hand in his.

"Then let me learn. Let me meet that version of you. And let me fight to deserve her."

Silence surrounded them again, dense but soft. Lyle simply nodded, resting his forehead against Donovan’s, eyes closed. For a moment, nothing else existed. Not the past. Not the photos in the papers. Just this bond, still fragile, but growing ever more real.

~~

The California sky was growing darker, swollen with shades of deep purple and molten gold. In the kitchen, Lyle was finishing up clearing the dinner dishes. His movements were automatic, washing the still-warm plates with near-mechanical precision. On the other side of the room, Donovan cradled Grace, his steady breath matching the child’s calm repose against his shoulder.

The silence between them held that rare fragility, an unstable balance only routines built with care can offer. A routine almost tender, almost normal.

Donovan placed Grace in her crib, gently tucking in her blanket, then returned to the kitchen. He moved quietly, as if wrapped in his own thoughts, while Lyle, with his back to him, wiped a glass in vague motions—searching in that action for an escape, a refuge for his hands.

The atmosphere had shifted subtly since the start of the meal: Donovan was quieter than usual, more distant. Not cold, just… tense, almost heavy.

“Could you sit down for a minute?” Donovan murmured, in a low, slightly broken voice.

Lyle turned slowly, his brow creased with mild but genuine concern. Without a word, he complied. They sat side by side at the table, bathed in the soft kitchen light, the familiar hum of the refrigerator pulsing quietly in the background, weighting what they were about to say.

Donovan folded his arms on the table and drew in a long breath, the kind you take before stepping off a ledge. His gaze drifted to the window, where the morning light touched the curtains, then returned to Lyle. He locked eyes, as if seeking an anchor in the storm.

“I got a call this morning—from the agency. I need to go back to New Jersey. It’s temporary, just a few weeks, maybe longer. But I have to go.”

The silence that followed thickened, dense and tangible, as if the air itself had frozen around them. Lyle sat motionless, his gaze barely wavering before drifting toward the dark hallway that led to the nursery where Grace slept, fragile and silent. He inhaled, as if regaining his footing, and then returned his attention to Donovan.

“When is it?”

“In two days. My ticket is booked.”

Lyle remained frozen. His face was impassive, yet his jaw tightened subtly—one of those minute, almost imperceptible signs that speak louder than words. As if he was trying to hold back a surge of emotion too sharp, too old.

“And you planned on telling me when? Right before you boarded the plane?”

His response was sharp yet measured, a blade hidden in calm steel.

“I wanted to tell you at the right time… But I don’t think there’s ever a ‘right’ time.”

Lyle stood up slowly and mechanically, his body stiff with a tension almost impossible to contain. He paced around the table, purposelessly, just to move, to breathe—seeking air, a space to let the wave pass without drowning.

“And you’re coming back?” he finally asked, voice low but tense, vibrating with a mix of worry and weariness—not just physical, but of the soul, tired from caring too much.

Donovan rose too, moving toward him slowly, each step careful, almost restrained, as if not to break something invisible between them.

“I want to come back. I will come back. This isn’t fleeing, Lyle. Not abandonment. It’s work—my way of holding onto a semblance of balance. Staying standing. But I want you to know I take what we’re building seriously. You. Grace.”

Lyle slowly turned to face him. His eyes glistened with unshed emotion, wet but unnoticed. A quiet sadness—ancient—rose gently to the surface, threatening to overflow. Inside, he battled between the fear of being hurt again and the desire to trust, this time.

“It’s always like this,” he whispered. “People leave. They promise they’re not running, that it's for the best. Then one day—silence. Absence. Emptiness.”

Donovan didn’t respond right away. He moved closer again, gently, like approaching a wounded animal. His gaze softened, yet grew steadier, filled with naked sincerity, disarming, daring the doubt.

“I’m not like the others.”

“Prove it.”

The challenge wasn’t aggressive. It was a plea in disguise—a call not to be disappointed again.

Donovan nodded slowly, voice low but firm.

“I will. I’m not asking you to take my word for it. I’m asking you to wait for me. Not long. Just enough time to do this right. To come back whole, for good.”

Lyle turned away, almost to protect himself, unwilling to show how much it mattered. His heart raced, pounding too strong. He was scared. Scared to hope. Scared to get used to this fragile warmth, this still-new presence, only to lose it again.

Then, almost inaudible, he whispered:

"I’ll keep a place for you… but don’t leave it empty too long."

A gentle smile touched Donovan’s face—tender and hopeful, dotted with uncertainty, like a shy ray of light at a hesitant dawn. He said nothing more, but his eyes said enough.

And in that silent promise, they remained suspended between two moments:

One drifting away.

The other still waiting to exist.

~~

Los Angeles International Airport unfolded around them like a muted ballet of motion. Announcements echoed over the speakers, the distant sound of rolling suitcases dragged across the floor, muffled voices lost under ceilings too high. The terminal felt enormous, impersonal, cold—like all those places where people say goodbye to what they love.

Donovan nervously adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder. His ticket stuck out from a leather folder clutched in his trembling fingers, already creased. He looked uncomfortable in his travel clothes: a worn denim jacket, a hoodie peeking from beneath the collar, as if layering himself in fabric could act as protection. His eyes scanned the crowd around him, but they always found their way back to Lyle.

Lyle, trying to preserve himself, had stepped slightly aside from the crowd. He avoided people, uneasy with the idea that someone might recognize him—especially in a moment this vulnerable. A baseball cap was pulled low over his brow, dark sunglasses hiding his face—a fragile shield against unwanted eyes. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, his expression locked in place, hardened by exhaustion. He hadn’t slept. The T-shirt he’d thrown on that morning peeked out from under a poorly buttoned jacket, and he hadn’t even bothered to tie his shoelaces properly. Everything about him radiated weariness. But not the kind that comes from a sleepless night—this was deeper, older. The fatigue of someone already feeling the ache of absence before the departure had even begun.

"I hate this place, he finally muttered, voice hoarse. People don’t look at each other when they say goodbye."

Donovan gave a tired, sad smile. "Maybe because it hurts too much."

Lyle turned his head toward him, eyes narrowed, breath unsteady.

"You’re leaving without really knowing when you’ll come back. Do you know what that feels like for me ? Like someone’s pulling away my life raft in the middle of the ocean. And I don’t know how to swim."

Donovan shrugged, awkward. "I don’t want you to feel that way. I’m not leaving to run away. I’m leaving because I have to. For Grace. For us."

Lyle clenched his fists. "For us ? Or for you ? Because it feels like it’s always for you. Not for us."

Donovan looked down, then back up again, steadier this time.

"I want this to work, Lyle. I really do. But I need this to stay balanced. This job—it’s what keeps me standing. I can’t abandon you. I promised I’d come back. And I will."

Lyle stepped closer, his voice trembling. "And what if you don’t ? What if this time it’s real ? What do I do then ?"

Donovan placed a hand gently on Lyle’s shoulder. "Then I’d understand your anger. I’d understand because I’d be scared too. But I’m asking you one thing: give me a chance. Just a little time. Not long. Just enough to come back."

Lyle turned his gaze away, heart tightening.

"I wish I could believe that. Really."

Silence fell over them again, heavy, full of unsaid things. Donovan set his bag down at his feet, stepped in closer to Lyle.

"I’m not going to make promises I’m not sure I can keep. But I want you to know I’m coming back as fast as I can. I think about it every minute. Not just about you—about her too."

"... I saw the way Grace looked at you this morning, Lyle said, voice thick. Like she knew it was goodbye, even if she didn’t really understand."

Donovan nodded, painfully.

"Tell her I went to find a piece of the world to bring back to her. That I’ll be home soon. That I already love her like she’s mine."

Lyle took a deep breath, struggling against the lump rising in his throat.

"And what about me ?"

"You... you picked me up when I thought I was beyond saving. You let me love you even though I have nothing to show for it yet. I know I’ve still got work to do. But you matter. Too much for me to walk away."

He reached out a hand. Hesitated. Then, with the tips of his fingers, he brushed Lyle’s cheek—a touch as fragile as a heartbeat. Lyle’s skin shivered under the light contact. He closed his eyes for a second, trying to memorize the feeling.

"Come back soon", he whispered.

"As soon as I can."

The loudspeaker called for boarding to Newark. Donovan took a step back, reluctantly, and picked up his bag.

"I left something for you. On the desk, he said in a breath. Don’t read it right away. Wait until you’re ready."

Lyle opened his mouth, but no words came. He just nodded, slowly.

Donovan didn’t say anything else. No dramatic goodbye, no grand gestures. Just one last look—intense, silent, final.

And then he turned away.

He walked straight ahead, not looking back, swallowed by the flow of travelers and the hum of a world in motion. His bag on his shoulder, ticket in hand—and a piece of Lyle’s heart in his pocket.

Lyle stood there. Alone. Suspended in an instant between two heartbeats.

And the world moved on, as if nothing had happened.

The house felt bigger than usual. Too quiet. Too tidy.

Lyle gently closed the door behind him. There was no sound of Grace’s laughter, no soft footsteps from Donovan in the kitchen. Just the muffled click of the wood—and then, nothing.

Erik had picked up Grace earlier, before Lyle and Donovan left. Lyle had thanked him without saying much, grateful not to have taken his daughter to the airport. He didn’t want her to feel the weight of it. The goodbye.

He had driven Donovan to the terminal in silence, the words too dense to come easily. And now, back home, he felt that silence stretch and spread into every corner.

He took off his jacket and let it fall over the back of the couch, unfolded. It wasn’t cold, but he was shivering. He passed through the living room out of habit, as if he might find Donovan sitting cross-legged on the floor, Grace in his arms.

But there was only the rumpled pillow they shared at night. And an empty mug on the coffee table.

It was when he walked past the desk, hands in his pockets, that he saw it. A single sheet of paper, folded in half, placed neatly next to the notebook where Donovan sometimes scribbled down songs or memories.

His name.

Written in black ink. Simple, precise, almost hesitant.

Lyle stood there for a few seconds, frozen. He knew. He knew it was something Donovan couldn’t say out loud. He knew those words would matter.

He pulled the chair out and slowly sat down. His fingers brushed the paper.

And he read.

"Lyle,

I know you don’t need a note. You want actions. And you’re right.
But I’m leaving this anyway—because sometimes, when I’m not there, I want you to hear my voice in your head. Not the voice of the man who gave testimony. Not the one who hurt you. Just mine. The one from today.

I didn’t grow up in a world where people learn how to love cleanly. I don’t always know what to say or how to show things at the right time. But since I stepped into your home, since I saw Grace laugh, since I watched you watch over her in silence… I know one thing: I want to stay in that light.

Leaving—even just for a little while—feels like I’m screwing up. But I’m doing it because I have to. Not because I want to. And definitely not because I’m done with what we’ve started.

I saw you open up, inch by inch, even though you didn’t trust anything. Not me. Not the world. Not even yourself. You let me stay. You let me in. I slept in the guest room. Then in your bed. You let me hold your daughter, rock her, love her. You looked at me like no one ever has. And I fell in love with that. With the slowness. With your quiet strength. With your fear, too—because it mirrors mine.

I’m leaving, but I’m not walking away. I need you to know that. I need you to feel it, even if you’ve learned not to trust people who say “I’ll come back.”

I know you’ve heard those words too often. And that they left you alone. I’m not going to promise everything will be perfect, or that I’ll be perfect. But I’ll do better. For you. For her. For us.

You asked me to prove I’m not like the others. Here’s my first proof: I’m writing this letter even though I’m terrified I won’t know how to find my way back to you. And still—I will. Because you’re my home now. Not a place. You.

Tell Grace I think of her every day. That I remember how she grabs my finger when she sleeps. That I’m coming back. And that I left her a piece of sky in my bag, just for her.

And you, Lyle… wait for me. Not passively. Keep living. Keep complaining about the coffee being too strong. But save me a space—even a small one. Even a crooked one. I’ll know how to come back to it.

And if you ever doubt… read this line again :

I’m there, even when I’m not there.

Donovan"

When he looked up, Lyle stayed still for a long time, the letter in his hands, his fingers still touching the words.

He wasn’t crying. Not really. But there was something strange in his chest—like something inside had opened and was fighting not to collapse.

He gently folded the paper, careful not to crease it, and walked over to the sideboard. He opened a drawer and placed the letter inside, like someone putting away something precious they don’t want to lose.

Then he went to sit in the armchair—Donovan’s favorite spot in the evenings. He closed his eyes, tilted his head back.

And whispered, almost voiceless:

"Come back."

Chapter Text

Day 3 :

The living room was quiet. Too quiet.

Lyle sat on the couch, Grace asleep against him, her tiny hand gripping the fabric of his shirt like an anchor. He didn’t move. His gaze was lost in the distance, listening to the steady tick of the wall clock, the soft breathing of his daughter, and… nothing else.

Normally, Donovan would’ve put on some music. An old soul cassette worn thin from overuse, or the soundtrack to some improbable film. He would’ve hummed out of tune, made a stupid comment about the raspy voices or the over-the-top orchestration—just absurd enough to make Lyle roll his eyes. And often, that would earn a smile. Even a reluctant one.

But tonight, there was only that empty silence. A silence that felt just a little too wide.

Lyle looked down at the cushion beside him, where an old black T-shirt still lay—the one Donovan wore to sleep. He picked it up, held it gently. The fabric was still warm with recent memory. It still carried that smell: a mix of cheap laundry detergent, skin, and something indefinable that belonged only to him.

He hadn’t realized that absence could weigh so heavily. Or that longing could slip in so quickly, so quietly. Like a cold draft in a room you thought was sealed shut.

Day 6 :

That morning, Lyle had gotten up like always. No slower, no faster.

He’d made the bottle, changed Grace in silence, opened the shutters one by one, letting in a soft, sleepy light that settled gently on the walls.

He put on the coffee. For two.

And froze.

The black mug—Donovan’s mug, the one with the chipped rim—was already there on the counter. As if by reflex.

Lyle stared at it for a few seconds, unable to remember when he’d taken it out. Maybe his hands had done it on their own, part of the unthinking choreography of mornings they used to share.

His fingers trembled slightly as he put it back in the cupboard, slowly, almost as if offering a silent apology.

Then, without really thinking, he sat down at the breakfast table. Grace was gurgling softly in her rocker, and the mail was spread out in front of him, carrying its usual mix of bills and junk—casual, indifferent.

But in the middle… a postcard.

Simple. A lighthouse, weathered and standing alone under a leaden sky.

He turned it over, and the handwriting—unmistakable—hit him like a breath of cold air.

"I saw this lighthouse and thought of you. Solid, alone. But necessary.
I’m counting the days.
— D."

Lyle read the words over and over again. First mechanically. Then more slowly, as if to weigh them, to understand them, to search for something larger hidden inside those few lines.

For a moment, his eyes burned. But nothing fell.

Finally, he got up, crossed the room, and slid the postcard beneath the heart-shaped magnet on the fridge. Right in the center. Like a reminder.

Or a promise.

Day 9 :

Grace was asleep. The rain pattered gently against the windowpanes, an uneven rhythm, almost soothing.

Lyle lay in bed, on his back, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Motionless.

It was the first night he couldn’t fall asleep. And yet, the tiredness was there — in his shoulders, his eyelids, deep down in his bones. But that wasn’t it. It was something else. Absence.

The absence of a breath beside his own. The absence of weight on the other side of the mattress.

The warmth of an arm that, sometimes, in half-sleep, would brush against his without a word. A habit born without warning.

He turned onto his side and gently pulled the sheet. His arm slid across the empty space. Crumpled but cold. Uninhabited.

He closed his eyes tighter, as if trying to find the echo of a presence there. A shadowy silhouette, a familiar sigh, a body turned toward his own.

But it was only a cold sheet. And the silence, which the rain no longer managed to cover.

Day 11 :

It was a little past ten o’clock. The rain was still falling, lighter today, like a long, weary breath on the living room windows.

Lyle sat on the floor, back against the couch, a mug of warm tea in his hands. He watched Grace in her playpen, who was playing with a stuffed giraffe. Or at least, she was turning it over in her hands, chewing on it, then throwing it down. And starting again.

She babbled softly, a high, steady sound. Then she stopped. Pulled herself up on all fours, her gaze fixed on the staircase. A moment suspended.

Lyle followed her eyes. “What are you looking at, sweetheart ?”

Grace furrowed her tiny brows, then tapped the floor twice with her palm. A sharp sound. A call.

She then raised her arms, as she did almost every morning — but not toward Lyle. Toward over there. The staircase. Where Donovan always left, hair tousled, with his morning hoarse voice and a tired smile.

A small sound escaped from Grace’s mouth. Not a word. Not yet. But it was clear. An expectation. A reflex. A gesture she’d learned. And that, this morning again, called no one.

Lyle felt his heart tighten. He set the mug down on the floor and ran a hand through his hair.

“He… he’s not here, baby.”

But she kept staring at the door, arms outstretched. Her little fingers wiggled, impatient, as if trying to catch something in the air. Then, seeing nothing come, she let out a small plaintive whimper, sank down on her bottom, and began to fuss. Not loudly. But enough for Lyle to feel the guilt creep deep into his chest.

He stood, took her into his arms, rocked her gently. She wasn’t crying anymore, but she buried her head in his neck.

“I want him to come back too,” he whispered against her forehead.

He swayed slowly, his gaze still fixed on the door, as if it would open any moment now.

But nothing. Just the rain. And Lyle’s arms—too lonely, even with all the love in the world inside them.

Day 13 :

Lyle had hesitated all day. He had looked at the phone more than ten times. He even picked it up once, without dialing, before hanging up immediately.

But that evening, while putting Grace in her crib, he thought he couldn’t take it anymore. He picked up. Dialed. Waited.

Beep. Message.

"Hi. It’s me. It’s stupid, I know you’re working, you have crazy hours, you’re probably on a train or in some office that smells like disinfectant. But Grace tried to say your name this morning. Well, it was more like “Daaa,” but... it was there. She looked for you in the living room. And I... I find myself talking to you even when you’re not here. Thinking about what you would have said. It’s weird. But I miss it. I miss you. Come back soon."

He hung up.

Then stayed still for several minutes, the handset resting on his knees.

The sun was slowly setting, casting golden shadows across the silent living room. Lyle was slumped on the couch, Donovan’s letter in hand. He reread it again and again, as if to draw a little warmth from it.

His fingers trembled slightly as they touched the paper, and deep inside him, a dull ache crept in, mingling with the fragile hope Donovan had left behind.

A soft knock at the door made Lyle jump. He quickly wiped away a tear that threatened to fall and opened it.

Erik stood there, eyes full of gentleness and concern.

"Hey", Erik said softly. "I thought maybe you needed to see a familiar face."

Lyle nodded, trying to steady his voice. "Come in."

Erik sat down opposite him, setting his bag beside him. Silence weighed for a moment.

"So, how are you ? Really ?" Erik asked, looking at him carefully.

Lyle took a deep breath, words stuck in his throat. "I... I thought it would get better, he said with a broken voice. But since Donovan left, it’s like... there’s this huge emptiness here." He pointed to his chest, to his heart. "And it’s not just me. It’s Grace too. She watches the door, looks around as if she knows someone’s missing."

His voice caught, and his eyelids closed for a few seconds as a silent tear slid down.

"I don’t think I ever realized how much he meant… until he was gone."

Erik stood gently and sat beside him on the couch. He put a protective arm around his shoulders.

"I know, brother. It’s hard. We all feared losing something we never really had. But look at you. You’re here, strong, with Grace."

"Sometimes I wonder if I’ll be the father she deserves", Lyle admitted, his voice breaking. "Without Donovan, I feel lost."

Erik squeezed a little tighter.

"You’re a great dad. And she needs you. And I’m here too. You’re not alone."

Silence. Lyle lowered his head.

Erik looked at him for a long moment. Then, with rare softness, he said : "Lyle... can I ask you a somewhat... personal question ?"

Lyle turned his head toward him, brows furrowed.

"Sure."

Erik hesitated, choosing his words carefully.

"What you feel for Donovan... it’s more than friendship, isn’t it ?"

Silence settled. Lyle didn’t answer right away. He tensed slightly, then closed his eyes for a moment.

"I... I don’t know what to say."

Erik didn’t look away, but without judgment. Or almost none.

A part of him, well hidden, hadn’t forgotten. What Donovan did. That moment at the trial when everything changed. That betrayal, that absence at the worst time. But despite that — or maybe because of it — he wanted to understand. He wanted to believe things could still get better.

"You don’t have to tell me what you don’t want to. But I know you. And I see what you’ve lost there, in your silences, in the way you look at the door. It’s not just a friend you miss, Lyle. It’s someone who anchored you."

Lyle gripped the letter tighter in his hand.

"I never could put a word to it. Not really. Not with... everything we went through. It’s just that when he’s here, I’m not scared anymore. I breathe better. That’s all."

Erik smiled softly, despite the shadow in his eyes.

"That’s not “just all.” And you know what? I don’t care about the word. Really. If that’s what makes you feel alive, if that’s what gives you air... then that’s good. And I just want you to be happy. With whoever you want. However you want."

He paused, struggling with a truth he couldn’t quite let go of.

"I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t angry at him. He let us down when it mattered most. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to trust him. But you—I trust you. And if you still see something real in him, then... I can try."

A shiver ran through Lyle. He opened his mouth, closed it, then finally whispered:

"We never had that kind of space for us, huh ? Just... being. Without having to hide or twist ourselves to fit in the right box."

"No", Erik replied. "But we can build it now. You’ve already started, Lyle. With her. And maybe with him."

He put a hand on his brother’s shoulder.

"You have the right to love. Even if it’s complicated. Even if it’s messy. You have the right."

Lyle swallowed a quiet sob. He looked at his daughter, so peaceful, so vulnerable.

"I hope I don’t mess it all up."

"You will make mistakes. We all do. But loving isn’t one of them. Never."

~~

The sharp ring of the phone echoed through the silent house, breaking the calm of early evening like a stone thrown into water.

Lyle, sitting in his armchair, jumped slightly, his breath caught for a moment. He gently put down the book he was reading, sliding it onto the armrest without marking the page.

He stayed frozen for a moment, his gaze turned toward the handset resting on the sideboard, as if unsure he had heard correctly. His heart began to beat faster, in his chest and all the way to his temples. He stood up slowly, as if the slightest movement might make this unreal moment vanish.

The phone almost vibrated beneath his fingers.

He picked up the receiver with a barely perceptible hesitation, breath held.

"Hello?" he said, his voice a little hoarse, as if he hadn't spoken for hours. Almost incredulous.

A silence. Then a familiar, fragile voice: "Lyle? It's me, Don."

It was rougher than usual. Tired. As if weighed down by miles traveled, sleepless nights, and unspoken words.

A heavy silence settled, full of things yet to be said. Lyle felt his throat tighten. He wanted to speak, but the words seemed stuck in his mouth.

"I'm sorry I didn't call sooner... I guess I was scared," Donovan admitted, his voice low, almost trembling. "Where I am, it's... a real whirlwind. I have to see my family — especially my sister — face things I had pushed aside. And work... it's hell. Endless hours, responsibilities that wear me out."

Lyle closed his eyes. He nodded softly, a useless but instinctive gesture.

"That mustn't have been easy. Are you holding up?"

"I'm trying. But it's hard. Sometimes, I feel like I'm chasing a breath of air."

A silence. Then Donovan added, in a slightly tenser voice: "And you ? How's Grace ? How is she adapting... without me ?"

Lyle felt his throat tighten but softened his voice. "She’s a ray of sunshine. She laughs often. She exhausts me, but she also saves me. But... sometimes, she looks at the door, or the stairs. As if she’s waiting for you to appear. It breaks my heart a little every time."

Donovan took a deep breath, as if every word cost him.

"I know... And for me, every day without her is a weight. You know, hearing your voice... it gives me a little strength. It reminds me why I want to change."

A softer silence followed, full of vulnerability.

"I often think about you two," Donovan admitted. "About those simple little moments I missed. I want to be there. Really be there."

Lyle felt a lump form in his throat. His other hand had clenched the armrest of the chair without his realizing it.

"We learn to move forward," he replied softly. "Step by step."

He smiled, but his eyes were misty. "But it’s true... we miss you. Grace and I."

On the other end of the line, Donovan resumed, voice steadier but trembling with emotion : "I'll come back as soon as I can. And until then, I want us to keep this connection. Even at a distance. Even if it's just a thread."

Lyle smiled, a soft, painful smile. He didn’t know what to say, so he just listened.

Then Donovan’s voice grew lower, more hesitant, as if weighing every syllable:

"Lyle... I also wanted to tell you... I often think about that moment. When we kissed."

Lyle’s heart sped up. A confused warmth spread through his chest, made of apprehension and a happiness he dared not name.

"Yes?" he whispered, barely more than a murmur.

"It was... more than I expected," said Donovan, a slight tremble in his voice. "I had never felt that. Not like that."

A silence.

"It was real. And it scared me. But it also felt good."

Lyle closed his eyes, reliving the moment. The softness. The weight of silence before, and the held breath after.

"Me too," he murmured. "I don’t think I ever dared believe it. Not really. And now... I miss it. More than I can say."

A tender silence settled, filled with that shy closeness they had never truly named.

"We still have a long way to go," Donovan said, with a flicker of hope trembling in his voice. "But I want us to move forward together. Slowly. No rushing."

"I want that too," Lyle replied, eyes still closed. "Take our time."

A slight laugh escaped the receiver. A real laugh, tired but sincere.

"Thank you for being patient with me," said Donovan.

"Thank you for daring to call," replied Lyle, heart tight and light at the same time.

The silence after that was soft. Dense.

"Promise me you'll take care of yourself," murmured Lyle.

"Promise. You too."

The receiver slowly moved away from their ears, but in their hearts, a silent promise had just been sealed.

He remained still for a long moment in the living room, the phone handset still resting on the coffee table, as if trying to hold on to the echo of the voice that had just faded away. He finally settled back into the old armchair, his hands slowly gripping a long-forgotten lukewarm cup of coffee. His thoughts whirled, sharper than ever.

The call. Donovan’s voice. That hesitation, that fragile honesty. The kiss. That simple memory stirred something deep inside him, an emotion he had long suppressed.

Lyle found himself smiling, a gentle smile mixed with a light sadness — the sadness of imposed distance, of days of absence to come. But also that of a budding hope, timid, sneaking into the depths of his tired heart.

He thought of Grace, her curious gaze, her laughter that had filled the last few days. He knew the little girl felt that void too, that absence.

A sigh escaped his lips, blending relief and anxiety.

He wondered how long it would take to rebuild that trust, for Donovan to finally become a solid pillar in their lives, and not just a fleeting breath. But for the first time in a long while, Lyle felt he could believe in something. That this bond, fragile as it was, could grow slowly, at his own pace.

He set down the cup, closed his eyes for a moment, letting the silence envelop him.

Day 15 :

The stroller rolled slowly over the gravel, its wheels barely squeaking at every uneven patch of the path. Lyle hadn’t uttered a word since he had left the car, parked far away—much farther than would be practical. But he wasn’t here for convenience.

He wore the same cap as the other day, pulled low over his eyebrows. Hoodie. Forgotten glasses. Hands buried deep in the sleeves, except the one guiding the stroller. He had checked the surroundings three times before daring to turn into the alley leading to the park.

Nothing strange. Nothing suspicious.

A woman was reading at the foot of a tree. Two children played with a ball. A jogger passed by, headphones on. No suspicious backpack. No stationary guy staring at them.

Grace was cooing softly, her head slightly tilted, eyes half-closed. She seemed half asleep, or simply calm—a precious rarity.

Lyle immediately recognized the place. Their spot. The maple tree, the fence behind it, the slight hollow in the ground where the blanket had been spread before. Everything was the same, except for one absence. Donovan’s. The air seemed a little heavier without him. Less safe. But also less burdened with memories.

He stopped. For a second. Two. Then he inhaled and slowly unfolded the blanket he had folded and put in the stroller’s basket. The very one they had used together.

He carefully laid it on the ground, corner by corner. As if repeating a sacred gesture.

Then he gently detached Grace and placed her on the blanket. She blinked several times, then, like the other day, stretched her arms toward the sky, fascinated by the dancing shadows of the leaves above them.

Lyle sat down, stiff. Back straight. Eyes alert. Like a soldier in a trench. And then… something relaxed.

Not everything. But a little.

He placed a hand on the blanket, exactly where Donovan had sat that day. There was no phone. No messages. Nothing to fill the void. But there was the memory.

Donovan, leaning toward Grace, helping her pick a blade of grass. Donovan, mimicking a karate ladybug attack. Donovan, holding Grace close and saying: “She’s braver than the two of us put together.”

Lyle smiled. Just a little. Not a smile for others. A smile for himself. For them.

Grace babbled louder, grabbed a leaf, crumpled it between her fingers. She rolled clumsily onto her belly, lifted her head with the same proud expression as the other day. That cry, that little triumph. He remembered it. He was there. He was reliving it.

He stretched his legs out in front of him, leaned gently against the tree. And this time, he no longer watched the surroundings.

He was watching his daughter. Just her. And for a few minutes, the world left him alone.

He didn’t know how long he had been there. Ten minutes? Twenty? Maybe more.

The sun had shifted angle. Shadows slowly moved around them like an invisible clock face. Grace didn’t care. She rolled from side to side, arms stretched toward the sky. She picked up twigs, studied them, sometimes tasted them before tossing them away. She let out a little joyful cry when she saw a butterfly pass overhead, as if she already knew it. As if she had been waiting for it.

And Lyle watched her.

He had promised himself to be a protective father. A wall. A refuge. He had locked everything out—the noise, the cameras, the journalists, the judgments, even the curious neighbors’ stares. He had locked the doors, drawn the curtains, organized every day like a mission.

But what he saw there, under that tree, slapped him harder than any newspaper headline ever could.

Grace was radiant.

She wasn’t afraid. She didn’t ask to hide. She lived. She breathed that space as if it belonged to her. And he realized that since her birth, he had never really given her that right.

A metallic taste settled in the back of his throat. He felt his neck stiffen.

He had thought that by protecting her from the world, he was protecting her from pain. From what he had lived through. From what he had seen. But she wasn’t him. She wasn’t his fear. She was… free. Curious. Full of desire. And he had kept her inside. Safe, yes. But locked up too.

He lowered his eyes, unable for a moment to hold the sight of his daughter smiling at the wind. A breath escaped his mouth. A kind of quiet groan. Almost a sob, but without tears. He didn’t know how to cry properly, not like in the movies. For him, it came out silently, through the bones, clenched jaws, knotted fingers.

I stole that from her. Those colors. That sky. Those children’s laughs. I kept them for myself because I was afraid. Because I was hurting. But she… she just wanted to live.

He closed his eyes. His heart beat slowly, with a weight at the end of each thump. And in that silence he had built like a fortress, he heard something else: his daughter’s laughter. Short. Clear. Like a little bell in the air.

He opened his eyes.

Grace had grabbed a handful of grass and was throwing it in the air like confetti, delighted with the result. She looked at him. She waited for him to laugh too.

And he did. Just a little. Not loud enough for anyone to hear. But enough for Grace to see. He leaned toward her, grabbed a handful of grass himself and made the same gesture. The blades flew softly around them. She burst out laughing. He smiled, head bowed.

Then he murmured, without even realizing it: “I’m sorry, my baby. I just wanted to protect you. I was too scared. I… was too scared.”

The wind blew softly. A leaf fell right between them. Grace immediately grabbed it, as if it were a gift from the sky. Lyle looked up to the treetops. The sun passed through the leaves in places. Patches of light danced on their legs. And he made a promise there, without a witness: he would come back.

Not every day. Not without fear. But he would no longer let his fears become Grace’s.

~~

The evening light flooded the kitchen with a pale orange glow as Lyle gently placed Grace in her bouncer near the counter. Her cheek was slightly flushed, tired, but still too excited to sleep. He had opened the sliding glass door a little, letting in the warm air of late afternoon. A bit of city noise. Just enough so the house didn’t feel too silent.

He stood still for a moment, both hands resting on the countertop, his back to the room. Then, as if responding to a distant impulse, he picked up the handset of the landline phone. The long plastic cord unwound slowly as he dialed Donovan’s number from memory.

Three rings.

Then : "Hello ?"

The voice was muffled, as if Donovan had answered while getting up too quickly. Lyle hesitated. He had rehearsed mentally what he wanted to say, but nothing came out exactly as planned.

"It’s me."

A silence. Then, a little softer, but with a noticeable smile in his tone:

"Hey. I’m glad to hear your voice."

Lyle ran a hand through his hair. He looked at Grace, who was playing with one of her slippers.

"We went back. To the park. She and I.

A slight crackle, then Donovan’s breath became more audible.

"Just the two of you ?"

"Yeah. Just us."

He expected questions. An analysis. But Donovan simply said : "How was it ?"

Lyle closed his eyes for a moment. "She... she was happy. She laughed at a butterfly. She rolled in the grass like it was the greatest playground in the world. And I... I didn’t run away."

He heard a soft breath, as if Donovan had sat down quietly.

"I’m proud of you, Lyle. Really."

Lyle felt his throat tighten. He turned away from the counter to lean against the wall. The next words came out softer :

"I realized something. I’ve been so scared... of everything, since the trial. But mostly... of not being enough. For her. Of being a father she’d be ashamed to have. And yet, she smiled. Even locked up, she smiled. But outside... it’s different. It’s more... real.

Donovan murmured: "She loves you. She knows who you are. She doesn’t need you to be perfect. She needs you to be there."

Lyle didn’t answer right away. He looked at Grace, now half-lying down, a hand in her mouth, eyelids heavy.

"I’m going to put her to bed. Thanks for listening to me."

"Always", said Donovan. "And... thank you for sharing her with me the other day. It was a privilege."

Lyle stayed a few seconds with the handset in his hand, then gently hung up. He placed it back in its cradle with an almost respectful slowness.

Night had gently settled over the house, like a warm blanket draped over Lyle’s shoulders. Through the wide glass doors of the living room, the streetlamps’ light filtered in soft halos, casting long shadows on the parquet floor.
Donovan’s voice lingered in his mind — deep, alive, kind.

“I’m proud of you, Lyle. Really.”

Simple words, but they struck a place he thought was unreachable. As if, for a moment, someone had slipped a bit of light into a room that had been closed for years.

He stood there, in the middle of the living room, the phone in his hand.

He felt… calm. Surprisingly calm.

Not empty. Not numb.

Just… there. Present. Alive.

His eyes fell on the little bassinet, set up not far from the sofa. Grace was half asleep, her eyelids heavy, but her gaze fluttered toward the ceiling. One of her fists rubbed her cheek, like a soothing reflex. Her legs twitched softly under her blanket.

Lyle approached and crouched down beside her. She watched him with a silent intensity, as if she sensed something in him — a change, a new lightness. He reached out and gently stroked her forehead.

“Did you like your outing today, huh ?”

A little chuckle escaped Grace’s throat, and her face lit up with a spontaneous, radiant smile. Lyle felt his heart tighten. It was so simple, so pure.

He took a deep breath, almost as if he needed to gather courage, then stood up and went to the old stereo sitting in a low cabinet. His fingers trembled a little as he searched the menu. A gesture he hadn’t made in years. As if opening a box he had deliberately sealed.

The playlist was still there.

A sober name: “Erik & Me.”

He selected the song without thinking, automatically.

Don’t Dream It’s Over – Crowded House.

From the first notes, something opened inside him.

A corridor of memories. A shiver down his spine. The soft guitar, chords suspended in the air like dust that hadn’t been blown away for too long.

He turned back to Grace, lifted her carefully, pressed her against him. She made a small sound, half curious, half tired, and clung to his t-shirt with her fist.

“Do you want to dance with daddy, sweetheart?”

He slowly stood up, holding her firmly against his chest, then took a step, then another. A timid movement at first. Almost clumsy. But soon, he slowly turned around, to the slow rhythm of the song. His feet slid gently over the parquet. His daughter’s body rested against his, warm, trusting, alive.

There is freedom within, there is freedom without…

Neil Finn’s voice floated through the room, velvety, familiar.

Lyle closed his eyes. He saw himself again at eighteen, sitting on the unmade bed in his room, headphones on, Erik throwing tennis balls against the walls while singing the chorus off-key. Their laughter. Their silent bond. That feeling that the world didn’t understand them, but they had each other, always.

Today, there was no Erik throwing tennis balls in his room while listening to music. But there was Grace. And there was him. Standing.

He slowly turned around in this silent dance, this awkward waltz of a father and daughter. There was no one to see them. No flashes, no judgment. Just them.

They come to build a wall between us…

You know they won’t win.

Lyle’s throat tightened. He felt a tear burning his eyelids. He didn’t push it away. He let it fall.

He softly sang the chorus, barely audible, for himself as much as for her.

Hey now, hey now…

Don’t dream it’s over…

Grace had closed her eyes, rocked by the movement and warmth. Her little hand rested on her father’s chest like an anchor.

Lyle paused for a moment in the middle of the living room, still holding his daughter in his arms. He looked around. There was something peaceful in the dimness, a rare calm that was neither heavy nor empty. Just… silently present. He had bought this house shortly after the trial. Not as a whim, nor even as a sign of renewal, but rather as a survival instinct. He had chosen this home for its isolation, for the tall trees hiding the facade, for the neighborhood’s discretion. He had chosen it like one would choose a cave to hide in, to rebuild protected from the gaze of others.

But there had been more than that, deep down. There had been hope.

He had imagined building something here with Christy. A family. A normal life. He had surprised himself dreaming — despite the scars, despite the doubts — of a kitchen full of laughter, children running in the hallway, a simple but healing life.

He had pictured birthdays on the terrace, drawings stuck on the fridge, too-small shoes scattered near the door. He had wanted to believe that he could have that, too.

And then everything had fallen apart. Christy had never been able to stay. Maybe she never saw the man behind the name, behind the newspaper headlines, behind the too-visible cracks. She wanted to be the one who would fix things, but she couldn’t bear the weight of the chaos.

And against all odds, it was Donovan who came back.

Not to save. Not to change. Just to be there. To see Lyle as he was, unmasked, without disguise. He didn’t avoid silences. He didn’t shy away from the fractures. He held on, even in discomfort.

And that, Lyle could never have put into words, but he felt it deeply: Donovan filled a void that Christy never could approach. Not the void of a role, not that of an idealized couple. But a more visceral void — that of being truly seen. And accepted nonetheless.

There were not many children, but there was Grace. And there was, somewhere, Donovan. And that was enough.

Enough to keep him standing. To give meaning to his days. To make this house truly a home — not the one he had envisioned, but the one he chose to live in fully, with its flaws and sincere beats.

Now I'm walking again to the beat of a drum

And I'm counting the steps to the door of your heart

Tonight, he looked at his house differently. Not as the mausoleum of a dead dream, but as the fragile stage of a new truth.

His gaze rose toward the ceiling, as if looking for a sign beyond the walls, beyond the years. But there was none. Just the song still playing softly, and his daughter’s calm breathing against his chest.

And in that song about walls, solitude, new beginnings, he felt something else settle in.

Not hope.

Not yet.

But a readiness to hope.

He leaned down and kissed Grace’s forehead. “Thank you for being here,” he whispered.

And they kept dancing, slowly, as if the world could wait a little longer, just one more moment.

A few minutes later, the house was bathed in the soft twilight of early night. Lyle, wearing a simple t-shirt and sweatpants, was lying on the bed, Grace nestled against him in her star-patterned pajamas.

She cooed softly, still half awake, occasionally kicking the blankets away with a little foot.

Lyle looked at her as if he were rediscovering every line of her face. He gently brushed her brown hair, still too fine to really stay in place. Then he took one of her tiny hands, so small it almost disappeared in his.

He kissed it softly. She laughed.

A small, pure, surprised laugh that echoed in his chest like the flutter of wings.

He did it again. This time, his lips found the soles of her feet, her toes. He kissed them one by one, with awkward but infinite tenderness. Each burst of laughter she let out made his smile grow bigger, more genuine.

“You know you make me better ?” he whispered. “Just by being here.”

She reached out her arms to him, her little fingers grabbing his sleeve.

He held her close. Not like holding a baby. Like holding someone he was afraid to lose.

His voice was rough, almost hoarse. “You deserve the world, Grace. Not just four walls and closed curtains. I’ll give it to you, little one. Promise.”

She closed her eyes peacefully, a finger still in her mouth. And Lyle, lying next to her, felt for the first time in years... that he no longer needed to hide to love.

He placed one last kiss on her forehead.

Then he stayed there, watching her sleep, his arm wrapped around her warm little body, as the night slowly fell around them.

The silence was complete. Not even a rustling tree through the closed windows. In the darkness, only the slow, steady breathing of a baby disturbed the stillness.

Lyle was lying on his side, back against the wall, holding Grace against him, her head nestled in the crook of his arm. She had fallen asleep there, after a late bottle, a muffled laugh, a kiss on the forehead.

He had wanted to stay in that peace.

But sleep had pulled him in too quickly—and with it, the memories.

He was back in the Beverly Hills house. The one with the thick carpets and cold voices. The silent dinners and doors slammed too hard.

He heard his father walking upstairs. That rhythm. Heavy. Uneven. The kind you had to recognize to survive.

He was younger, in his bed. He could still smell the polished wood, the cold leather, the spilled whiskey on the rugs. He didn’t dare move. No noise. You mustn’t make noise.

But the door opened.

And the voice came. Not shouted. Worse: soft.

“You awake, Lyle?”

He felt his stomach knot.

And then everything went fast. Words. Threats. A belt. Or a slap. Rough caresses from a large calloused hand. That tearing feeling, like his body—and his soul—were being split in two. Or nothing at all, just the looks. The ones that said : You are nothing. You’ll never be anything.

And behind, his mother’s silhouette, always in the background. Always too made-up. Awful words. Sometimes a sneer. As if she’d been ashamed of him before he even existed.

In the dream, he screamed. He wanted out. But the door kept closing. Again and again.

And he saw the scene again. The one in the living room. The trial. The blood. The gun. The silence after the shot. And Erik. Erik’s eyes.

And he wanted to scream that he didn’t regret it. That it was them or them.

But his mouth made no sound.

Lyle woke with a jolt. Not fully. His body was still, but everything in him was screaming. He was drenched in sweat. His throat tight. The sheets wrinkled beneath him. And most of all...

He felt the warm weight against his chest.

Grace.

She was still asleep, peacefully, her face pressed against his torso, a tiny fist near her mouth. He didn’t dare move. He didn’t even dare breathe too loudly.

His eyes were wide open, fixed on the invisible ceiling, as if expecting to see his parents’ shadows rise in the room. As if he wasn’t entirely sure they were really dead. As if they still haunted somewhere, somehow.
Then he slowly lowered his eyes to her.

And his world came back. Here. Now.

He felt her tiny ribs rise and fall with each breath. He felt her hand curled up against him, warm, trusting, unaware.

He whispered, very softly: “I got you out of there, sweetheart.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, and the tears came. Not the tears of a broken man. The tears of a man exhausted from fighting ghosts. The ghosts of his past. The ghosts of his parents.

He held Grace a little tighter, without waking her. His lips found her forehead, and he kissed it for a long time. “You have no idea what I’ve gone through so you’d never have to live that.”

He began to speak to her in a low voice, like a prayer, or a confession one can only make to a sleeping child : “I hated them, Grace. I still do. And sometimes I’m scared there’s still a piece of them in me. That you’ll see it. That you’ll suffer the way I did. But when you laugh, when you breathe like this, against me, I think maybe I’ve done it. Just a little. Built you a softer world.” He caressed her tiny feet, gently wrapping them in his fingers. “You deserve everything. Everything I never had.”

He ran his fingers softly through her hair, as if trying to convince himself she was real. That she wasn’t just another dream that would vanish too.

“You deserve to trust the night. To believe the people who love you stay. That silence doesn’t always mean danger.”

He stayed like that for a long time, awake in the dark. Grace sighed, stirred a little. A hand grabbed his t-shirt instinctively.

And Lyle finally closed his eyes, not to sleep, but not to run, either.

For once, he didn’t need to escape.

Chapter Text

The pale glare of the ceiling light bathed the hospital room in a cold, almost unreal halo. It was a little past six in the morning. Outside, the sky was starting to shift to the pale blue of a Californian spring, but here, in this silent room, time seemed suspended. The faint hum of a medical machine and the distant squeak of a cart in the hallway were the only echoes of a world still asleep.

Lyle stood by the bed, upright but with slumped shoulders, exhausted. His muscles were numb, his stomach knotted for hours, though he wasn’t fully aware of it. He had spent the night without closing an eye, his hands clammy, his heart ready to burst. An animal, primal tension lived in his body. As if something immense was about to happen — or had just happened, and his mind hadn’t yet caught up with the moment’s breath. He still wore the same wrinkled shirt from yesterday, collar open, soaked with dried sweat, and his jeans bore the marks of a floor he had paced many times.

Christy lay against the pillows, drawn features, her gaze fixed on the wall as if she wasn’t really there. An immense fatigue weighed on her face, but not only physical. A deeper, older weariness. As if this birth had drained her of everything she still had to give. Her hair stuck to her forehead by sweat, her skin pale, almost translucent, testified to a body and mind breaking down.

The baby cried softly in the nurse’s arms, freshly cleaned and swaddled in a white blanket edged with pink. A light, fragile, almost shy whimper. Nothing alarming. Just the first voice of a being still new to the world. The smell of medical soap and milk floated in the air, both sweet and raw.

“Do you want to hold her?” the nurse asked, her eyes shifting from Christy to Lyle.

Christy blinked slowly. She seemed distant, elsewhere. She turned her head toward the baby without making a move. No rejection. Just… an absence of response, as if something inside her didn’t know how.

“Maybe… maybe Lyle should go first,” she whispered, almost embarrassed. “I need a break. I feel kind of empty.”

Lyle looked at her with a gentleness he hadn’t always shown. He didn’t blame her. Not really. He saw in her eyes the silent fear he too had known. Christy wasn’t cruel. Just maybe incapable of taking that first step. He felt an invisible thread stretched between them, fragile, ready to snap — but not broken yet.

So he stepped forward.

The nurse carefully handed him the baby, and immediately, his world shifted.

She was so small. So terribly tiny, so light he feared for a moment that he might break her. She barely fit in the crook of his arms. Her body was warm, pulsing. Her features scrunched. Her eyelids closed, edged with barely visible lashes. That tiny nose, that half-open mouth… A presence that seemed unreal, yet more real than anything he had ever known.

She was his.

His daughter.

Grace.

Lyle felt his legs wobble under the weight of emotion. A strange heat flooded him, burning, almost painful. He couldn’t tell if he wanted to scream, laugh, or collapse. Maybe all at once. He sat down, trembling, in the chair beside the bed, and held her close as if he could already protect her entirely from the world. As if she suddenly became his anchor and epicenter.

“Hey there,” he murmured, his voice broken by wonder.

The baby made a tiny grimace and let out a rough sigh. And Lyle, without understanding how or why, began to cry. Slowly, silently, without shame. Tears flowed without restraint. They came from very far away, from too many years of holding back, enduring, surviving. And now, they escaped, washing something inside him.

It was more than joy. It was a pure, unfiltered, immediate, terrifying love. A love he had never known. Not like this. Not with such a dazzling clarity. She was here. She was his. And nothing in the world could ever take that back.

“She looks healthy,” Christy said softly. “That’s something, huh?”

Her voice was gentle but distant, almost mechanical. As if she were repeating something expected of her, without feeling its weight. She didn’t really look at the baby but at some vague point in the room. A point Lyle, absorbed in his own emotion, didn’t notice.

He nodded, lightly brushing the newborn’s cheek with a fingertip. Her skin was as soft as a feather, still warm from her other world.

“She’s perfect.”

“I guess you want to call her Grace? You talked about it a lot during the pregnancy.”

Lyle looked up at her, surprised. He hadn’t wanted to impose, even though the name had been in his heart for months. Since that strange dream one night, when an unknown voice whispered it to him. He still remembered that feeling upon waking: a strange calm, as if the future had briefly stopped being a threat.

“Only if it’s okay with you too.”

Christy gave a tired half-smile, sincere nonetheless. But her gaze didn’t linger on their daughter. It quickly slid toward the window, where the first morning light barely filtered through the blinds.

“It’s a beautiful name. She deserves it. ”

A soft silence followed. Not heavy. Just fragile.

“You were brave, Christy. I know this isn’t what you planned. Not like this. But maybe it’s a new chance for both of us, right?”

She blinked slowly, as if delaying her answer. Her face suddenly seemed more closed off, though she tried to stay calm. She briefly placed a hand on the sheet, as if to hold on to something, but pulled it away right after.

“Maybe…” she whispered. “Sorry, I just want to sleep for a month.”

She turned away, and instead of shutting down, Lyle nodded slowly. He understood. And somewhere deep down, he didn’t blame her. It wasn’t running away. The delivery had been hard, and Christy probably needed time to finally feel like a mother.

Probably.

He didn’t imagine that behind this fatigue, Christy was already thinking about what comes next. About how to pack her bags quietly. About when to leave this house, this room, this role. She hadn’t yet found the shape of her departure, but the idea was there, lurking, ready to grow.

“You can rest,” he said gently. “I’ll watch over her. I’m here.”

She nodded, heavy eyelids, voice barely audible.

“Thank you… Lyle.”

She fell asleep soon after, without drama. Just carried by exhaustion and a vague relief. One last sigh before sinking into sleep, as if she had finally let go of a burden she didn’t understand.

Lyle stayed awake, holding Grace against him, unable to take his eyes off that little sleeping face. He studied every detail as if he had to learn it by heart. The down on her temples, the uneven but peaceful breathing, the warmth radiating from her small body.

And in this new silence, he made himself a promise.

No matter what happens, she will never be alone.

Not as long as he lives.

~~

The blue light of the baby monitor pulsed softly on the nightstand, like an artificial, steady heartbeat—almost mocking. Three o’clock in the morning. The thick silence of the house was a taut canvas torn relentlessly by Grace’s cries.

Crying. Again. Loud. Raw. As if every breath was just a preparation for another scream, louder than the last.

Crying that had been looping for hours.

In his bed, Lyle jerked awake, his ear already tuned to the scream before it even reached his brain. He wasn’t sleeping. He was dozing in fragments, stolen crumbs of sleep between waves of stress, between panicked awakenings, between lukewarm bottles. His eyes were red and burning, dark circles like bruises under them. The blanket he had pulled over himself moments ago slipped to the floor as he rose with a clumsy, almost automatic movement.

He crossed the hallway barefoot. He knew this path by heart now: six steps to the bedroom door, a creak to the left of the frame, a patch of floor to avoid. Too late. He stepped on it. The wood cracked. The cries doubled.

He pushed the door open. Grace’s room was bathed in warm, muted light. Glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to the ceiling shimmered faintly above the crib. She was there, arms flailing, her face red, soaked with tears. A hoarse sound came from her little open mouth.

Without thinking, he scooped her into his arms, holding her close. Her warmth was immediate. She smelled of milk, cotton, sorrow.

“Shh... shh, I’m here... I’m here, sweetheart... I’m here...”

He rocked her gently back and forth, again and again. His hand traced small circles along her tiny back. He whispered low words, a string of nonsense, almost a prayer. But she kept crying. She shook her head, squirmed, growled between sobs. Nothing worked. Neither whispers, nor tenderness, nor the exhaustion in her father’s arms.

Lyle felt his back stiffen, his shoulders ache. His body screamed at him to stop, to sleep, to give in. But he held on. He held on because he wasn’t allowed not to. He sat at the edge of the bed, resting his forehead for a moment against Grace’s small head. She kept screaming in his ear. He gritted his teeth. Closed his eyes.

“It’s okay, baby... I’m here...”

But inside, something cracked. Slowly.

He tried a bottle. Rejected. She turned her head, pushed the nipple away with her tiny angry hand. He checked her diaper. Clean. He sang softly. A half-forgotten lullaby. Nothing soothed her. He felt like his daughter’s cries were etched beneath his skin, a permanent echo.

Anger rose. The kind that comes with fatigue, frustration, loneliness. The kind you don’t dare admit. He felt his heart race, his jaw clench. He stood up. Pacing. Breathing.

He thought of Christy. Of the vast emptiness in their bed.

He held the little one against his shoulder, hugged her tightly, almost too hard, then immediately pulled back.

“Sorry, sorry, my angel... Daddy’s just tired... so tired...”

He sat down in the chair next to the crib. The fabric was worn from sleepless nights. He pressed his head against the cold wall. Stared at the ceiling.

“Please... just one hour... one hour of silence... one hour of sleep... please, Grace...”

But she kept screaming.

He no longer knew if he was awake or dreaming that he was awake. He no longer knew how many hours he’d been up. He no longer knew what he’d eaten, or if he’d eaten at all. He no longer knew if he was crying or if it was just fatigue making his eyelids tremble.

In that suspended moment, all he knew... was that he was alone. And he had to hold on. Because he had no choice.

The sun was high, but the air remained cool. A soft light filtered through the white curtains in the living room, bathing the furniture in an almost unreal calm. Yet that calm was only skin-deep—inside Lyle, something rumbled, a still-raw crack, like a nerve exposed beneath a too-thin layer of skin.

~~

Lyle was on the couch, Grace against him, swaddled in a small cream-colored blanket. He had just managed to put her back to sleep after a morning punctuated by hiccups, crying, and micro-naps between bottles. His arms, heavy with exhaustion, sometimes trembled without warning. He no longer really had a routine. Just survival gestures, punctuated by love and fatigue.

The air still carried the warm smell of powdered milk, mixed with the sharper scent of coffee reheated one too many times. The house seemed peaceful, but inside his chest, everything was raw. The void left by Christy clung to his skin.

A few days earlier, Christy had looked at their daughter with icy fatigue and murmured in a flat voice :"It was a mistake. She is a mistake."

Not cruelly. Not angrily. Just as a fact. A clinical observation.

And it was precisely that tone, without emotion, that had broken him.

It was as if she was talking about a poorly delivered piece of furniture. A regretted paint choice. Not a human being. Not their daughter.

She had packed her bags the next day, without fuss. A few weeks after the birth, she left — leaving behind an empty chair, a half-decorated nursery, and a phrase that kept running through his mind. A phrase impossible to forget.

He still loved her. That was the worst part.

He loved her, and she was gone.

He loved her, but part of him hated her too.

He loved her like one loves a fire that both warmed and burned them at the same time.

He heard the car door slam in front of the house, followed by footsteps on the gravel driveway. He tensed slightly. Since Grace’s birth, he had gotten used to listening to every sound outside with suspicion. Two photographers had tried to trap him just the night before, one disguised as a delivery man, the other hiding behind the hedges. Flashes in the night, clicks behind the shutters. Letters in the mailbox, with offers of sordid exclusives, absurd sums in exchange for a picture, a confession, a tear.

Then the doorbell, twice, a few seconds apart. He didn’t move right away. He knew it wasn’t a stranger. That kind of doorbell was from someone who knew the place. Not the insistent buzzing of a journalist, nor the nervous finger of a curious neighbor. Just… Erik.

He got up slowly, keeping Grace in his arms, and opened the door.

"Hey", Erik said, hands in his pockets, a hesitant expression on his face. "You… you never sleep now, huh?"

His smile was there, but his eyes carried that familiar shadow, that little flash of guilt he never quite managed to erase. He always joked to hide his nervousness. But his eyes, despite the lightness of his words, already scanned the baby with a sharp, almost worried attention.

Lyle gave a tired smile. "I slept… between 3:10 and 3:27. That was a good fifteen minutes."

Erik chuckled softly, and Lyle stepped aside to let him in.

"Want some coffee? It’s not fresh, but it’s hot."

"Sure, coffee sounds good. And I’d like to hold her if you need both hands."

Lyle hesitated for a second. Then he gently handed Grace to his brother, like passing on a fragment of something sacred.

Erik took her with an almost touching clumsiness, his arms a bit stiff at first, then he relaxed as she started breathing calmly against him. “She’s really tiny. Looks like a little bean in pajamas,” he murmured, eyes fixed on his niece’s tiny face.

"A very demanding bean", Lyle added, coming back with two mugs.

"Did you put sugar in it ?" Erik asked, like an old joke between them.

"Yeah. And I cried in it too, so savor it."

They both sat down on the couch. Lyle reached out his arms toward Erik to take Grace back and let his brother drink his coffee peacefully, holding her gently as if he were holding fragile glass. A comfortable silence settled, like a blanket put back over your shoulders.

"You have a nice house", Erik said after a moment. "This kind of calm suits you."

"I don’t know if it’s me who fits the calm… or if I just have no room left for anything else."

Erik looked down at Grace.

"And… how do you feel ? Really, I mean."

Lyle looked at him for a long time. Then he exhaled, almost without thinking: "Like I’m whole for the first time. And terrified of breaking."

Erik nodded, placing a hand on his brother’s shoulder. "She’s doing well. You’re doing well. It’s not perfect, but it’s real. And you know what? That’s often enough."

Lyle felt a lump slowly rise in his throat, like a slow fire that didn’t burn but consumed. It wasn’t pain. It was something else. An overflow. A silent saturation. He briefly looked at Grace, asleep against him, her tiny fists clenched, her breath light.

He took a deep breath, as if the air would help him piece himself back together.

"Christy has left."

Erik, who had been staring vaguely at the floor until then, suddenly lifted his eyes, caught off guard.

"Left ? What do you mean ?"

Lyle slowly nodded. His eyes were shining, but he wasn’t crying. Not yet.

"Yeah. She said Grace… that she was a mistake."

He paused. The next words seemed stuck in his throat, blocked by an invisible knot. "Not cruelly. Not yelling, not angry. Like it was a fact. An undeniable truth. Something you can’t fix, just… accept." His voice cracked briefly, a barely noticeable break, but Erik felt it. He saw his brother struggling to keep control. "It broke me, Erik. Not because she left. I think I expected that, deep down. But because she said that… about our daughter."

A heavy silence fell, like a lead weight suffocating everything. Erik stayed still, his throat tight, his face tense, deeply moved by his brother’s invisible pain. His heart was shattered—not for himself, but for Lyle. Because he saw, beyond the words, what he had lost. What had just been ripped away from him.

"I’m sorry, bro. Really. No one should speak like that about their own daughter… Least of all her mother."

Lyle lowered his eyes to Grace. His brow softened for a moment as he saw her little lips part slightly in a peaceful sigh. He held her a bit tighter, as if trying to protect her even in her sleep.

Erik ran a hand over his face, as if brushing away an unpleasant thought. "And you, how are you handling your sadness ?"

Lyle shrugged, a bitter smile at the corner of his lips.

"I do what I can. I change diapers, warm bottles, sing like an idiot at 3 a.m. That’s my therapy."

A softer silence this time. More companionable. Erik gently placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder. "You’re a good dad, Lyle."

"I try."

Erik’s hand stayed firm on Lyle’s shoulder. “You know I’m here if you need me.”

Lyle nodded, his gaze misty. Then he changed the subject, trying to lighten the tension. "How’s UCLA? Do you still like it?"

Erik smiled, a bit embarrassed. "Yeah… It’s what I’ve wanted for a long time." He paused, then sighed. His face darkened. "But… it’s not easy. Not because of classes. Classes are nothing. It’s the people. Since the trial, rumors are everywhere. The looks too. Some whisper when I walk by. Others cross the street. And those who look at me like I might explode any second. Like I’m just… that kid who shot his parents. Or worse: the other monster’s kid."

He said this looking down, almost ashamed to say those words out loud.

Lyle didn’t answer right away. He clenched his jaw a little, trying to hide the sting piercing his chest. A wave of guilt hit him, sudden and brutal. He thought about the years Erik should have lived without that shadow hanging over him. About what his little brother could have been without that burden, without that name branded in fire.

"It must be hard to live with."

"It’s exhausting, yeah. I just wanted… to do my drawings, work on projects, paint without fear of a teacher calling me “for a talk.” But this sticks to the skin. I feel like I have to prove every day that I’m not… that. Not them. Just me". He let out a small nervous laugh. "Sometimes I wonder if I’m crazy for thinking I could start over somewhere. But, well… I hold on. Because I need something to still be possible. Even if it’s tiny."

Lyle placed his hand on Erik’s, a quiet but sure pressure. "You’re more than that, E. You know it. And Grace does too."

But deep inside, a voice whispered something harsher: that Erik should never have carried that weight. That everything he was living now — isolation, suspicion, sharp looks — was also the price of his own actions. The blood on his hands. The long silences, the muffled screams, years of fear. And even though Erik had never expressed any blame, Lyle couldn’t stop feeling that guilt grow inside him, like a monster in a cage.

He squeezed Erik’s hand a little tighter, as if apologizing without words. Erik looked long at his niece, then at his brother. Erik remained silent but did not withdraw his hand. His fingers trembled slightly; Lyle felt it. He didn’t dare look right away—he was afraid to see what he dreaded: resignation, or worse, a forgiveness he hadn’t earned.

Finally, Erik breathed out, almost whispering : "Do you think we’ll ever… really rebuild ? I mean… not just survive, but live? Like normal people."

Lyle smiled sadly. "I don’t know. I want to believe so. But I’m not sure. Not always."

He rubbed his face with a tired hand, dark circles carved by sleepless nights. The fatigue was not just physical; it came from deeper. It was woven into his skin.

"Sometimes I think you might’ve had a chance, if I hadn’t…"

He stopped. The rest stayed stuck in his throat, too heavy.

Erik stared without blinking. "Stop it, Lyle."

"It’s true, though. I see your face during the trial, I remember the flashes, the screams, what we had to tell, what we couldn’t say. And you were what, 18? I fought to protect you, yeah. But I also blew everything up."

Erik clenched his jaw, his eyes shining with a mix of pent-up anger and sadness.

"We all blew up. You, me… them. It’s not just you who made the wrong choices. And I shot too, Lyle. Don’t forget that. I did it."

"But if I hadn’t…"

He fell silent again. That sentence would never be finished. He didn’t even know which ending was real.

Erik then looked toward Grace, peacefully sleeping in Lyle’s arms, her features relaxed, mouth slightly open as if sighing in a dream. He stared for a moment, saying nothing, absorbed by the scene.

Erik swallowed, eyes a little shiny. “It’s crazy to see her like that… at peace. And she’ll probably never really understand what it costs you, to be here. Present. Calm. Gentle.

Lyle didn’t answer right away. He looked down at Grace, curled against him, so small, so quiet. He felt the weight of her warmth, the steady rhythm of her breathing, the absolute trust she placed in him — without yet knowing what the word “trust” meant.

Then he spoke, his voice low but firm. "She’s the reason I keep going. I want her to know that, despite everything, there is hope. That we are not defined by our wounds, but by what we do with them."

He paused, almost involuntarily. His gaze stayed fixed on her, but his features hardened slightly. "And I’ve had wounds. You too. We’ll have more. But she… she deserves better. She deserves something no one can take from her."

"You’re already giving her that, Lyle. Even if you’re scared, even if you’re exhausted, you’re here. That’s huge. She’s lucky to have you."

Lyle shook his head, almost involuntarily. His eyes stayed on Grace, but his features tensed, as if a dam was slowly breaking inside.

"I’m scared all the time, Erik. Scared she’ll blame me one day. Scared she’ll feel her mother’s absence like a hole inside her. Scared I won’t know what to say when she asks why. And I’m supposed to reassure her when I’ve never been reassured by anything. How do you want me to help her grow when all I learned was silence? Obedience? Dissociation? We never had an example. Never had a mother to rock us. Never had a father to put a hand on our shoulder without it being scary."

Erik took a slow breath, his gaze growing harder, clearer. He gently turned Grace to see her sleeping face better.

"And yet, we managed anyway, Erik said, his expression softening as he looked at his niece’s sweet face. “Look at her. She’s here. And she’s sleeping in the arms of a guy who loves her. A guy who stays. Not who screams. Not who hits. Not who leaves. That’s already a world of difference, Lyle. Even if you’re scared.”

Lyle swallowed a quiet sob.

"Remember that closet under the stairs in our New Jersey house? The one with the old suitcases?" asked Erik.

Lyle nodded.

"I locked myself in there. Just so he wouldn’t look for me. I put my hands over my ears and imagined I was in another house. That I was… somewhere else. Somewhere we could breathe. And… I know you took more than me, Lyle. You endured for two. And you protected when I didn’t even know I had to be afraid."

Erik squeezed his brother’s forearm, feeling a lump form in his throat.

"You were a father before you even knew what it meant. And now you’re one for real. Except this time, you’re not alone."

Lyle looked down at Grace, overwhelmed.

"I hope I’ll know what to do."

— You will. Not right away. Not always. But you’ll do your best. And that’s already everything.

A thick but gentle silence settled.

"I’m here too, Lyle. Really. Not like a visitor. Like your brother. For real."

They stayed there, two brothers, one child. Three lives still piecing themselves back together.

The silence had never felt so full. And for once, it frightened no one.

~~

The sidewalk stretched gently along the hillside houses, lined with blooming laurels and lazy palm trees. Lyle pushed Grace’s stroller at a slow, almost ceremonial pace. The sky was clear, the sun already lower, and the warm air smelled of dry earth and garden mint.

It had been a long time since he had allowed himself a real walk. Just… going out. Seeing something other than the walls of the house, pacifiers, bottles. He even caught himself smiling as he saw Grace stir gently under her blanket. She was half asleep, a small sigh on her lips, her mouth slightly open as if dreaming of warm milk.

A light breeze lifted the curtains of nearby windows. Dogs barked, children played in a garden a little lower down. For a few seconds, he felt like anyone else. A young father, a little lost, walking his daughter. Nothing more.

And then, he met the first gaze.

A woman in jogging clothes, earbuds in her ears and a Walkman clipped to her belt. She stopped when she saw him. One second too long. Her gaze froze. Judging. Recognizing. She said nothing. But she quickly lowered her eyes, as if his very presence was a fault.

Then it was a man walking his dog. He stared at Lyle, narrowing his eyes, and Lyle felt a chill rise up his neck. Like a cold, invisible draft.

He quickened his pace slightly. He turned the corner of a block. A tall hedge, a white fence, flowers planted in neat rows.

And then voices. Two women behind him. They spoke softly. But not softly enough.

"That’s him, right?"

"Yeah, I think… The eldest. The one from the trial."

"The Menendez brothers. Acquitted… what a disgrace."

A silence, then:

"Those criminals. After everything they did..."

The world seemed to warp around him, slowly. As if the light grew harsher. As if everything stepped back a notch. Blood pounded in his temples.

He had heard things his whole life. Rumors, insults, theories. But this was in a normal setting, an almost perfect day, while doing something as simple as walking his daughter. And that was worse.

He looked around. Shutters closed. Dogs barked in the distance. Everything suddenly seemed… hostile. As if the walls themselves recognized him.

He placed a hand on the stroller. It trembled slightly. No, it was him who trembled.

He felt his stomach contract. His step grew stiff. He pushed the stroller faster, harder, as if he could outrun the echo of those words, make them vanish under his shoes.

Criminals.

The word stayed stuck in his head. Repeating in a loop. Like a bell in an empty room.

When he got home, he couldn’t even remember the last ten minutes of the walk. Only the metallic noise of the gate, the heaviness of his arms as he took Grace in his arms and carried her upstairs.

The house was plunged in darkness. Only the orange halo of a streetlamp filtered through the slightly open blinds of the bedroom, casting bands of light on the ceiling like the bars of a cage. Lyle lay on his back, eyes wide open, arms crossed over his chest like a corpse in a coffin. The sheet stuck to his skin, too hot, too heavy. He hadn’t moved in over an hour. Maybe more.

His throat was dry, as if coated with ash. His chest felt heavy.

Each beat of his heart echoed in his ribs, brutal and irregular, like a knock on a door that is never opened. He felt his own body shrinking around him, room by room.

The words came back, haunting, malicious:

Criminals. Acquitted. What a disgrace.

Three phrases. Enough to turn his insides inside out.

Anonymous voices, but clear. Blurred faces, but sharp eyes like blades. And behind it all, the door of the past creaking again on its rusty hinges.

He saw his father again, in that harsh kitchen light, hand raised at cheek height, eyes black with rage, jaw clenched. He saw his mother, frozen in the doorframe, arms crossed, empty expression. She never intervened. She never held back her husband’s hand. She just… watched. And that was worse.

The taste of blood on his tongue one night. The cold tile against his cheek. That terrible burning in his private parts. The sound of footsteps on the stairs — slow, methodical, inevitable. And Erik, behind the wall, muffling his sobs into a pillow. And him, Lyle, standing straight as a stake, because if he fell, it would be his brother who’d get broken next.

A short breath. Then another, faster.

His fingers grew cold, numb. His temples beat in unison, burning. He closed his eyes. But instead of darkness, there was a flash. His father’s face, just before the first blow.

His mother’s voice, full of venom: “You asked for it.”

Air no longer entered. He inhaled but only drew emptiness. His throat tightened.

Something rose — a scream, a sob, a flood of memories. He didn’t know. Maybe all three at once.

A crisis.

He knew that. But this time, it took up all the space. His heart raced. He sat up abruptly, as if waking from a nightmare in the middle of drowning. His hands searched for support on the mattress, his chest heaved in painful hiccups.

He had to get out. Escape. Ground himself.

He jumped up, bare feet on the cold floor, crossed the hallway silently like a wounded animal. He entered Grace’s bedroom.

The darkness there was soft, almost bluish. The small mobile hanging above the crib slowly turned, emitting a slight electric hum, like a child’s breathing. Grace slept deeply, fists clenched, face relaxed in the pale glow of her nightlight. She knew nothing. Nothing of the world, nothing of the past. Nothing of blood. Nothing of judgment.

Lyle held out his arms, hesitating. They trembled. But he lifted her against him, with an urgent tenderness, almost clumsy. She barely stirred, opened a shiny eyelid, then sighed and buried her face against his chest as if she recognized him. As if she told him it was enough.

"I’m here… I’m here", he murmured in a choked voice, his mouth against her soft head.

He slowly returned to his room, holding her like a lifebuoy in the middle of a shipwreck. He sat at the edge of the bed, then lay down, careful never to loosen his grip. She was tiny. Warm. Alive. And he was there. He was not his father. He was not his mother. He was just… there.

Her breathing began to slow. The drum in his chest became a whisper. He smelled Grace, a mix of warm milk, baby skin, and gentle detergent. The only real, tangible thing that didn’t lie.

Her. His daughter.

She was proof that he was no longer that kid locked in his fear.

He closed his eyes, without really falling asleep. But enough to come back to himself.

Enough so that, that night, the void did not win.

~~

The living room was bathed in pale light, filtered through half-drawn curtains. The sun’s rays left warm streaks on the carpet, but the room seemed frozen in a gray torpor. Only the steady hum of a small space heater filled the silence.

Lyle was slouched on the rug, his back resting against the foot of the sofa, legs crossed. Grace was finally asleep against his chest, her face nestled in the hollow of his neck, her tiny hands clenched on the fabric of his t-shirt, damp with milk, sweat, and tears.

He hadn’t even had the strength to put her back in her crib. Holding her close was the only thing that seemed to work. Sometimes.

He no longer had a sense of time or rhythm. He lived in an endless loop: crying, trying, failing, lullaby, silence, relapse. His gaze fixed on an invisible point on the wall. His eyelids fluttered, heavy, but sleep wouldn’t come. Not really. Just a blurry veil between consciousness and exhaustion.

Then suddenly, the ringing of the landline cut through the thick air. An old corded phone, mounted on the wall near the kitchen. Lyle jumped violently, like struck by a shock.

He squeezed Grace a little too tightly without meaning to. She whimpered softly in her sleep but didn’t wake. He breathed slowly to calm his pounding heart, then reached with a numb arm toward the receiver.

"Hello?" he said, in a low, hoarse, rasping voice.

"Lyle? It’s Terry."

He closed his eyes. Just hearing his name in that familiar voice was enough to make his façade tremble. He sat up slightly, settled Grace more firmly against him. He tried to smooth his voice, to sound... normal.

"Hi, Aunt Terry."

"How are you? And the little one? I wanted to check in... we haven’t talked much since... you know."

Lyle swallowed, glanced toward the kitchen as if he might find an answer there.

"I’m okay", he said after a pause that felt too long. "We... we’re managing. She’s sleeping now. She’s a fighter, that little one."

A lie. He felt it in his mouth. Cold. Powdery. She wasn’t asleep. She was exhausting herself screaming until her body gave out.

He lowered his eyes to his daughter. Her cheeks were still damp from the night. Her breathing was fast, irregular. Lyle ran a trembling hand down her back, as if to anchor her to him. He sank further against the sofa, buried under his own weight, as if his skeleton struggled to support what was left of him.

"Lyle... you know you can be honest with me", Terry said, her voice a little deeper. "I’m your aunt. Not some damn reporter. And I’m worried."

He pressed his lips together. Stayed silent. But he felt his throat tighten. A familiar lump.

"Is Christy there?" she asked, almost in a whisper.

He closed his eyes. Everything inside him wobbled. The images returned: the suitcase at the bottom of the stairs, the slammed door, Christy’s last words, the silence that followed.
He murmured, voice breaking:

"She... she left. Not long ago."

A silence fell. Heavy. Almost tangible.

"She left you ? You... and Grace ?!" Terry said, shocked.

Lyle lowered his head, ashamed despite himself. As if he had failed to hold onto something that, in reality, was already gone. And suddenly, everything gave way. " I tried to hold on, Terry. I swear... I do everything, I give everything... but I’m exhausted. She cries all the time. I don’t know why. I try everything. I rock her, feed her, sing... but it’s never enough. I don’t sleep. I... I’m drained. And sometimes... sometimes, I just want to run away too."

He cried. Silently. Head bowed, breath short, hand tenderly resting on his daughter’s tiny back. Tears rolled slowly down his cheeks without him trying to wipe them away.

He waited for a reaction. A judgment. A criticism. But Terry’s voice on the other end softened. Trembling.

"That bitch. She had no right to do that to you. To leave her daughter. To leave you. But Lyle... you’re not alone, do you hear me ? You’re not alone. You have me, you have Erik, even if... I know, it’s complicated. But we’re here. I’m here."

He closed his eyes, breathed through his nose, and whispered in a choked voice:

"I’m afraid I’m not enough..."

A silence settled, but it wasn’t the same as at the start of the call. It was denser, more intimate. Then Terry’s voice returned, softer, lower, as if she had just placed a hand over his heart through the line.

"You already are, darling. You take care of her. You carry her, even when you’re at your limit. You get up, you hold on. And that’s exactly what being a good father is. Nobody can ask more of you than what you’re already giving."

Lyle nodded slowly, even though she couldn’t see him. The words entered him like a balm but also stirred that buried pain, that weight he’d been trying to hold up for weeks. A quiet sob escaped him, muffled in his throat. He hugged Grace a little tighter, burying his nose in her still damp hair.

Her breathing was calm. It was a fragile lull, as if her little body finally allowed itself a respite.

"Listen... Terry said after a pause, her voice firmer now, resolute. If you want, I can come. Tonight. I’ll jump in my car. Or catch the earliest flight. I’ll sleep on the couch, handle the bottles, help you. I’ll stay as long as you need. I mean... it’s not a polite offer, Lyle. It’s sincere. Don't say no right away. Let me come."

He closed his eyes. That phrase — don’t say no right away — was exactly what he was going to do. He felt that warmth, that mix of strength and tenderness she’d always had. But also that barely hidden worry in her voice, the one that said she knew he wasn’t okay even if he tried to hide it.

He took a long, slow breath. His voice trembling. "I appreciate it, Terry... really. But... it’s not necessary. I swear, I can handle it. It’s okay."

"Lyle. You almost broke down on the phone", she said, with that softness that no longer hid her worry at all. "You think I didn’t hear you holding back your tears ? You think I don’t know what it’s like, the silence when someone cries and tries not to make a sound ?"

He closed his eyes. Swallowed painfully. "I know. But it was just... a bad night. It’s not always like this. And then... Erik comes by sometimes. He tries to do what he can. It’s not always easy, but... I’m not completely alone."

She didn’t answer right away. He heard a slight click — maybe her nails on the table, or a spoon in a cup. Then her voice came back, calmer. "You know I love your brother, right ? But he has his own life, his own problems to manage. You can’t expect everything from him. And you can’t keep thinking you have to prove to anyone that you’re strong enough for this."

He looked down at Grace. Her little fist clenched against his t-shirt. She was sleeping soundly, but a dried tear was still caught on her lashes. He gently stroked her with his fingertips.

"I know... I know, Terry. But I have to make it. For her. If I let go now, even a little... I’m afraid I won’t be able to get back up."

A long sigh came through the receiver. He pictured Terry perfectly, standing in her kitchen, hand on hip, eyes full of concern. "You’ve always been like that, you know? Even as a kid. Saying no, I can do it myself while you were breaking down. I saw you cling to things no child should have to bear. And now... you’re doing it again. It’s not a reproach, okay? It’s just... you don’t have to be a rock. Not in front of me."

A joyless smile stretched his lips. It was true. He had always been like that, as a kid. It was stronger than him.

"Yeah... hasn’t changed much", he murmured.

"Well. If you change your mind, call me. Day or night, I don’t care. Wake me up, yell at me, I’ll fly out if I have to. I’m just a phone call away, not a damn world away. You hear me ?"

He let out a small, almost inaudible laugh, wet with tears. "Thanks... thanks, Terry."

"And promise me you’ll call me, even if it’s just to... talk. You don’t have to wait until you break down. Promise me, Lyle ?"

He swallowed, feeling Grace’s warmth against him, her light weight anchoring his heart to something stronger than pain. He looked around: the messy room, the empty bottle on the coffee table, the blanket on the floor... And yet, he was here. He was holding on.

"I promise."

A silence. But this time, it wasn’t empty. It was peaceful. Filled with presence, even across the distance. And in that bubble suspended between two breaths — his and his daughter’s — Lyle felt a thread tighten. Thin, almost invisible, but strong.

~~

Lyle was gently pushing the stroller through the quiet, tree-lined streets of Montecito Heights. The sun bathed the neighborhood in golden light, caressing the pastel façades of the impeccably maintained houses. Flowers burst into bright colors in the gardens, sending light fragrances into the warm air.

Grace was sleeping deeply, wrapped in a light cream blanket, her little fingers weakly clutching a plush comfort toy. Her calm breathing set the rhythm of the walk, slightly easing the tension weighing on Lyle.

Yet, despite the softness of the moment, a dull unease never truly left him. Every step in these familiar streets awakened an old discomfort within him, a fear he thought contained but which kept coming back, insistent.
Not the gossip yet. Not the looks yet.

He shivered thinking back to last week, when neighbors had whispered as he passed by, and how that hostile attention had nearly pushed him into a panic attack—shortness of breath, heart pounding wildly, trembling hands as he struggled to stay in control.

He moved forward without hurry, jaw clenched, gaze lowered, carefully avoiding the few passersby’s eyes. Every head that turned made him feel like he was being examined under an invisible magnifying glass. Since the trial, the outside world had become a constant trap, and he trusted no one anymore.

As he turned the corner of a path lined with flowering bushes, a clear voice, slightly too sweet, made him jump.

"Hey, you."

Oh no, not again...

Lyle stopped abruptly, his body instantly tensing, muscles tight like a drawn bow about to release. He slowly turned around, slightly out of breath, eyes scanning the stranger who had interrupted his walk.

In front of him stood a young woman in her twenties, fair-skinned with a few discreet freckles, light brown hair tied back in a ponytail. Her smile, dazzling but almost too perfect, had something artificial about it, like a well-oiled façade. Her eyes, bright green, sparkled with a curiosity mixed with almost calculated boldness.

"You’re Lyle Menendez, right ?" she asked with a dazzling smile, almost too perfect, as if she were playing a role.

Lyle raised an eyebrow, jaw tightening. “What do you want?”

She stepped closer, nervously playing with a strand of hair fallen on her forehead, her gaze shining with an overly insistent curiosity.

"I saw you on TV, you and your brother. What you went through... it’s brave. It must be hard, huh? Raising your daughter alone."

Lyle felt his instinct go on high alert. "It’s complicated, yes. But I prefer to keep it that way. Quiet."

She placed a hand on her hip, a bit too close, her smile turning mischievous.

"You know, you don’t have to face all this alone. Sometimes, it’s just knowing who to open the door to."

Lyle’s body stiffened, gripping the stroller handle so tightly his knuckles turned white.

"Listen, I don’t want to talk. Not with you. Nor with anyone."

She shrugged, her smile widening, almost mocking.

"Come on, a coffee? I could show you some nice spots, it’d change your mind, right?"

She stepped even closer, closing the distance. Lyle took a step back, short of breath, his gaze hard as stone.

"Back off. Don’t come near my daughter."

The young woman frowned, surprised, and leaned gently toward the stroller to get a better look at Grace.

Panic and anger surged through Lyle.

"I told you not to come near."

He placed the stroller between her and himself, his body tense like a bow ready to shoot. "Don’t touch what’s mine. I won’t let anyone hurt her."

She straightened up, crossing her arms, a provocative glint in her eyes. "Who do you think you are, seriously ? You think I’m going to hurt her ? She’s just a baby."

But Lyle, voice low and hard, replied without flinching: "Just a baby to you, maybe. To me, she’s all I have left. Everything I protect. And I’m ready to do anything for her."

A cold anger boiled inside him. He found himself thinking this woman understood nothing, had no idea what he’d been through, what he lived every day. The fear of being broken again was stronger than anything.

She sneered, shrugging, feigning indifference.

"Seriously, why do you walk her alone if you’re afraid of the whole world ? Aren’t you a bit paranoid ?"

Lyle felt a sharp pain in his heart, fear turning into rage.

"Because she’s the only thing keeping me standing. But you wouldn’t understand, obviously."

The woman looked at him with a mix of disbelief and challenge in her eyes.

"Yeah, well, you better be up to it then."

Lyle, gripping the stroller handle, felt his fingers tremble. He wanted to run, to scream, but he stayed still. He already hated her, without knowing why, because she represented everything he feared: the threat of someone coming too close to his daughter, of his fragile world cracking.

He took a deep breath, then said, voice hard and firm: "Leave us alone. This is my life, my daughter, and my rules. Got it?"

She shrugged, then turned on her heel, an ambiguous smile lingering on her lips.

Lyle stayed there, heart pounding wildly, fear and anger tangled into a painful knot. He placed a trembling hand on the stroller, murmuring to himself : I will never let anyone hurt her. Never.

That very evening, Lyle was alone in his house. The dim light from a lamp cast a warm glow, but despite the softness, a heaviness hung in the air. He was sitting on the couch, head bowed, fingers nervously playing with the sleeve of his t-shirt.

His mind kept returning to the young woman he’d encountered on the street. Her too-bright smile, too-curious gaze, the way she had leaned toward Grace. That unexpected closeness had triggered a silent alarm inside him, an instinctive distrust. Who was she really? What did she want?

Then his thoughts slid toward Christy. Where was she right now ? Did she think of Grace, their daughter ? Did she miss her, even a little ? Lyle didn’t know, and that uncertainty carved an unpleasant void in his chest. Christy, absent, had left a void no one seemed willing to fill.

He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to calm the inner turmoil, but another image emerged, heavier still.

Donovan.

His former best friend. The one he had shared so many moments with, but also so many heavy silences. The trial had definitively separated them, but especially, the lie.

Lyle recalled the scene, years ago, in that Chinese restaurant. The dim light, the mingled smells of soy, garlic, and ginger. He and Donovan, sitting face to face, speaking quietly.

They had talked about their broken childhoods, the violence hidden behind the walls, the burden they carried without being able to speak of it to anyone. Lyle remembered Donovan’s words, who had confessed his own wounds, fears, and angers. That conversation had been a rare breath of fresh air in their suffocating world.

But at the trial, Donovan had denied it. Denied to erase those shared memories, as if it could change what they had lived, as if words could rewrite reality.

Lyle felt a deep, dull burn, a mix of betrayal and pain stabbing like an invisible blade into his chest. How could one deny the truth when it was the only thing to hold on to? How could he pretend all that had never existed, as if their shared past was just a mirage ?

Yet, deep inside, he knew that despite the anger, despite the bitter weight of resentment, he missed Donovan terribly. That silence, that refusal to acknowledge their bond, carved an immense, freezing void. He missed him like one misses a lost brother, like one mourns a ghost one would so dearly want to touch one last time.

His heart beat faster, his mind swirling, tossed between resentment and the desperate desire for reconciliation. He surprised himself hoping, despite everything, that maybe someday they could find some kind of understanding, or at least a fragile peace. But that thought tore him apart too, because he knew how deeply he’d been hurt.

He looked away, then glanced at Grace, sleeping in her crib, peaceful and innocent amid the turmoil tearing him apart. He rose slowly, legs heavy, approached her, and placed a trembling hand on her small head.

"I’m here", he whispered, voice broken, as if convincing himself as much as reassuring her.

In that fragile gesture, he found a kind of anchor, a reason to keep going despite everything. This little life, this innocence, was what gave him the strength to stand against the weight of memories, the shadow of lies, and the loneliness eating him away.

But deep inside, the question remained, haunting and cruel: could he really trust anyone, not even those who had once been his allies, those who had shared his pain?

The night stretched on, heavy and silent, while Lyle, heart burdened, watched over Grace, wrapped in a mixture of love, fear, and unspeakable regrets.

~~

The sun was high, relentless, but the pool water softened the heat into an almost pleasant caress. In the backyard of the house, everything seemed strangely calm. The outside world was far away. Too far.

Erik sat on the edge of the pool, legs dipped up to his knees, his sports shorts soaked up to mid-thigh. The warm concrete beneath his hands warmed his palms. In front of him, Lyle gently held Grace, carefully supporting her under the arms as she joyfully splashed in the water.

She was three months old. Already.

And even though she was still tiny, she seemed more alive than anything around them.

Her little arms flapped like wings, splashing the surface, and she made soft chuckling noises, as if laughing at the unfamiliarity of this big warm bath. Lyle whispered barely audible things to her—snatches of songs, sweet words, invented sounds. He had a voice Erik didn’t know him to have. A low, tender, almost fragile voice.

Erik watched silently, his heart tight.

It was beautiful to see. But it was also heartbreaking.

Lyle no longer really smiled. Not from the heart. He pretended, for Grace. To keep standing. But Erik clearly saw what lay behind the tender gestures: exhaustion, loneliness, the visceral fear of not being enough.

“She loves the water,” Lyle said without looking up.

Erik nodded with a small smile. “She’s much braver than I was at that age. I screamed as soon as my head got wet.”

Lyle gave a brief laugh, but the sound faded as quickly as it came. He adjusted the little yellow hat on Grace’s head.

Erik looked up at the sky. Not a cloud.

He remembered summers past. Fake vacations in their childhood home. Their parents organizing barbecues for neighbors, smiling like actors. And them, frozen on lounge chairs, trying to look normal.

Erik looked back down at his brother. Lyle looked older than his age. Lines drawn, shoulders tense even in the water. He had lost weight since the trial. Or maybe it was fatherhood. Or loneliness.

Or both.

“She looks like you,” Erik whispered, breaking the silence.

“Poor girl,” Lyle replied without looking up.

A shiver ran through Erik. He hated that tone, that biting sarcasm he’d never allowed himself before. Lyle wasn’t bitter by nature. But in recent months, something inside him had frozen.

Erik lay flat on his back at the edge of the pool, arms spread out. He let the sun burn his face, eyes closed. He thought about university. UCLA. His attempt at a “fresh start.”

Crowded hallways, polite but nervous professors. The stares. Always the stares. The whispers. The murmurs that stopped exactly when he passed by.

“You know,” he said without moving, “sometimes I feel like I could scream in the middle of the lecture hall, and it would be less violent than enduring the silences.”

Lyle barely lifted his head.

“Because they look at you like a ghost?”

Erik opened his eyes.

“No. Like a monster they don’t dare name. Like a ticking time bomb. The ‘Menendez brother.’ It’s never ‘Erik,’ you see? Just... a case. A morbid curiosity.”

Lyle didn’t answer. He stared at Grace, who still splashed around, indifferent to the family history into which she was born.

“But you,” Erik continued, “you just disappeared. You live secluded here, with her. It’s beautiful, it’s strong. But you... you cut yourself off from everything.”

“So?”

The tone was dry. Erik sat up, leaning his elbows on his wet knees. “And it freaks me out, Lyle. You’re not supposed to carry it all alone. It’s not normal to live like a fugitive when you’ve been cleared. We survived all that for what? To bury yourself alive in this house?”

Lyle stared at him. His gaze was hollow, tired. But he held on. “I don’t want to meet their eyes. Or hear what they whisper. I have nothing left to prove, Erik. Not to them.” He turned his eyes toward Grace. “Just to her. That’s all.”

A silence. Long. Dense.

Erik felt a pang in his heart. He understood. Too well. But he also knew that silence, even in a beautiful house, could kill slowly.

He stood up, slowly approached the pool edge, and leaned down to touch Grace’s wet hand.

“You’re a good father,” he whispered. “But you’re still a man. A whole human being. You have the right to exist too, you know.”

Lyle didn’t answer. But his chin trembled for a second, almost imperceptibly. So Erik stepped back, leaving him that moment.

The water rippled softly. A sparrow sang in the lemon tree.

And Grace laughed. Again and again.

Lyle eventually got out of the water silently, wrapped Grace in a soft towel before laying her in her lounge chair, under the shade of an umbrella. He walked away without another word, claiming he had a bottle to prepare. Maybe just to breathe. Maybe not to break down.

Erik stayed there. Sitting on the pool edge, legs dangling in the water, watching his niece wave her arms in the air, wrapped like a little white caterpillar. She babbled aimlessly, eyes squinting from the sun, a smile distorted by her round cheeks. It was one of those child smiles—purely biological, without reason or expectation. Just because she existed.

Erik leaned over slowly and touched her little toes. “Hey, little peanut,” he whispered softly.

She responded with a hiccup of laughter. A real one. Clear, high-pitched, like a bubble bursting in the warm air. He couldn’t help but laugh too. “Okay, you win. Come on, let’s go back.”

He picked her up with a clumsy tenderness. She wriggled like a little fish, arms wrapping around his neck stronger than he expected. He felt his heart tighten—that kind of embrace that doesn’t know the weight it carries. He slowly stepped into the water, holding her close, feeling the coolness wrap around him in a soothing shiver. She kicked her legs in the air, delighted, eyes turned to the cloudless sky.

“Can you swim ?” he asked with mock seriousness.

She sneezed, splashing his cheek. He laughed harder.

They stayed like that, doing little back-and-forths in the pool, Erik gently supporting her under the armpits, telling her softly whatever crossed his mind.

“You know, you’re kind of the most innocent person I know. It’s scary, actually. And you have no idea how weird it is that your dad, Lyle, has become… a dad. I still remember him reading me comics under a blanket with a flashlight, or sharing his dessert with me when I cried in front of our mom. He protected me all my life. And now he protects you.”

He paused, absorbed by Grace’s movement in the water, the soft splashing around them.

“And me… I don’t know if I’ll ever be a father. I hope I will. But you, you’re my niece. My very first family not tied to fear or shame. You represent… something new. Pure. Possible.”

He moved back a little, holding her just above the water’s surface. She looked at the water with fascination, her lashes wet and shining. He saw her reflection trembling in the ripples. She suddenly burst out laughing without warning, one of those pure explosions that disarm you.

Erik splashed the water around her playfully, and she doubled her laughter, arms outstretched as if to fly.

He closed his eyes for a moment. In that moment, he thought no longer of prison, trial, chains. Not of the rumors on campus, nor the heavy stares. He thought of her. This little person who gave him a kind of love he never thought possible.

A pure love. Simple. Unconditional.

He held her a little tighter and murmured, barely audible: “I’ll protect you too. Promise.”

Then he gently lay back in the water, holding her on his chest like a living raft in the middle of a summer they’d never forget.

The glass door to the kitchen was ajar, letting in a warm breeze carrying the scent of chlorine and lemon tree. Lyle leaned against the doorframe, a cold cup of coffee in his hands, forgotten for at least ten minutes.

From where he stood, he saw everything.

Erik, in the water, floating gently on his back, Grace lying on his chest, arms spread like a tiny starfish. She babbled, even laughed, responding with those frank smiles reserved only for babies. Smiles that ask for nothing. That give everything.

Lyle didn’t move. He watched, frozen. He could have come out, joined them, offered a towel, made up an excuse to blend into the scene. But he didn’t want to break it. He didn’t want to topple that rare, precious moment—when someone else loved his daughter like he loved her.

He rarely saw Erik so free. Unburdened by their memories, the trial, their parents, their name. There, in the water, he wasn’t “the Menendez brother,” nor “the survivor,” he was just Uncle Erik.

And Grace… damn. She laughed. Really. With her whole little body.

And Lyle felt something crack inside him. A mix of pure love and brutal pain. Because it was so beautiful. And because he wasn’t part of it.

Sometimes, he had the feeling of watching his own life from outside. Like an unwanted guest at his own happiness.

He raised the cup to his lips without drinking. The coffee was bitter and cold, like everything he had forgotten to finish lately.

He hadn’t slept more than three hours the previous night. Grace had cried nonstop between bottles. He tried everything—the lullaby, the stroller, arms, songs. He even cried with her, exhausted. In silence.

And now, he saw her floating peacefully against Erik, light as a feather, while she had struggled to close her eyes the night before.

He suddenly felt… useless. Replaceable.

Not jealous. Not really. Just… erased.

But deep down, he knew that wasn’t true. She needed him. She recognized him. She looked for him with her eyes when she drifted away too far. She fell asleep faster in his arms than anyone else’s. And yet… he sometimes wondered if he was doing things right. If he passed on more wounds than safety. He had no manual. Just memories not to repeat.

He gripped his cup tighter. The enamel cracked beneath his fingers.

Then Erik burst out laughing, loud and sincere, and Grace let out a little joyful squeal in response. The water splashed a little on the pool edge, and a golden light reflected on their faces like a moment out of time.

Lyle felt something melt inside him. A knot. An anxiety. A little. Just enough. He closed his eyes for a moment. Breathed. The scent of the lemon tree. The breeze. His daughter’s laughter. When he opened them again, Erik was looking up at him. Not a word. Just a look. Long. Brotherly. Without judgment.

As if to say : Come. You can still come. We’re waiting for you.

Lyle hesitated. Then, slowly, he put down the cup. And took a step toward the garden.

~~

The day rose without brilliance.
A pale light filtered through the beige curtains of the living room, casting the shifting shadows of the garden’s foliage onto the wall. It was a little past six o’clock. Not quite morning yet, but no longer night.

The rocking chair no longer moved. It had stopped creaking in the middle of the night, when Lyle had finally given in to sleep, his head tilted, mouth slightly open, one hand still resting on Grace’s back.

She slept against his chest, her face nestled against him as if she had always been there. Her steady breathing gently lifted his t-shirt. A tiny, persistent warmth. A living presence. Unshakeable.

The silence in the house was no longer oppressive. It was inhabited.

The cradle, a few steps away, had remained empty all night. It had been carefully prepared, placed next to the marital bed, but Lyle hadn’t had the strength to return to it. Not tonight. Not after what he had felt there, in that chair.

The bedroom, anyway, now seemed a little more familiar. He no longer crossed the threshold with caution, as if it belonged to another time. There was nothing bitter or violent in this absence. Just... an empty space. A chair pushed back, a drawer left closed. Christy had left belongings behind, but not her attachment.

And he didn’t resent her. He no longer had the strength for that. That morning, there was no anger. Only a gentle tiredness. And Grace, still there.

Lyle opened his eyes. Slowly. Blinked several times. Then looked down at the small weight asleep against him. A smile, almost imperceptible, tugged at his lips.

He rose carefully, without waking Grace. He held her against him, cradled in one arm like a fragile treasure. He crossed the living room on tiptoes, passed the table piled with diapers, a half-finished bottle, a forgotten cloth, and entered the kitchen.

He started the coffee maker with an almost automatic gesture. The familiar sound of heating water filled the room. The smell of beans, steam, clicking. He placed his hand flat on the counter to center himself.

“Someday, you’ll understand what it is,” he whispered to Grace without looking at her, just to speak. “To be up before the sun. To love someone so much you forget who you were before.”

She made a small sound, not fully waking. A happy sigh, curled up in her world of fabric and human warmth. He poured the coffee, added a little milk out of habit. Then he returned to the living room, settled again in the chair. The same one as last night. Nothing had changed. Everything had changed.

With the warm mug in one hand, his daughter against him, he watched the sunrise through the window. Not much to see: a pale sky, trees still wet from the day before. But that morning, it was enough.

It was everything.

Lyle tilted his head, let his cheek brush Grace’s fine hair. A phrase crossed his mind. It came from nowhere. Or maybe from too far away to remember clearly.

“I am home.”

And this time, he did not doubt it.

Chapter Text

The morning had started like any other. Lyle had put on an old instrumental jazz cassette. The same tape he always played when he needed to slow his thoughts.

He wore a faded T-shirt and a pair of worn jeans, his hair still slightly damp from the shower. Grace was playing in her playpen, surrounded by her stuffed animals, making soft, absent little sounds, focused on a teething ring.

An ordinary day. Just another one. One of those days where you breathe easier than yesterday, but still not freely. He was making coffee. The filter trembled slightly between his fingers. He repositioned it. A habit turned reflex: double-check everything. Keep control. Always.

When the doorbell rang, he froze.

That wasn’t supposed to happen. No one rang that door without warning. No one came up the driveway unless invited — except journalists.

Lyle shot a quick glance toward Grace, now asleep in her playpen, one arm flung out like she was dreaming someone was holding her. He ran a nervous hand over the back of his neck and headed toward the front door, his steps slow and heavy on the wooden floor. He peeked through the window, breath short, his stomach knotted with a distrust he had never managed to shake.

And his breath caught.

Standing on the doorstep, wearing a worn denim jacket, a wrinkled gray T-shirt, eyes squinting under the California sun...

Donovan.

A travel bag sat at his feet. He looked tired. Worn out, even. Unshaven for two days.

He wasn’t smiling.

Not yet.

His shoulders were tense, and something uncertain hung in the air around him, like a last unanswered question. Like he was expecting the door to stay closed. Like he was already preparing to turn back.

Lyle stayed frozen for another second, heart pounding so hard he felt it echo in his temples. Then, slowly — almost reluctantly — he turned the handle.

The door opened.

They looked at each other. For a long time. Too long for it to mean nothing. The world seemed frozen. Even the birds had fallen silent — or maybe Lyle just couldn’t hear them anymore.

Then Lyle spoke. His voice was rough, cracked:

“You said you weren’t coming back until next month.”

Donovan gave a slight shrug, a shadow of apology in his eyes, but no regret.

“I changed my plans. I took the first flight.” He lowered his eyes for a second, breath shaky. “I... couldn’t wait.”

Silence fell again. Dense, like the late-afternoon heat.

Lyle didn’t move. He felt tingling in his fingers, as if he were coming back from too far.

And then, suddenly, something gave.

His jaw trembled. Just a little. He looked down. Then back up. He didn’t say a word.

He stepped forward. Then again.

And before he even realized what he was doing, his arms wrapped around Donovan.

Tightly. Almost violently. Like his body refused to lose him again.

Donovan froze for a fraction of a second. Then he returned the embrace.

Not like a friend. Not like a stranger. But like someone who had never truly stopped waiting for this moment.

And Lyle… half-collapsed into him. Not physically. But inside, something let go. Finally.

He caught the scent of Donovan’s sweater — airport, exhaustion, cold wind, and regret. The scent of somewhere else. And he realized he was shaking slightly.

Donovan whispered, barely more than a breath against his temple:

“I wanted to be here. Really here. Not on the phone. Not just in thought.”

Lyle nodded against his shoulder. He had forgotten what a touch without fear felt like.

He opened his mouth, but no words came. So he just stayed there. Just like that. In that silent embrace, full of second chances and restrained exhaustion.

A sound pulled their attention. A little cry — curious. Grace, from her playpen, was watching them with wide, clear eyes, a drooly smile on her face.

Donovan turned his head, eyes shining. “Do you think she remembers me ?”

Lyle looked at him, a trembling smile on his lips, his heart nearly in his eyes. He nodded, almost whispered : “She looked for you. In the days after.”

Donovan stepped forward gently. He crouched down, as if approaching a child required the same care as approaching a wounded bird.

Grace reached out her arms without hesitation. It was obvious. Natural.

And Lyle, standing behind them, saw that image — the one he had never dared to hope for: his daughter reaching out to someone else. Not to escape. Not out of fear. Just… because she wanted to.

A warm wave rose in his throat. His eyes burned.

He turned his head, but too late.

Donovan had seen.

And this time, it was Donovan who stood, who stepped forward. He took Lyle’s hand. In silence. Slowly. Almost shyly. And Lyle didn’t pull away.

He stayed. Hand in hand. Arm against arm. Heart beating too fast. But this time, that beat wasn’t something to fear.

It was alive.

Later, night had fallen, wrapping the house in peaceful silence.

The quiet ticking of the clock mingled with the distant sound of a car passing on the road — and then, nothing. The world felt suspended, like it was holding its breath.

Grace was finally fast asleep, curled up against Lyle on the couch. Her tiny head nestled into the crook of his arm, her mouth slightly open, her fingers curled gently against his chest.
Her warm little body barely weighed anything, but her presence alone was enough to anchor Lyle in a calm he hardly recognized.

He watched her without moving, listening to her steady, peaceful breathing. Each breath was like a fragile musical note, and for the first time in years, Lyle felt a strange peace settle in.

A peace without guilt. A truce in the chaos.

Donovan approached slowly, barefoot, a throw blanket draped over his shoulders. He sat down gently beside him, careful not to wake the little one, his movements so slow they almost didn’t seem real.

Their eyes met in the dim light. No need for words: in that silence floated all the tenderness in the world, all the gratitude, all the fear — and that faint, delicate hope no one quite dared call happiness yet.

Lyle reached out, and his fingers slid naturally into Donovan’s, seeking that touch like someone feeling their way toward light in unfamiliar terrain. He gave a gentle squeeze — not tight, just enough to say: I’m here.

“I never thought I’d get to live something like this…” he murmured, voice muffled, strangled with emotion.

Donovan tilted his head slightly. He raised a hand, hesitated for a second, then gently brushed Lyle’s cheek with his fingertips.

The gesture wasn’t planned. It was instinctive, born from tenderness held back far too long.

“Me neither,” he breathed.

Silence returned. But it wasn’t the same anymore. It had changed its texture. It pulsed softly, like a heart being heard for the very first time.

Their faces drew closer, slowly, as if the air between them had thickened — warm, full of everything they’d never known how to say. Their breaths mingled. Lyle felt his own falter.

Then he kissed him. Lightly. Timidly. A kiss that felt more like a question than an answer.

Donovan didn’t pull away. He answered it — slowly, tenderly.

The kiss deepened, grew, like a thread being rewoven after years of fraying. One breath at a time. A hand gliding gently over a shoulder, then up to the back of a neck. Movements careful, almost sacred.

Donovan’s fingers slipped into Lyle’s hair, caressing softly down his neck, across his face — as if memorizing every inch, every breath.

Lyle let himself sink into him, cautiously — the way someone does when they haven’t yet learned to trust comfort. But with every touch — every sigh, every shared warmth — he came back to himself, little by little.

They stayed like that, entwined, wordless, the blanket loosely wrapped around their shoulders.

Lyle had always believed that silence was a punishment. But here, with Grace asleep against him and Donovan by his side, this silence felt like a refuge.

Later that night, the house lay in gentle darkness, touched only by the flickering glow of a bedside lamp in the hallway. Shadows slid slowly across the walls, serene—as though honoring the precious silence that enveloped them.

Upstairs, Grace slept deeply at last, settled in her little crib with a light blanket tucked up to her belly. Her plush toys seemed to stand guard—silent, still, protective.

Downstairs in the kitchen, Lyle stood with a mug in his hand, swirling the still-hot liquid gently, his gaze fixed beyond the glass on the unseen garden swallowed by night. He hadn’t turned on the light, preferring the soft halo from the vent hood above the sink. His mind drifted—not back to a memory, not yet forward to tomorrow—just resting in that moment: this fragile, strange peace that felt almost unreal. That kind of calm that never lets you fully relax, in case it slips away too soon.

In the living room, Donovan rose quietly from the couch. His movements were measured, slow, as though afraid time might slip away. He tiptoed into the hallway, each step as light as a breeze, and climbed the stairs half in shadow.

He paused for a moment outside Grace’s slightly open door. Then, slowly, he entered her room. There, the muted glow of a nightlight cast soft blue shapes across pale walls. The room smelled of gentle laundry, the warm wood of the crib, and the faint fragrance of milk and sleep.

Donovan approached and crouched beside the crib, a tender smile ghosting across his lips. His eyes lingered on her peaceful face, her trembling lashes, rosy cheeks. She breathed deeply, her thumb pressing against her tiny palm.

With exquisite care, Donovan slid his arms beneath her and lifted her gently. His warm breath skimmed her delicate skin, and she stirred—slowly, without fear. Her eyelids fluttered open halfway, revealing sleep-heavy eyes that were both curious and confused.

“Hey, sweetheart…” Donovan murmured, his voice soft and filled with a newfound warmth. “You know, tonight… there’s something important I wanted to tell you.”

He began rocking her, body close to his, his gaze resting on her still-childish features. Grace waved her tiny fingers as if responding.

“You’re not just an adorable little girl who melts my heart every time you smile,” he whispered, voice dropping to a secret in the quiet of the night. “For the first time in my life, I feel something I never imagined… a paternal instinct. It’s strange, new, overwhelming… and it fills me with courage.”

Grace seemed fascinated, her eyes seeking Donovan’s. He continued rocking in time with his own heartbeat. Her eyes wide and curious, her little hands reflexively clutched at his shirt.

“All my life, I’ve avoided responsibility. I was afraid of myself, afraid of becoming a monster. I betrayed those I loved because I thought I didn’t deserve their love… But you… you ask for nothing. You just exist. You breathe. And without knowing it, you gave me a chance to be better.”

He paused, moved, then resumed more gently :

“Grace, I’m not your biological father,” he continued, choosing each word carefully, “and I will never be. But you know what? I don’t need that to love you. I don’t need DNA, papers, or shared blood. You are here. You live inside my heart. You caught me off guard, but I let you in. And now, I don’t want you to ever leave. Not you, and not your father either.”

He held her a little tighter, his lips brushing her soft temple.

“Maybe I’ll never replace your mother. Maybe I won’t be perfect. I’ll make mistakes, surely. But I promise you, Grace, I promise I will be here. I won’t run away. I won’t betray you. You are brave. You are loved. And I will do everything I can to protect you.”

His voice cracked on the last words. He inhaled sharply, as though swallowing something risen from within. Then reluctantly, slowly, he bent down and laid her back in the crib. He slid his hands beneath her soft shoulders, holding her as one handles something precious.

He wrapped her in her blanket with meticulous care, gently smoothing the edges so no draft could disturb her. He brushed a strand of hair off her forehead with a fingertip. The baby sighed as her eyes closed again, drifting calmly back to sleep.

Donovan lingered an instant, his hands resting on the crib rail—unable to pull away.

Unbeknownst to him, just a few steps away in the hallway, the slightly open door had let everything through.

Lyle was there. Frozen. Back pressed against the wall. His breath caught like ice in his throat. He had heard everything. Every word. Every caress. Every promise resonated deep within him. He felt tears rise—warm and sharp at once—his throat tight with emotion.

It wasn’t sadness. It was gratitude. Love. A love that needed no explanation or justification. A love simply being. And for the first time in a long time, Lyle didn’t fight his tears. He let them come. Softly. In silence.

Because in that stolen moment, in that declaration to his daughter, he saw clearly.

Donovan wasn’t taking someone’s place. He was creating his own.

Donovan stepped out of Grace’s room slowly, his arms still carrying the warmth of the sleeping child. He was about to close the door when he felt someone behind him.

In the hallway, a few steps back, stood Lyle—breath shallow, eyes misted over.

Their gazes met, and in that simple, silent exchange, there was a collision of raw emotion: fragility, hope, the fear of losing again, and a visceral longing to finally believe.

Donovan took a step toward him, slowly, as if not to shatter this fragile balance.

Lyle said nothing. He simply extended his trembling hand, which Donovan took without hesitation. Without a word, Lyle guided Donovan back into the room, where the muted light cast gentle shadows across the walls.

They stopped by the bed, facing each other, hands still joined. The silence was heavy—laden with nearly tangible intensity. Their eyes held on one another, searching, finding, surrendering. Then, as if released by a single breath, their lips met. First slowly, with hesitant tenderness, and then passion rose—softly, burning, irrepressible.

Donovan's hands came to rest on Lyle's hips, pulling him closer. His thumbs slid beneath the fabric of the T-shirt, brushing against the warm skin, marking every inch like a rediscovery. Lyle closed his eyes. He slid his fingers into Donovan's hair, squeezing it, gently at first, then harder. His heart was pounding, a drum in his chest, but for once, the beat didn't scare him.

It was a rhythm he wanted to follow. A music he'd thought forgotten.

The outside world seemed to fade away, and it was just them, their breaths mingling, their hearts beating in unison. Every caress, every whisper, every kiss was a silent declaration—the mending of wounds, the conquest of a long-delayed happiness. The room was bathed in dim light, where shadows danced gently on the walls.

Lyle closed his eyes, letting himself be carried away by the warmth rising from those soft hands. He felt his heart pound, a nervousness mixed with a desire he'd never dared to explore. His own breathing grew deeper, warmer, as he responded to those attentions, caressing Donovan in turn with infinite gentleness.

Donovan's tongue traced slow circles, exploring, awakening, inviting Lyle to surrender. Lyle felt his body open, accepting, inviting more. In an almost ceremonious gesture, Lyle lifted his arms, allowing Donovan to remove his t-shirt, which fell in a ball to the floor. Donovan looked at him for a moment, admiring the bare skin, his breath taken away by the fragile beauty of the man before him.

Donovan's breath brushed Lyle's skin, light as a caress. His fingers began a tender journey, following the curve of his face, the line of his neck, descending cautiously, without haste, to learn every contour, every shiver.

Lyle lowered his hands to Donovan's shirt, unbuttoning it one by one, his movements a little shaky but determined. The fabric soon slid to the floor, joining the discarded clothing. Their bare torsos brushed against each other, an electric shock between them. The tension rose, thick and burning.

They moved back to the bed, letting themselves fall onto it in one fluid movement. Donovan leaned over him, slowly kissing his throat, his shoulder, down his collarbone. Lyle sighed, his eyes closed, his fingers slid into Donovan's hair, guiding him with restrained tenderness.

Donovan stuck out his tongue and began to lick a wet line along the skin of Lyle's collarbone, before moving back up to his face. They kissed again, interspersed with murmurs, sighs, little notes of pleasure that seemed suspended in time. Lyle felt Donovan's hands roam his back, rubbing away tension and fear, as if to tell him that here, in this room, he was safe, loved, and wanted. He slid his fingers into the back of Donovan's neck, gently tugging to deepen their kiss, inviting his lover closer.

Every touch, every caress, was an act of trust, an exchange of deep emotions. They took the time to discover each other, to rediscover each other, without rushing, with a sacred tenderness that defied the past and its wounds.
Their breaths became warmer, their bodies pressed closer, yearning for each other.

Donovan's breath mingled with Lyle's, warm and soothing, creating a gentle warmth that enveloped their skin. Their hands explored delicately, taming every contour, every shiver. Lyle felt his heart pound, not out of fear, but from this newfound certainty of being deeply seen, welcomed.

Their gazes sought each other, found each other, and in this proximity, a silent language was exchanged, laden with promises and hope. No words seemed necessary; each gesture spoke in place of their voices. They savored this fragile and precious bond, aware of the moment suspended between them. Donovan placed a light kiss along Lyle's jaw, then in the hollow of his neck. Lyle let himself go, a barely traced smile on his lips, an inner peace gently radiating. The tenderness between them wasn't just physical—it was a reflection of a love rediscovered, a trust patiently rebuilt.

Donovan’s kisses traveled lower, brushing again over his collarbone, descending onto his chest, his toned stomach, and Lyle’s breath caught in his throat as Donovan’s face grew dangerously close to his groin, still covered by his pants.

He felt Lyle’s body tense as his breath faltered. Donovan lifted his head before moving back up toward Lyle. He gently stroked Lyle’s cheek, his fingers trembling slightly under the intensity of the moment. There was a vulnerability in his gaze he had never dared to show, a truth he offered without reservation.

“I’m here, Lyle…” he murmured, his voice low and full of emotion. “For you. For us.”

Lyle opened his eyes, surprised by the quiet strength radiating from Donovan. He felt a comforting warmth spread through him, a new certainty. Slowly, he replied, his voice soft and sincere:

“I love you.”

Donovan’s breath quickened, his lips pressed again to Lyle’s, more gently this time, as if to seal that silent vow. Their hands intertwined, seeking to prolong that contact, that bond that was becoming a refuge.

“I love you too.”

Donovan's hands moved slowly down, brushing Lyle's bare sides, then paused for a moment at the edge of his pants. Donovan leaned down to kiss him again, deeper, as his hands slowly explored Lyle's thighs, his stomach, the sensitive curves of his lower back. Lyle's breath hitched, his moans muffled in Donovan's mouth. His back arched slightly under the caresses, every nerve on edge.

"Tell me if you want me to stop," Donovan murmured against his lips.

"No... stay. I want you here. All the way."

Donovan felt a thrill in his core. Slowly, he pulled his lips away from Lyle's. He moved down to his toned stomach, where he placed wet kisses, sliding lower and lower again, until he reached the buttons of Lyle's pants. He looked up at him. "May I ?" Donovan asked gently, his gaze fixed on Lyle's, eager to gain his agreement.

Breathless, Lyle hesitated for a few seconds before nodding, definitively sealing a decisive moment.

Encouraged by Lyle's validation, Donovan unbuttoned his pants with slow but precise movements before sliding them down Lyle's legs, sliding his boxers off in the process. Donovan's breath caught as he faced Lyle's hard cock, now completely naked and vulnerable before him.

A whirlwind of emotions rushed through Donovan, fast and unsettling. His heart pounded, heavy, almost painful in his chest, while his thoughts tumbled into silent chaos. This was the first time he'd ever done this with a man. The very idea of it overwhelmed him. It wasn't like what he'd experienced with his uncle, the act that had broken him inside, turning the very notion of intimacy into something degrading and dirty.

The memory of those moments still haunted him, like a dull poison he could never completely erase, but today he knew, he felt deep down, that it would be different. Not like before. Lyle wasn't that monster. He wasn't that man who had destroyed him, that cold, soulless being. With Lyle, it was something else. There was no stain, no shame, no betrayal in the air, only a promise, fragile and sweet, of a sincere sharing, of something pure, something beautiful.

What he was about to do wasn't a trivial act. No. It would be a defining moment, a turning point in their relationship, a step toward healing, toward a form of silent redemption, for both him and Lyle. An act that would bond them in a new way, perhaps the only way to rebuild what they had lost: their trust, their humanity.

He realized then that he himself felt too trapped in his own clothes, and that every pore screamed its need to press itself against Lyle's body, as if it were a visceral need for him. Donovan raised himself slightly on the bed to remove his own pants and boxers, which he tossed unceremoniously to the floor, joining the other clothes he had discarded earlier.

Their bodies revealed each other entirely, without shame, without fear. Just a raw need to feel, to prove to each other that this was real.

Their gazes met, a final hesitation in Donovan's eyes, quickly swept away by the trust Lyle offered him. Then, with the slowness of one who respects every heartbeat, every gesture granted, Donovan positioned himself against him, seeking his skin, his warmth, his surrender.

Lyle gently spread his legs, welcoming his body, his hands firmly clinging to Donovan's arms. Donovan's breath quickened, his lips pressed against Lyle's again, more gently this time, as if to seal this silent oath. Their hands and legs intertwined, seeking to prolong this contact, this bond that was becoming a refuge.

Donovan's bare skin against his was a reassuring murmur, a gentle presence that seemed to want to soothe every shadow buried deep within Lyle. It was an almost unexpected comfort, a warmth that, for a moment, erased the world around them, as if Donovan's simple touch was a silent promise of calm.

Yet beyond this tenderness, older, heavier shivers crept beneath his skin. Shivers he knew well, echoes of the past, when it had been his father's hands that had caressed his skin, but in a violent, twisted, dominating way. Each beat of his heart seemed faster, heavier, as if his body refused to let go. A painful knot formed in his stomach, a resistance that wouldn't dissipate, a protective reflex that went back too far.

Donovan's hands and lips glided over him with infinite patience, as if trying to rebuild what he had lost, to heal his wounds without ever touching them too roughly. But beneath each caress, Lyle felt the ghosts of his own father, like shadows he couldn't ignore. Each gesture, however delicate, was a reminder of the hands he had once received, of the horrible gestures that had scarred him for life. Sometimes he stiffened, an icy shiver running through his body. He held his breath, his eyes closed for a moment, as if to protect himself from this pain that was too raw, too old, and that wouldn't let go. He knew that this moment with Donovan wasn't like the others, that it wasn't the same as anything he had experienced in the past, but the memories were tenacious, insistent. They crept into every pore, impregnating even the sweetness of the moment with a bitterness he couldn't shake off.

Donovan noticed it immediately : the slight tension in Lyle’s muscles, like an invisible shiver running beneath his skin. His movements instinctively slowed down, each gesture becoming more measured, more attentive. His voice, soft and low, rose in the silence, an almost reassuring whisper :

“I’m here. With you. You have nothing to fear.”

His words were like invisible hands trying to comfort Lyle, to break the cage of his fears, of his inner demons. They were there, together, in that enclosed space, yet each word seemed to pierce through the walls of his own torment.

Lyle stayed still for a moment, a heavy, suspended breath between them, his eyes nearly closed. His eyelids fluttered slowly, as if trying to dissipate the haze of his anxieties, to bring order to the emotional chaos. In that suspended moment, he let himself slowly slip away from fear, each heartbeat, each breath, growing calmer, more controlled. It was a surrender he had never known before, a timid but real attempt to give in to this fragile instant of trust. A trust he had never been able to grant before, not even to himself.

As Donovan continued his movements, each touch became something more: a silent promise, a slow but essential healing. Lyle felt the gentleness of every gesture like a light that gradually pierced the darkness of his deepest thoughts. It was as if each caress erased a little more of the shadow that surrounded him, a little more of the voices from the past whispering distrust and pain. His heart, fragile and broken, slowly made its way through this fog, finding a soothing rhythm, slow but undeniably true. A rhythm he had never believed he could find again, like a melody he had forgotten but that, under Donovan’s tender touch, was heard once more.

When he entered him, it was slow, precise, almost too gentle. Lyle stifled a cry against his shoulder, opening up to a sensation mixed with burning and deep warmth. Donovan waited, attentive to every tremor, every sigh. Then he began to move, slowly, rhythmically, his hips guided by instinct, by the need to make him his own without brutality.

Their bodies adjusted naturally, finding a silent harmony, a shared rhythm. The moment was so intense for Lyle that tears began to sting his eyes. He wanted to believe that this tenderness was not a mirage, that it could truly heal his invisible wounds. Yet, fear lingered, a persistent shadow in a corner of his mind, ready to surface at the slightest hesitation.

He inhaled slowly, trying to silence the whispers of the past, those voices shouting that he didn’t deserve this love, that he would always end up losing what he cherished, those dreadful images from when he was with his father...

His body suddenly tensed, a shiver running down his spine, a silent alarm deep in his belly. Donovan seemed to sense the change, slowed his movements, pressed his forehead against Lyle’s, trying to convey through that simple touch an unshakable presence.

“I’m here,” he murmured, his voice low and warm. “You’re not alone anymore. I love you.”

The whisper penetrated Lyle deeper than he thought possible. He felt the barriers he had built crumble, giving way to sincere, disarming vulnerability. He inhaled slowly, his fingers finding Donovan’s, squeezing them with a newfound tenderness as he tightened his legs around his lover’s waist, as if to anchor himself in this moment. This time, through Donovan’s gaze, he perceived something else: a silent promise of steadfastness, an unconditional commitment.

“You’re not alone,” Donovan repeated, his fingers tracing soothing circles on Lyle’s cheek as he began to slowly, gently thrust into him, sending waves of pleasure through Lyle. “Not this time. Not with me.”

The words sank in gently, like light through dusty glass. Lyle felt his shoulders relax, a long, freeing breath escaping his lips. He closed his eyes and let his head fall back onto the pillow as Donovan’s hot body continued to undulate against his own, exploring parts of him no one else had been able to explore in this way, parts of him he had once thought defiled, but which were slowly regaining their purity thanks to Donovan’s love.

Lyle then let out a small cry when he felt Donovan hit that sensitive spot inside him, something that made him dig his nails into the skin of his lover's back, his legs tightening around his waist. It was an indescribable sensation, greater than any pleasure he had ever known. Donovan continued to stroke that spot inside him, his body crushed against his, and Lyle's moans immediately began to fill the silent room. Donovan buried his face in his sweaty neck as he continued to move inside him as if his life depended on it, their bodies fitting together like puzzle pieces that had spent years searching for their other half.

They both felt they could finally drop the masks, the dull anger, the silent pain, and allowed themselves to welcome the warmth enveloping him. They didn't take their eyes off each other. Even in the abandonment, even in the pleasure, something remained anchored. Deep. Indestructible.

When the wave took them, it was together, a breath torn from their lips, their bodies tense to the limit, then released in a slow, silent fall.

Donovan remained inside him for a few moments, his forehead pressed against his, as if he needed this closeness to come back to himself, to reassure himself that everything was real. Their naked bodies still knotted, trembling with the same shudder, their chests collided in a short, panting, but calm breath.

They closed their eyes together, in that thick silence where nothing mattered anymore except the warmth of the other, that feeling of being exactly where they were meant to be. Overwhelmed not only by pleasure but by something vaster, rarer: a kind of peace. A silent trust. Love, in its calmest and truest form.

After an indefinite moment — maybe a minute, maybe an eternity — Donovan slowly pulled back, just enough to look at him. He opened his eyes slowly, his pupils still dilated, and raised a hand toward Lyle’s face. His fingers slid through his sweat-dampened hair, gently pushing back the dark strands clinging to his forehead.

Lyle opened his eyes in turn, lazily, as if through a veil of warmth. He was still elsewhere, still caught in the echo of what they had just shared. His breathing was slow now, almost peaceful. And when he met Donovan’s gaze, leaning over him, something inside him loosened. He smiled at him. Softly. Defenselessly.

A smile that said, “I see you, I believe you, I’m still here.”

Donovan looked at him as if nothing else existed in the world. Not work, not the past, not even tomorrow. He leaned in a little more, brushing his lips in a light, chaste, and burning kiss at once. A kiss of gratitude. Of silent vow.

In the silence between their breaths, Lyle understood that gentleness could be stronger than wounds. That love could erase—even if only a little—the fear and shame that had held him captive for so long.

~~

The morning light slowly filtered through the thick curtains of the bedroom, bathing the walls in a golden glow, soft and silent like a whispered secret. The shadow of the foliage, cast against the ceiling, flickered barely, drawing ever-changing patterns on the rumpled sheets. The house was still asleep, wrapped in a fragile, almost unreal peace.

Lyle had been awake for a few minutes. He hadn’t moved. He lay on his back, eyes open, staring at a blurry spot on the ceiling he barely saw. His breathing was calm, almost too regular, but his chest seemed to carry a weight he still couldn’t name. A mix of turmoil and calm. Dizziness.

To his left, Donovan was still asleep. His bare chest rose slowly, paced by a deep, peaceful breath. The rest of his body was covered by the sheet, thrown back halfway in an unconscious gesture. A dark lock of hair fell on his forehead, stuck by the warmth of the night. His mouth was slightly open, his features relaxed. He looked younger in sleep. Less haunted. As if he had let go for the first time in years.

Lyle watched him for a moment. He had known this face before. He had seen him laugh in an empty classroom, cry silently in a bathroom, scream with rage under the rain. He knew the angles of his jaw, the tension at the corners of his eyes, the folds that anger or fear drew there. But he had never seen him like this. So peaceful. Here. With him.
A gentle knot tightened his throat.

He got up carefully, making sure not to wake Donovan. The sheets slipped over his bare skin as he straightened up, tracing a warm line along his hips. The cool morning air nipped lightly at his skin still warm from the night, and a subtle shiver ran down his spine.

He bent down to pick up a wrinkled t-shirt from the floor among other clothes carelessly abandoned that night. Donovan’s jeans, turned inside out. His own shirt, half stuck under a pillow. So many silent, physical marks of what they had lived through — not just desire, but surrender, trust, that shared crack into which they had plunged without a safety net.

Pulling the t-shirt over his head, Lyle inhaled the still-present scent: a mix of laundry detergent, dried sweat, skin. His skin, his to Donovan. It was almost too intimate. He looked away, half awake, eyelids heavy, and slowly rubbed his face before running a hand through his tousled hair. He still felt, deep in his lower back, a dull ache, a residual tension, proof that it had all been real.

He turned one last time toward the bed. Donovan was still asleep, one hand under the pillow, the sheets rumpled at the small of his back. Lyle froze for a second. What he saw — that image — existed only for him. And he was almost scared of it. He didn’t move right away. He just looked. As if to make sure it was real. That it wasn’t a dream invented at the edge of loneliness.

Then, silently, he left the room, gently closing the door behind him. Not to flee. Just to breathe. To put his feet down into this new day he didn’t yet understand.

Downstairs, he headed instinctively toward the kitchen. The sun timidly pierced through the large windows, flooding the room with pale, golden, almost liquid light. Everyday objects — Grace’s high chair, toys scattered in a corner, a bib forgotten on the countertop — suddenly seemed charged with a new meaning. As if all he had carried alone until then could, perhaps, be shared.

The baby monitor resting on the table emitted a soft breath — Grace was still asleep. He pressed the coffee maker button. The machine growled, a familiar gurgle. That sound, oddly, reassured him. Something normal. A routine that held.

He poured himself a coffee, his hands a little shaky. The hot liquid steamed in the cup, but it wasn’t fatigue in his fingers. It was the aftereffect. That kind of shiver you feel only after going through something too big to still be named.

He stayed there, leaning against the countertop, the cup clenched between his palms, thoughts tangled. He recalled the previous night. Not just as a burning memory of skin or desire, no. As a slow collapse of their defenses. As a crack finally acknowledged. He remembered the hesitations in the gestures, the looks that sought more than they dared say, how Donovan had taken him in his arms afterward, silently, without questions. Just a breath against his neck, a hand resting on his back. The mute certainty that he was not alone in his wounds.

Soft footsteps on the stairs. He turned his head. Donovan appeared, his eyes still a little puffy from sleep, hair tousled. He wore one of Lyle’s old sweatshirts, the oversized one, half-frayed at the collar. On someone else, it might have been ridiculous. On him, it was almost painful to look at.

“You’re already up,” he said, his voice still rough from sleep.

Lyle shrugged and set down his cup.

“I’ve never been able to sleep long, not for a long time.”

Donovan came closer and sat on one of the stools at the kitchen island. He ran a hand through his hair, uncomfortable.

“Me neither. But I slept well last night. That’s rare.”

Silence. Not awkward, not yet. Just… tense. Charged.

Lyle poured a second cup and placed it in front of him. Donovan accepted without a word. He took a sip, then stared at his fingers curled around the ceramic.

“I thought you’d changed your mind this morning,” he murmured. “That I’d find the door closed. Again.”

Lyle leaned against the cabinet, arms crossed.

“I thought about it, yeah.”

A breath through Donovan’s teeth. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sigh.

“And?”

Lyle looked at him. For a long time. Then he lowered his eyes.

“And I didn’t want to.”

A heavier silence fell between them. Donovan frowned slightly.

“You’re scared, aren’t you?”

Lyle smiled sadly, but without bitterness. And maybe that was what made it all true: they were both scared, but they stayed. Despite the memories, despite the weight of the past, despite this world waiting for the slightest crack to swallow them again.

“It’s not a normal fear. It’s the one that sticks to your skin. The one they teach you to have since childhood. Fear of trusting. Of believing you deserve something a little… real.”

He looked up at Donovan.

“You were supposed to be a memory. Something I keep in a box. But you came back. And last night, it wasn’t a mistake. But now… I just wonder if I’m allowed to have this. After everything we’ve done. Everything we are.”

Donovan gently set down his cup. His eyes shone, but he smiled. “I’m scared too. But for the first time in years, I want to stay, even if I’m scared.” He paused, then added in a whisper: “I don’t want to become a memory for you again.”

Suddenly, a small cry, faint but clear, rose up. Grace had woken. Lyle took a step toward the stairs, then stopped.

“Do you want to come with me?”

Donovan looked at him, almost surprised. Then he stood up slowly.

“Yeah. If you want.”

Lyle nodded. It wasn’t a promise. It wasn’t a confession. But it was a beginning.

They went upstairs together.

The morning was quiet, bathed in the soft light filtering through the curtains. Lyle got up, his head still a little foggy, but his heart lighter than it had been the day before. He caught the faint smell of coffee in the air, and in the next room, he heard Grace’s soft cooing.

When he stepped into the living room, he found them both on the couch. Donovan was there, gentle and unhurried, holding Grace in his arms. The two of them were entirely absorbed in each other. Donovan, eyes locked on the little girl, rocked her with slow, confident movements. Grace was waving her arms and making soft sounds. There was nothing outwardly remarkable about the scene—simple, even—but to Lyle, it was everything. A world unfolding in front of him.

Donovan smiled tenderly at Grace, and even though his words were whispered, they landed with surprising weight.

“You know, Grace, I love you. And it’s crazy, but this is the first time I’ve ever felt something this strong for a little human.”

Lyle froze, his feet stuck to the wooden floor. Donovan’s words—simple, but so full of truth—hit him hard. He had heard that declaration the night before, in the quiet of the hallway, when he’d stood silently in the dark, not wanting to interrupt. Donovan had spoken in a hush, his voice barely above a breath, telling Grace he loved her and confessing, with disarming clarity, that he finally felt what others called a paternal instinct.

Lyle had stood there, hidden in the shadows, heart pounding harder with each word. Something had stirred inside him then. It wasn’t just the love in Donovan’s eyes, or the tenderness in his every gesture. It was deeper than that. A revelation that, in one instant, had shattered the barriers Lyle had so carefully built around himself.

Unaware of Lyle’s presence, Donovan kept speaking to Grace, his voice calm and warm.

“You’re everything I didn’t expect, everything I didn’t think was possible. And it’s strange, but I think… I think you make me feel more whole. More alive. Because you, Grace—you’ve shown me something I never thought I could feel. A father’s love.”

Lyle’s throat tightened, thoughts spiraling. The tenderness in Donovan’s voice, the selfless honesty in his words—they awakened something powerful inside him. That moment, that confession, was the key that unlocked a feeling Lyle hadn’t realized he’d carried all along.

When Donovan finally looked up, he saw Lyle watching them silently. He gave a small smile, as if he already sensed the bond slowly weaving between them, then looked back down at Grace with a gaze full of affection.

“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable last night,” Donovan murmured, looking a bit awkward. “I just… I needed to say it to her. It was important to me.”

Lyle stepped forward slowly, a faint, sad smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He took a deep breath, eyes settling on Grace first, then on Donovan.

“You didn’t make me uncomfortable,” he said softly, his voice a little hoarse. “Quite the opposite… That moment, that declaration—it woke something up in me, Donovan. Something I didn’t even know was there.”

He paused, searching for the right words, then added, quieter this time:

"Last night, after I heard you talking to Grace like that… I realized I couldn’t ignore what I feel for you anymore. It’s more than friendship, more than just closeness or gratitude. It’s… something deeper. And that’s what pushed me to… be with you. To let go. That tenderness between you and Grace... it stirred something in me. This need to be touched, to give in to something real."

Donovan, stunned by the confession, stayed silent for a moment. Then a smile full of softness spread across his face. He gently laid Grace in her bassinet nearby.

“You… you mean all of that, everything I just said to Grace....that’s what made you let me into your world ?” Donovan asked, almost incredulous.

Lyle nodded slowly, stepping closer, his gaze filled with a sincerity he rarely let show.

“Yeah. It was like… in that moment, I saw a whole new side of you. Something more intimate. It wasn’t just you and me anymore. It was you becoming a part of my life—our life. And for the first time, I felt that bond between us. Not just for Grace, but for… us. You and me, Donovan.”

A silence settled between them. Not awkward—just heavy with meaning. Donovan placed a hand on Lyle’s shoulder, his eyes shimmering, moved by the confession.

“It’s crazy,” Donovan whispered, more to himself than to Lyle. “I didn’t think you’d feel that way. But I’m glad. So glad you got there.”

Lyle offered a faint smile, a quiet warmth blooming in his chest. He felt at peace, even though the tension between them hadn’t vanished entirely. Something had changed. The distance had lessened, and a new closeness had begun to form.

The steam gradually filled the room, blurring the edges of the world like a dream that was almost too real. Lyle closed the door quietly behind him. He watched Donovan through the misted glass of the shower. Donovan was already standing under the water, leaning lazily against the tiled wall, eyes half‑closed, his wet hair plastered to his forehead. Lyle gently pushed the door open and closed it again behind him, as if entering a sacred place—their place.

The hot water. The silence. The closeness. Everything was falling back into place.

When Donovan turned his head and met Lyle’s gaze, for a suspended moment everything paused. Lyle didn’t need words. He undressed slowly, almost shyly, even though their bodies had already found one another the night before. It was different this morning. Less about need, more about something real.

He stepped into the shower. The water was hot—almost too hot at first—but it soothed the tension. Donovan turned around and reached out to him once more—a gentle, reassuring gesture on par with the one at the threshold. Lyle grabbed his hand, more firmly than needed. Reflex. Like someone who’d learned for too long not to let go, finally beginning to give in.

He approached Donovan wordlessly, and Donovan welcomed him into his arms as one would resume a habit cherished too much to admit out loud. Their bodies found each other again with the rare ease of movements learned, rehearsed, essential. Forehead to forehead. Breath to breath.

Donovan guided him slowly under the jet; their brows brushed. Warmth, humidity, the sound of water everywhere... It felt like a cocoon. A world from which the past couldn’t reach them.

Lyle tilted his head back, water cascading over him. Donovan lifted a hand and gently swept the drenched strands from his forehead. His fingers traced down over his cheek to his neck. He looked at him as though afraid he might break him. Their bodies moved together with the rare fluency of learned gestures—foreheads touching, breaths synchronized.

“You didn't change the settings,” Donovan murmured with a smile against his mouth. “Still too hot.”

Lyle managed a soft laugh and closed his eyes.

“I missed you.”

Donovan didn't answer at once. He wiped Lyle’s face with his wet hand, brushing away droplets like erasing an invisible grief.

“I hated sleeping without you.”

He kissed him gently. No rush. A kiss that said I’m back, not I want you. That slow, reassuring kind of contact that rebuilds you more surely than any promise ever could.

They stayed there, arms wrapped around each other like an anchor.

Slowly, hands slipped down to his waist. Their bodies touched this time not with tension, not with hunger—but with a primal need to be held, understood. Lyle’s hand pressed against Donovan’s chest; he felt the slow, deep beating of his heart. It soothed him instantly.

Foreheads pressed together again. For a moment they stayed under the water falling on their shoulders, on their arms, on the old scars. Donovan picked up a washcloth, soaked it with soap, and began washing Lyle. Slowly. With care. Each movement spoke a silent sentence: I am here. I take care of you. You can trust me.

Lyle let himself relax. Closed his eyes. The cloth swept over his arms, his neck, his back. He felt almost childlike again—but not vulnerable. Instead granted permission to be fragile without fear of destruction.

Then it was his turn. He took the cloth and washed Donovan with the same care and unrushed attention. As if this moment belonged to them completely—outside time, out of sight of judgment, outside trials and bold headlines.

When they finally emerged from the shower—drenched, silent wrapped in thick towels—Lyle took Donovan’s hand without looking. But he didn’t let go.

Warm wooden floor pressed against their bare feet with each step, a subtle reminder that home still carried the warmth of all the moments they've shared. The dim bedroom light gently hugged the old wood furniture, lending an intimate glow. The only sound was their shared breath—and faint distant cricket songs beginning their nightly chorus, rocking the room with a gentle, reassuring melody.

This quietness wasn’t empty. It wasn’t still. It carried the comforting scent of familiar routines, precious constancy—an almost sacred promise that they were moving forward together. That they had begun living again despite the silences that had hollowed them out, despite the burdens each still carried.

Lyle moved to the dresser, gently opened a drawer, and pulled out a grey t-shirt—worn at the sleeves and collar. One he had kept for sleeping after Donovan left. A textile refuge drenched in scent and memories. Without a word, he handed it to Donovan.

Donovan’s face lit with a tender smile. When he took the shirt, their hands brushed lightly—just enough to whisper a silent thank you for all they still couldn’t say out loud.

They took their time getting dressed. Every move slow and steeped in familiarity. Damp skin and soft fabric, buttons slipping through fingers, shoes slid on gently. Only the faint sounds of sheets shifting, the calm breath of the night, and the crickets’ steady chant filled the room—life persisting, unshakeable.

Lyle sat at the edge of the bed, a little weary, shoulders relaxed despite the lingering tiredness. Donovan stood nearby, gazing at Lyle’s face—so familiar, so burdened. The weariness wasn’t from physical exertion, but from waiting—the void they feared would return, but had vowed not to let settle again.

Donovan slid a hand through Lyle’s still-damp hair.

“I thought about you the whole flight back,” he murmured, voice soft and secret. “Even when I tried to sleep. Even with headphones on—it didn’t help.”

Lyle looked up at him, silent. He’d never been good at voicing what distance brought out in him. But he reached out, took Donovan’s fingers gently, and pressed each knuckle to his lips—sealing a silent promise.

Donovan shivered at the touch. It wasn’t need; it was a deep desire to be seen, to exist in the other’s eyes.

A small sound drifted from behind a closed door—a soft rustle, a faint sigh. Lyle turned, already rising.

“I’ll get her,” Donovan murmured, calmly.

He walked quietly across the room and gently opened Grace’s door. A soft squeak, followed by a small worried sound. The little one stirred, on the edge of waking.

Donovan knelt to pick her up, as he had dozens of times before, with unruffled ease. Grace’s breathing stilled almost instantly against his chest; her small hand instinctively clutched his t-shirt. He smiled and pressed a soft kiss to her warm forehead.

“You knew I was back… right?”

He held her a moment before returning to the bedroom, Grace cradled against him. Lyle was already lying down under the sheets, at peace—more whole somehow.

Donovan climbed in, Grace nestled against him. Lyle eased closer, placing one hand on his daughter’s back, another on Donovan’s hip. It formed a near-perfect circle—a fragile but undeniable unity.

They lay like that, motionless, their breaths mingling, the comforting weight of another body held at last—far from judgment, far from fear.

Then, in a breath barely audible, Lyle murmured : “You’re part of us now. You know that, don’t you ?”

Donovan turned his head to search Lyle’s eyes in the dimness.

“I think I realized… the day she looked at me without crying. But I understood it fully when I came in. When I opened that door. And thought: I’m home.”

Grace, sleepy and half-awake, fluttered her eyes. Lyle gently stroked her cheek—slowly—like imprinting this perfect moment forever.

“We’ve been waiting for you,” he whispered. “Me. Her. Even the coffee maker.”

Donovan let out a soft laugh, his forehead coming to rest naturally against Lyle’s—an act filled with quiet tenderness and the kind of familiarity they no longer had to question. And in that room, where every breath spoke louder than a thousand words, the three of them fell asleep—close, wrapped up in each other, whole.

The room was bathed in a soft, near-total darkness, only disturbed by the bluish glow of a streetlamp filtering through the heavy curtains. Silence reigned, but it wasn’t complete—far off, a car whispered along the pavement, the old floorboards creaked under invisible shifts of weight, and between the two of them, nestled in the bed, Grace slept soundly, curled up against their bodies, her steady breathing lulling the night into a fragile peace.

Lyle slowly opened his eyes, unsure whether he’d just woken up or had never really fallen asleep. He turned his head toward Donovan, lying beside him, one arm outstretched toward him—as if, even in sleep, he’d drifted closer. Donovan’s features were softened in the dim light, the faint blue hue casting gentle shadows across his face.

Between them, Grace slept, one tiny hand resting on Donovan’s chest, her head tucked against Lyle’s heart. Seeing her like that, so peaceful, only deepened the fragile, unfamiliar feeling growing inside Lyle—that they were building something real.

He stayed there for a few moments, watching Donovan, remembering that their story didn’t go back to childhood but to the years they’d shared at Princeton. They hadn’t grown up together, but since those university days, a bond had formed—delicate, hard-won, and deeply felt. A bond that had been tested, stretched thin over time.

Donovan stirred slightly, cracking open an eye.

“You’re not sleeping?” he murmured, voice still rough from sleep.

Lyle shook his head. “I don’t want to miss this.”

Donovan’s brow furrowed lightly. “Miss what?”

Lyle drew in a deep breath, trying to put the feeling into words.

“This moment. You. Her. The quiet. I keep thinking if I fall asleep, it might disappear.”

Donovan moved closer, resting his forehead against Lyle’s. His hand found Lyle’s beneath the blanket and closed around it, gently.

“It’s not a dream, Lyle. You don’t have to fight to stay awake anymore. You can rest now.”

Silence settled between them—soft, reassuring. Then, in a more tentative voice, Lyle asked, “Do you think it’s really possible ? That this could last ?”

Donovan paused, then squeezed his hand a little tighter.

"Not if we're waiting for the world to give us permission," Donovan said, his voice low but grounded in something unshakable. "But if we choose it—if we make that call for ourselves? Yeah. I believe it."

Lyle didn’t answer right away. He let Donovan’s warm breath brush against his skin, steady and quiet like a tide slowly washing over old scars. For once, the weight pulling at his shoulders didn’t feel like a threat. It felt like an invitation. To let go. To rest. To lower the walls without fearing collapse.

The fear was still there, somewhere, curled up in the corners of his mind. But it didn’t choke him anymore. It wasn’t a trap. Just... a memory.

He smiled faintly, barely a shift on his lips — the kind of smile that slips out when you’re not looking. "You know, back at Princeton, when we used to joke about how screwed up we were... I never thought we’d end up here."

Donovan gave a soft laugh, barely more than a breath, vibrating gently in his chest — right under Lyle’s hand, right where his heart beat slow and steady.

"Me neither," he said, and there was more than just humor in his voice. There was relief. Gratitude. Maybe even a touch of awe. "But I’m glad we did."

Their fingers found each other again, twining palm to palm. And their foreheads stayed pressed together, a quiet anchor in a bed that had become their sanctuary.

Chapter Text

California basked in a soft, pleasant warmth. Despite it being winter, the temperatures remained high, and the sunny days brought a lightness that contrasted with the usual Christmas clichés. No snow, no biting cold. Instead, there were palm trees and stretches of golden hills as far as the eye could see. The end of the year in this corner of the world had nothing traditional about it, but that suited Lyle just fine, as he wasn’t fond of the idea of a frosty Christmas.

Inside the house, the décor was simple but beautiful: twinkling garlands hanging from the ceiling, red and gold baubles dangling from the branches of the Christmas tree. The windows were open, letting in the cool air of the late afternoon. The sweet scent of the tree mixed with the citrus fragrances from outside—fresh oranges and lemons growing in the garden.

Lyle was in the kitchen, his hands deep in a mixing bowl, preparing cookies. His movements were slow and methodical, almost like a form of meditation. He had had so many sad Christmases in his life, so little warmth from family, that he wanted to get everything right this year. He was battling the old demons of the past, those holidays marked by tension and coldness, where every smile felt forced and every moment of joy, an illusion. But now, with Grace and Donovan by his side, things were different.

Donovan was in the living room with Grace. He was trying to distract her with a small snowflake-shaped music box, his eyes fixed on the toy that played a soft melody, creating a tranquil, almost magical atmosphere. The little girl was captivated by the movement of the mechanism. Her eyes widened with curiosity, and she reached out toward the music box, her tiny fingers batting at the air. Donovan, sitting on the floor, smiled tenderly at her, clearly in love with this simple moment.

Lyle watched them from afar, a wave of warmth filling his heart. He wasn’t used to scenes like this, wasn’t used to this peaceful happiness, this unspoken bond. He set the cookies down for a moment and slowly approached, kneeling beside Donovan. Their eyes met, and Lyle smiled gently.

« You know, » he said, « this is really a different kind of Christmas. I never imagined I’d be so… calm during the holidays. »

Donovan turned his head, offering him a knowing smile.

« This Christmas is ours. This Christmas is a second chance. For us, for Grace. And all we want is to give her happy memories. »

Lyle bit his lip, watching Grace play with the music box. A small smile tugged at his lips, but there was a shadow in his eyes, a painful memory he hadn’t yet shared with Donovan. It seemed like the right moment to do so.

« You know, » he began, « Christmas when I was a kid… it wasn’t as easy as this. It was never this kind of celebration. It always felt… forced, you know? Like it was just a date on the calendar, something you had to do, but didn’t really believe in. The house was cold, even when there were decorations. There were always arguments. I know it wasn’t like that for everyone. But for me, it always was. I wanted so badly to have that movie Christmas, you know, with the tree, the gifts, and the family laughing together around the table. But instead, there was anger, people feeling like they had to smile but not really meaning it. »

Donovan, who had remained silent until then, turned fully towards him, a flicker of pain in his eyes.

« I know it was hard for you. And I’m really sorry you had to go through that. But this Christmas… it’s for Grace. And for us. We’ll give her everything you didn’t have. She won’t know those kinds of holidays, Lyle. She’ll have memories full of laughter and love. »

Lyle took a deep breath, a mix of nostalgia and relief washing over him. Yes, he wanted Grace to have a different Christmas. He wanted her to have those memories, those perfect moments that marked the difference between a Christmas of pain and a Christmas of love. That was his mission now: to give Grace the holiday he’d never had. He turned his gaze to Donovan, a small smile on his lips.

« That’s why I want to make her first Christmas something special. For her. Because I feel like what we’re building here… it’s what I never had. And it scares me a little, but it’s also what gives me the strength to start over. »

Donovan placed a hand on his shoulder, a calming gesture.

« This Christmas is our chance. And we’re going to make the most of it. »

They stayed in that gentle silence for a moment, watching Grace who was beginning to drift off to sleep, the toy still in her hands. Lyle knew this Christmas marked a turning point. It wasn’t just a holiday; it was a symbol of a new beginning for him, for them. A different Christmas, one they had chosen to celebrate their way.

The evening arrived quickly.

Erik arrived at the scheduled time, carrying a bag full of goodies that, according to his words, he had « carefully chosen. » Lyle watched him set the bags down on the table, an amused smile on his lips. He knew his brother wasn’t the type to do things halfway. Always excess, always a bit grandiose, but somehow, it was exactly what they needed. His eyes settled on the many dishes spread out before them: the golden-roasted turkey, the colorful vegetables, the perfectly baked fruit pies. It was a feast, an abundance of everything that symbolized this moment. A moment they had each waited for, in their own way, for years.

« So, what do you think ? » Erik asked, a satisfied smile on his lips as he surveyed the table. « See ? I was right, wasn’t I ? »

« It’s… perfect, as always, » Lyle replied with a wink, a bit teasing. « You’ve always had a thing for excess. »

« You’ll thank me later when you taste the turkey, » Erik said as he headed towards the kitchen, making it clear that he felt completely at home.

Lyle rolled his eyes with a smile and took Grace in his arms. She was looking around, captivated by the movement, the colors, the faces.

Now wide awake, Grace was in his arms, her little eyes shining with curiosity. She reached her hands towards the garlands hanging from the ceiling, her eyes sparkling with wonder. Lyle lifted her slightly so she could see better, a tender smile on his lips. She cooed and burst into giggles, clapping her hands, which made everyone around the table smile. Then, a little later, she focused on a gift under the tree and reached her little hands towards it, as if signaling she wanted to open her present.

« Wait, sweetheart, we’ll enjoy the evening first, » Lyle murmured, gently caressing her hair. « Your gift comes after. »

Grace, with a serious and focused expression, turned towards the sound of clinking glasses and followed the movements around the table with her eyes. She was fascinated by everything. With every burst of laughter, her eyes lit up, and she seemed to almost recognize the faces of the people, as if, despite being only eight months old, she already had a defined place in this family.

Lyle raised his glass, a slight smile forming on his lips, but it was a smile full of gravity. He had never imagined Christmas would be like this, surrounded by those who mattered, in a house he had built with his own hands, far from the judgments of the past.

« To Grace, » he said in a calm voice, though it was laden with emotion he could barely contain. « To our Christmas, » he continued, his eyes fixed on the little girl who, even without understanding, seemed to grasp the importance of the moment. « The one we’ve made, the one we’ve never had, but the one we deserve. To our family. »

Donovan, across from him, smiled gently. A smile that hid many memories, regrets, but also a sincerity unique to him. He raised his glass in turn and, in a light but warm tone, said:

« To this Christmas, and to all the memories we’re going to create together. »

« That’s what we all deserve, » Lyle added, setting his glass down. « A Christmas… like this. »

« Did you see that, Lyle? » Erik said, leaning slightly towards Grace. « She’s already figuring out how she’s going to tear open her wrapping paper. » He amusedly watched the little girl, who kept looking at the gifts with evident interest. « She’s going to make wonders with those toys. »

« She’s wiser than we think, » Lyle replied with a smile. « She knows exactly what she wants. »

The sound of glasses clinking echoed, almost like a symbol, a small gesture that further united their fates. The room quickly filled with the sounds of the evening: conversations intertwining, bursts of laughter, clinking cutlery, creating a soft and familiar symphony. It was a living picture, a scene he had never dared imagine before. Every little detail—the flickering shadows of the candles, the smell of the turkey, the warmth of the house—strengthened that fragile illusion, the illusion of a family reunited.

Lyle watched Grace for a moment. She was looking at the presents, visibly excited but also a little lost in this celebration full of noise and light. When she turned her gaze towards him, he had the feeling that she understood him better than he ever could have imagined. He smiled and leaned down to give her a tender kiss on the forehead.

But deep down, Lyle knew that all of this was fragile. A waking dream. A dream of a family he had had to build piece by piece. A dream of a normality he had never believed he could reach. But that dream was there, in the room, in the knowing glances of Donovan and Erik, in the hopeful eyes of Grace.

Lyle briefly closed his eyes, absorbed in this moment of peace, before pulling himself together. He never would have believed that this Christmas, after everything they had been through, would feel so real, so warm. But he knew, deep down, that this was exactly what they deserved.

~~

The Californian sun slowly descended, bathing the light-colored walls of Lyle’s living room in a golden, flickering light. The fire in the fireplace crackled softly, adding to the room’s deceptive calm with an almost maternal warmth.
Sitting on the rug in front of the hearth, Erik bounced Grace on his lap. She laughed heartily, fascinated by the shifting reflections of the flames. Each of Grace’s innocent laughs paradoxically seemed to weigh down the atmosphere, as it echoed a bit too loudly in the tense silence.

Leaning against the frame of the French doors, Lyle stared down the path, his gaze lost beyond the trees lining the way. He seemed tense, his jaw clenched, arms crossed as if holding back an overflow of emotions.
Donovan, sitting in an armchair at a distance, nervously twisted the fabric of his pants, his back slightly hunched. He carefully avoided Lyle’s gaze, as if the mere presence of the man was enough to bring up a heavy guilt buried deep inside him for far too long. His eyes wandered to the rug, avoiding any contact, as if he hoped the fibers of the fabric could absorb his fears, regrets, and anxieties.

"I…" he started, clearing his throat, his voice hesitant. "I think I’m kinda freaking out, you know ? That the family’s coming, I mean."

Lyle slowly turned his head toward him, a worried crease forming between his brows. This wasn’t the first time they had talked about it, but never with such intensity. Donovan seemed even more vulnerable that evening, a fragility he could no longer hide. Erik barely lifted his eyes, but his full attention was on Donovan.

"Since the trial, I’ve been running away from all of this. The people, the looks, the conversations… And now, I’m gonna have to walk into a room full of people who knew me before. Who know what I’ve done. What I’ve said. What I’ve destroyed."

He paused, swallowing a shiver.

"The worst part isn’t that they hate me. It’s knowing that I gave them a reason to do so."

The words came out like a confession, a silent scream, hard to hear even for him. His eyes now avoided Lyle’s, as if he feared what he might read there. But deep down, he knew Lyle understood, that he had already seen the depth of that shame.

"I know what I’ve lost. What I’ve cost you. And now, I’m here, with you, with Grace… and I’m just afraid I’m not gonna live up to this chance."

He stopped, the words hanging in the air like a silent prayer addressed to Lyle. He wasn’t waiting for an immediate response. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to hear it, because he knew that the truth he dreaded with all his soul was hidden in Lyle’s eyes. Their gazes met, but it was as if they were looking at each other through a thick fog.

Erik stood up, moved over calmly, and placed a firm hand on Donovan’s shoulder, a reassuring yet symbolic gesture. An anchor to reality, bringing him back here, to this room, with them. Not in another time, not in another life. But here, now.

"You can’t rewrite what’s happened, Donovan," Erik said, his voice calmer now. "But you’re here. You’re trying. And that’s all that really matters."

Erik’s words carried weight, but it was in Lyle’s gaze that Donovan truly sought an answer. And Lyle, without another word, moved slowly toward him. It wasn’t a theoretical approach, it wasn’t just a « it’s gonna be okay » — it was a gesture full of understanding. Lyle knew what Donovan was going through. He had seen him wrestle with his own demons. Lyle didn’t need to say much for Donovan to know that he wasn’t alone in this trial.

Lyle moved a little closer, as if he wanted to make sure Donovan fully understood the meaning of his words. He placed his hand on Donovan’s shoulder, a gesture both reassuring and heavy with significance. He wasn’t there to erase the scars of the past, nor to offer apologies that wouldn’t have been enough anyway. But he knew, deep down, that this moment could mark an important step.

"Family, it leaves marks," Lyle said, his voice low but full of understanding. "Those marks, you can’t erase them. But tonight, it’s not a trial. Tonight, it’s not a moment where we’re gonna judge you or scrutinize you to see if you’ve changed, if you’re who we wanted you to be. Tonight, it’s a New Year’s dinner. A moment where we get together. Even if we talk about the trial, even if it resurfaces, it’s all gonna be fine. Tonight, we set that aside."

He looked at Donovan, trying to catch his eye, wanting him to understand what he was saying without needing to put it into words. Lyle, in all his restraint, was trying to convey a deep truth.

"You’re not a ghost from the past, wandering the room, weighed down by guilt and regret."

The words were said with such gravity that they seemed to hang in the air like a promise of acceptance. "You’re here. And that already makes all the difference. You’re not a specter of the past haunting the room with your guilt and regrets. You’re a man trying to make amends. Trying to come back, even if it’s not easy. And believe me, that’s already more than you think."

Lyle paused, his gaze softening. He knew Donovan was still trapped in his own judgment, that he constantly felt like an intruder in his own life. And it was this reality he was trying to dispel, in his own way.

"Maybe tonight, not everything will be perfect." Lyle’s voice softened, almost reassuring. "Maybe there are still wounds that won’t heal right away. But Grace is here. Erik is here. And I’m here. Not to judge you, but to give you a place."

Lyle’s words settled over Donovan like a warm blanket, but he could also feel the strength behind this declaration. Lyle wasn’t saying this out of pity, he wasn’t offering this place as an act of charity. No, it was a genuine invitation, full of sincerity. He wanted Donovan to understand that he wasn’t just a man passing through in this life he was rebuilding, that he truly had a place here. A place he never thought he deserved, but one he could, little by little, claim.

Donovan nodded slowly, unable to respond. A thin breath of relief escaped his lips.

Then, as if to confirm his fears, headlights swept across the driveway. Car doors slammed. Muffled voices rose into the air.

They exchanged a brief glance. The moment had come.

One by one, the cars parked. Aunt Marta was the first to get out, a dark coat draped over her shoulders, perfectly put together. She still carried that discreet grace, but her eyes lingered on every detail — the half-closed shutters, the impeccable cleanliness of the porch, Lyle’s nervous hands. Her husband followed, quiet, glancing around cautiously. Aunt Joan stepped out of the same car, elegant in her midnight-blue shawl, with her daughter Diane close behind. Aunt Terry emerged from another car, more warm-hearted, clutching her purse to her chest as if holding on to a sense of normality, her daughter Anamaria stepping out from the passenger seat.

Lyle and Erik’s cousins; Anamaria, tall, her hair neatly tied back. Diane, shorter, with a composed look and a harder-to-read expression. They had kept a slight distance from the direct tragedies, but not without feeling their ripple effects, or the impacts they had on their family. Their enthusiasm arriving at Lyle’s was not loud, but cautious, tinged with restraint.

Only these few had managed to free up their evening to celebrate New Year’s with Lyle, Erik, Donovan, and Grace. The other uncles, aunts, and cousins unfortunately couldn’t make it all at once, each held back by obligations or unforeseen issues.

Only Andy, who was supposed to be here, was missing, and Lyle couldn’t help but furrow his brow when he noticed.

Lyle opened the door, his heart racing.

Donovan, standing beside him, had his arms crossed tightly over his chest, a fragile barrier. His shoulders sagged slightly under the invisible weight of apprehension. Every time someone looked at him, he quickly averted his gaze, avoiding the confrontation, fleeing from the unspoken judgment.

The first guests stepped through the threshold of the house. Aunt Terry appeared first, her face lighting up with a warm and sincere smile.

"Lyle, darling ! How are you ?" she called affectionately, her eyes sparkling with a sweetness that contrasted with the palpable nervousness in the room. She took a step forward and looked around with admiration. "Your home is beautiful. It’s so cozy here."

Despite the lump in his throat, Lyle responded in a calm voice, a slight smile tugging at his lips:

"Thank you, Aunt Terry."

He stepped forward and was met with a maternel hug, one that felt almost like healing, then Aunt Terry hurried over to greet Erik the same way. Behind her, his uncle came forward, wrapping Lyle and Erik in warm, reassuring embraces. Their firm, caring contact gave him some of the strength he felt he was missing.

Then Anamaria approached. Tall and elegant, she wrapped Lyle in a genuine hug. Her eyes sparkled with a rekindled sense of connection, a tenderness almost palpable as she gently brushed her cousin’s cheek. Diane, Aunt Joan’s daughter, followed suit, more reserved but equally warm. Their age, close to Lyle and Erik’s, allowed them to be both family and friends, a delicate but precious balance. Aunt Joan, standing behind her daughter, watched the scene with a measured expression, her face full of careful sweetness, paying close attention to every gesture, every glance.

Finally, Marta arrived, her quiet elegance evident. She placed a soft, affectionate kiss on Lyle’s cheek, her gaze warm and nurturing. But soon, her attention shifted toward Donovan. It was a fleeting moment, almost imperceptible, yet full of intensity. Her look, cold and penetrating like a silent X-ray, scrutinized Donovan without a word, evaluating, weighing.

Her silence, thick with unspoken words, said it all. Marta didn’t need to voice her doubts aloud; her gaze alone conveyed her concern and mistrust.

Eventually, she broke the silence in a measured voice, almost reluctantly : "I’m glad you were able to bring some of us together. It’s been far too long."

Her tone carried a contained sweetness, mixed with a caution that betrayed an underlying concern.

Lyle felt the mixture of affection and tension in the air and gave his aunt a grateful but determined look.

"Yes. It’s important", Lyle replied, briefly glancing at Donovan. Then he added, looking around : "Andy didn’t come ?"

Marta shook her head gently, an apologetic frown on her face. "He’s bedridden with a nasty flu. He asked me to send his love to everyone and wish you all a Happy New Year. He really wanted to be here."

"Such a shame… We miss him." Lyle responded sincerely, before gently closing the door behind them.

In the living room, Grace immediately drew attention. Diane was the first to approach, her heels clicking softly against the wooden floor

"Oh my God, she’s beautiful."

"She has your eyes, Lyle", Terry said, leaning down to gently grasp the little one’s tiny hand.

Donovan stood a little apart, observing the scene. He watched the smiles, the exchanges, the tender gestures. He wished he could feel part of it… but it was still too soon. Erik, who had been watching from the corner, gave him a knowing look, followed by a small nod, as if to say, Hang in there.

Later, as the laughter began to fill the house, Marta came back to Lyle, her voice low.

"I see what you’re trying to do", she said, her gaze briefly flicking toward Donovan. "And I understand. But please, don’t act like there aren’t risks. You know what the press is waiting for. What people are expecting."

"I know", Lyle replied calmly. "But I’m tired of waiting for everything to fall apart. I just want to… live a little."

She studied him for a long moment. Not harshly, this time. Just with the sincere worry of someone who had lost too much.

"Then do it… but with your eyes wide open."

She placed a brief hand on his arm before turning back to join the others.

Donovan, just a few steps away, had seen the exchange, though he hadn’t heard the words. But he felt the weight of it. He wasn’t fooling himself: this path would be long. Every glance would be a test.

And yet, he was still there. And no one had thrown him out.

The soft light from the dining room gently caressed the faces gathered around the large table. The meal was well underway. Glasses weren’t quite empty yet, but the plates were beginning to clear. A bit of jazzy music played quietly in the background, almost masking the lulls in conversation.

Terry was telling an embarrassing Christmas story about Erik, an old tale involving a too-tight sweater, a Michael Jackson song, and an incident with the Christmas tree. Erik, sitting at the end of the table, simply rolled his eyes with a smirk, clearly used to this by now.

"You’re still mad I erased that VHS, aren’t you ?" he teased.

Lyle smiled too. It was strange to laugh together like this. But it felt good. He almost felt… normal.

Donovan, for his part, wasn’t eating much, but he was engaging more than he had at the beginning of the evening. He’d told Anamaria a funny story about his dog, and even one of the uncles had chuckled when he heard that the dog had eaten his high school enrollment papers.

Then, as often happens in family gatherings, a silence settled over the group. Not uncomfortable. Just lingering. And it was then that Marta slowly placed her napkin beside her plate and spoke, her voice calm, almost ceremonial.

"Lyle…" she began, gently placing her napkin on the table, "I’m glad you managed to bring everyone together- or almost. It feels good, especially after everything you’ve been through."

She took a deep breath, her fingers briefly clutching the edge of the tablecloth.

"But I have to admit something." Her voice dropped, as if sharing a secret. "Since that night… since everything that happened, I’ve had a hard time letting go."

Every head at the table turned toward her. Lyle felt his stomach tighten. He knew something was coming. And he knew it came from the heart.

Marta looked at Donovan, without hardness. Then at Lyle. Then at Grace, who was sleeping a few feet away in her bassinet near the heater. Her gaze finally lingered on Erik, briefly, as if searching for his support… or his silence.

"I don’t want to play the dramatic aunt. And I’m not here to judge what I haven’t lived myself. But since you’re all here… and I see you together, I need to tell you what’s on my mind."

Erik sat up slightly, his gaze now fixed on Marta, more tense than usual. Lyle, too, stiffened. Donovan froze.

"When I saw that picture in the newspaper..." Marta continued softly, "the two of you with the little one in the park… it shook me. Not because of the image. It was a beautiful picture. Simple. But…" She paused for a moment, her hands folded in front of her, looking genuinely moved. "I was scared. Scared for you, Lyle. And especially for Grace. Not because I think Donovan is a bad person, but because I know how hard the world’s eyes can be. And how long it took to rebuild you."

She looked at Erik then, as if silently including him in this rebuilding.

He responded quietly but firmly, "We’re still rebuilding."

Marta nodded gently, then continued in the same steady tone:

"I worry because you have this little girl, this light. And because you’ve already carried so much. And I wonder… if stepping into something as fragile, as exposed… right now… is really the right moment."

A silence hung in the air. Less cold, more suspended. As if everyone was holding their breath.

It was then that Marta’s husband spoke in a deep but kind voice, each word weighed carefully.

"Marta’s right, Lyle." He paused, searching for his words, his gaze moving from Lyle, to Erik, and finally to little Grace, still sleeping peacefully in her bassinet.

Then Aunt Terry spoke up, her voice firm. "What we’re trying to say is that we’ve seen you both fall, and we’ve seen you rise. Not once, but over and over. And now, you’re carrying a responsibility just as great."

She gently inclined her head toward Grace, as if underscoring the gravity of her words. "But know this: we’re here. We’re supporting you. Don’t forget that."

Her tone was warm, but heavy with the compassion of someone who understood the hidden fragility behind Lyle’s strong facade. A few of the faces around the table softened, as if they shared the same silent promise.

Aunt Joan nodded in agreement, her hands calmly resting on the tablecloth. "We’re not here to bring you down, Lyle", she said, her voice low, almost a whisper. "We’re here to remind you that family is your strength. You don’t need to rush. Take your time."

Anamaria then gently placed her hand on Donovan’s arm, which was stretched out across the table, as if offering him some comfort. Her gaze, sharp and sincere, swept the room before she spoke, her clear voice ringing with a glimmer of hope in the otherwise charged atmosphere.

"What you’ve all been through… it’s immense." She took a deep breath, searching for the right words, her gaze shifting between her cousins and Donovan. "But what I see between you two, it seems real. And it deserves to be believed."

Donovan took a slow breath, as if gathering all his courage. For the first time since the meal began, he spoke in a clear, steady tone, though it was laden with contained emotion, each word carefully chosen, almost fragile.

"I understand that you’re scared for them. I’d feel the same way if I were in your shoes." He paused, his gaze fixed on the tablecloth, his hands trembling slightly. Then, lifting his eyes to Marta, he spoke more firmly. "But I swear to you one thing, Marta… I never meant to ‘take a place’ or disrupt anything. I’m not here to replay the past. I’m here because… I want to get to know them. To be part of their lives. Without breaking anything."

A breath ran through the room. Some faces softened, others remained closed, but everyone was listening, hanging on to his words, to this naive yet essential promise.

He lowered his eyes. Donovan’s throat felt tight, his hands resting on his knees under the table, clenched. The silence around him seemed to weigh a ton. He couldn’t bring himself to meet anyone’s gaze, not even Lyle’s.

Marta, still upright in her chair, was watching him intently. Not with hostility, but with a kind of soft gravity, an almost maternal attentiveness. She didn’t speak, but her silence was full of unsaid words. Doubts, worries, maybe even a bit of tenderness she wasn’t ready to offer just yet.

And it was at that moment that Lyle spoke up. His voice rose, soft yet firm, like a fabric stretched between two winds.

"Aunt Marta, I know what you’re trying to say. And I know you’re not saying it to bring me down."

He spoke slowly, his hands resting on the table, fingers gently tapping the surface. He looked at his aunt with the contained intensity people adopt when they know they’re speaking to someone they love… but they have to contradict them.

"But what we’re going through with Donovan isn’t crazy. It’s not a whim." He searched for the right words, his gaze briefly shifting to Donovan, almost as if seeking anchor in him. "It’s something… true. Sincere."

A silence passed, more fragile than the one before. Donovan barely lifted his head, still not daring to smile.

"I’ve lived through public opinion." Lyle’s voice grew rougher. "The flashes. The rumors. The tabloid covers. The stares in the street. And worse still… the loneliness." He lowered his gaze for a brief moment, as if vivid images had just hit him.

A breath. Then he slowly raised his head, his eyes shining slightly in the warm light of the dining room: "And for once… I want something real. Even if it’s not perfect. Even if it’s fragile."

The sincerity in his voice hung in the air, like a tightrope stretched over an abyss. And everyone listened.

Erik, who had been sitting a little apart, seemed to move slightly in his chair, as if he were trying to sit up straighter. He spoke next, his voice more timid, almost awkward, but strangely honest.

"And it’s not like Lyle’s jumping in with his eyes closed. He knows what he’s doing."

He cast a brief glance at Donovan, then quickly looked away, his brows furrowed slightly by the effort of talking about what he usually preferred to keep quiet.

"I… I can see that Donovan is here for real. He could’ve run away a long time ago."

Donovan finally raised his eyes. Just enough to meet Erik’s. That look, that brief moment suspended in time, was almost stronger than words. Surprised, but deeply touched, Donovan gave the smallest of nods, silently.

Erik, his shoulders tense, continued, his voice calm but slightly trembling, the words coming from deep within him : "What… what happened… the trial… it was traumatic for all of us."

The word « traumatic » resonated in the room like a bell that had been struck too loudly. Some utensils stopped moving. Some eyes shifted away. Others held their breath.

"But we can’t stay locked in fear." Erik concluded.

His words floated in the air, and each person seemed to absorb them in their own way. Joan pressed her lips together discreetly, as if holding something back. Terry, usually talkative, placed a hand on Anamaria’s forearm. Marta, however, kept her gaze fixed on Lyle, unreadable.

Yes, those years of trials were the chasm in the middle of their history. That taboo subject that had never been truly digested, even after all these years. The cameras, the intrusive questions, the horrific revelations. The family drama aired in public. The dead parents. The sons accused. America was shocked. And the family, torn apart, hastily stitched together, but never truly whole.

A family whose darkest secrets had to be exposed to the whole country. A murder that, even after the verdicts, the confessions, the tears, continued to weigh. To hover in every room they gathered in. To darken even the simplest moments. And yet, that night, around this table, in this soft light and this tense silence, something else was trying to take root.

"We don’t always choose what others see." Erik resumed after a moment of silence. His voice was more measured, but his gaze still evasive, as if he was weighing the impact of his words as he spoke them. "What matters is what we decide to do with it."

He spoke slowly, weighing each syllable, as if trying to calm the room, to give each person space after the shockwave of the word « trial. »

But barely had his words settled than Marta gently shook her head. There was nothing aggressive in her gesture, yet it vibrated with a deep, painful, almost resigned disagreement.

"It’s not just that, Erik…" Her voice had softened, but it carried the weight of fatigue that only years of fear and silence could leave on words. A gravity in her eyes, an unease she could no longer hide. "It’s what it means… for Lyle, for Grace."

She turned her head toward the little girl, sleeping in her bassinet, then brought her gaze back to Donovan, holding it a little longer this time. Not with hostility, no. But with that silent demand that one reserves for those they expect proof from.

"Since Donovan’s betrayal, along with his other former friends during the trial, Lyle has been living in a fragile balance. He’s rebuilt everything, little by little. Not just his reputation or his home. He’s rebuilt his calm. His dignity. His strength as a father."

Her words, though full of tenderness, landed with a heavy weight on the table. She took a deep breath before turning to Donovan.

"And you, Donovan… you need to understand just how much that betrayal hurt. Not just Lyle." Her voice became deeper, almost broken. "The whole family."

The silence that followed was more tense than the previous ones.

Donovan immediately dropped his gaze, unable to hold her look. His jaw tightened slightly, and he discreetly clenched his hands on his knees, as if trying to hold himself together, to stay dignified. He tried to speak, but the words took a moment to come. When he finally managed to whisper, his voice was hoarse, choked:

"I know." He briefly raised his eyes to Marta, then to Lyle, before lowering them again. "I’ve never stopped blaming myself."

His voice nearly faded at the end of the sentence. And in his eyes, briefly, one could see not only remorse but also fear — the fear that his regret would never be enough.

The room was frozen. No one moved. Even the utensils, abandoned in the plates, seemed to be part of the scenery of a scene too charged to be interrupted.

Grace, in her sleep, let out a tiny sound, almost like a baby’s sigh. And that small breath, so innocent, made something shift in the air. A tension that, without breaking, relaxed just a fraction.

Marta let out a long sigh, soft, almost imperceptible, but carrying the weight of years of unspoken words. She slid her fingers along the rim of her glass, her gaze lowered, then slowly placed her hand on the table, the veins slightly raised against the tablecloth. She seemed to be searching for words, like someone trying to find a safe passage in a rough sea.

"I don’t want to be the one to put up walls… But I’ve seen my nephews rise from too many things. Too much. I’ve seen them come back from the unimaginable. Come back to themselves. To life. And Lyle… I just want him to have a real chance at happiness after his heart was broken by so many people. Not conditional happiness. Not a reprieve. A full peace. A peace where he doesn’t wake up every morning wondering if he’ll have to fight again."

She took a deep breath, her chest rising beneath her cream blouse, and continued : "And that photo…"

Everyone immediately knew which one she meant. The photo in the paper. Lyle, Donovan, and Grace in a park, a stolen snapshot, almost sweet, almost mundane, but one that the press had managed to turn into a controversy.

"That photo… it’s like a cruel reminder. Everything we’ve tried to put behind us, everything Lyle has silently tried to rebuild… it feels like it’s about to collapse again."

Her gaze then fell on the bassinet, where Grace slept peacefully, one arm stretched over her head, lips slightly parted.

"And there’s this little girl… this innocent one. This light. She doesn’t deserve to grow up under that weight. Under that shadow. She deserves only love, security… not whispers, not headlines, not secrets."

A thick silence settled in the room, as though even the air had stopped moving. Diane twisted her fingers nervously, and Anamaria shot hesitant glances at her mother.

Lyle then lifted his eyes to Marta. His features were taut, his jaw clenched, but his pupils were vibrating. When he spoke, his voice trembled, but it was steady.

"I thought I could move on. Really. Forget the trial. Forget the betrayal. Tell myself I was done with it. But every day is a battle. The stares… the cameras… the whispers. And now, this relationship, this trust that I’m trying to rebuild… it’s complicated. » He shot a glance at Donovan, full of fragility, but also loyalty. « I want to believe I can start something real. But sometimes, I feel like I’m walking a tightrope."

Erik, who had been silent until then, placed a firm hand on his brother’s shoulder. His gesture was not just support, it was anchoring.

"We’re here, Lyle. No matter what people think. We’re your family."

Donovan, who had remained frozen in his silence, slowly raised his head. His face, slightly bathed in the warm light from the chandelier, betrayed the emotion he was holding in. His eyes were damp, but he didn’t blink. He looked at Marta, then Terry, Erik, and finally Lyle. He took a deep breath, his shoulders tense, as if carrying an invisible burden.

"I know I’ve betrayed your trust. And I’m not trying to make you forget that. » For the first time, his voice was perfectly steady. No trembling. Just a raw truth. « But I’m here now. Not to earn your forgiveness at all costs. Not to erase the past."

He turned his eyes toward Grace. His gaze softened.

« I’m here to try to be a better person. Not for me. For Lyle. For her. » He took another breath, his throat tight. « I never want to be the source of their pain again. I never want to make you suffer again. »

Marta, who had been staring at him without saying a word, didn’t look away. But in her eyes, something had shifted. A slight softening. A crack in her sternness.

She slowly nodded, then spoke in a calm, almost weary voice: « Then prove it. » She emphasized her words gently, but with a motherly firmness. « Not just with words. With actions. With patience, consistency, truth. Because this family, Donovan… it’s fragile. Broken, yes. But still standing. And it needs stability. Rest. Trust. »

She briefly turned her gaze toward Grace. « And especially, she, this child, she needs peace. »

It wasn’t an ultimatum. It was a prayer. A plea.

Then Lyle, his gaze hard but full of hope, said:

"We’ll do everything to give her that peace."

And in the silence that followed, no other words could have carried more weight.

The evening slowly resumed its course, but beneath the surface, the weight of the past and the fragility of the present remained suspended, a challenge that everyone knew they would have to face.

The dial of the old clock in the living room slowly struck twelve, each vibration echoing like a solemn reminder through the quiet rooms of the house. The transition to January 1st, 1998, was far from euphoric. There was a gravity in the air, soft like a held breath, a collective fatigue mixed with the faint hope of better days ahead.

The large Californian house, bathed in soft light, seemed to have frozen too, listening to the silence. The pale walls, witnesses to so many memories, some still too vivid to be looked at directly, reflected the warmth of the lamps, the distant creak of the floorboards, and the subtle rustlings of the last moments shared.

In the hallway, the family members were putting on their coats, slipping on light scarves and jackets suited to the soft chill of California’s winter. The laughter had faded with the meal, replaced by low voices, tender gestures. A form of serenity floated in the air, modest, still carrying the evening’s tensions but touched by a semblance of peace.

Aunt Marta stood straight by the door, elegant in her navy coat, her handbag hanging from the crook of her arm. Her gaze slowly swept across the room, moving from one face to another. In her eyes, there was both sincere tenderness and that constant worry she could never quite hide — as if loving Lyle and Erik, after everything they had been through, inevitably meant fearing for them.

Beside her, Aunt Terry laughed softly, speaking with Joan, her cream-colored scarf slipping halfway off her shoulder. Her gestures were light, as if still trying to lighten the atmosphere, even during the goodbyes.

Joan, on her part, held a dignified, almost maternal posture. She was speaking calmly with Erik, her look soft but focused. She hadn’t spoken as much as the others during the evening, but her presence, firm and discreet, had soothed some of the silences.

Donovan had remained in the background. He held Grace in his arms with a tenderness he couldn’t yet completely allow himself. Every time she moved, he adjusted the blanket around her, almost mechanically, as if protecting her from the cool air also shielded him from the gaze of others. His heart was pounding — a mix of emotion, relief, and fear. Yet, every peaceful breath of Grace against him brought him back to this moment, grounding him.

Grace occasionally opened her eyes, blinking slowly, observing the shapes around her with a blurry gaze. Each time, a small smile appeared on the faces of those who met her eyes.

"Thank you, Lyle", Marta said, approaching him, her voice softer than usual, almost maternal. "Thank you for opening your door tonight. I know it wasn’t easy, after everything we’ve been through."

She opened her arms, and Lyle stepped into her embrace without hesitation. Despite his imposing frame, he felt himself shrink for a moment in the solid embrace of his aunt. He closed his eyes briefly, finding in this familiar gesture a warmth he hadn’t felt in a long time.

"I’m so proud of you, my dear", Marta whispered, her voice slightly trembling with emotion. "Of you and your brother. You’ve both been incredibly brave. You’re a wonderful father, Lyle, but promise me you won’t forget about yourself in all this. Take care of yourself too."

"I promise you, Aunt Marta", he replied simply, his arms still holding her close.

She kissed him on the cheek, then stepped away to wrap Erik in her arms, who was also a bit surprised by the unexpected warmth of the embrace. Lyle saw Marta whisper something in Erik’s ear. Erik gave a small, discreet smile, a silent response. A brief moment, just for them.

As he turned his head, Lyle was gently called over by Marta’s husband, who was approaching with his arms crossed.

"You behaved well tonight", his uncle said with a wry smile, a hint of humor in his voice. « I’m not talking about the wine, though. »

"Or the sauce on the tablecloth" Erik added, joining them and tapping Lyle on the shoulder, which made Lyle laugh softly.

But their expressions became serious again almost immediately. "More seriously… we’re all proud of you both" their uncle continued, placing one hand on each of his nephews’ shoulders, a simple gesture, but heavy with meaning. "We don’t always say things the right way… but we mean them."

Lyle nodded, his throat tight. « Thank you. That means a lot. »

The three men exchanged a glance, and then their uncle withdrew without another word.

Lyle scanned the room for his cousins and quickly spotted Anamaria a little further away, who, despite her fatigue, couldn’t stop marveling at Grace, still nestled against Donovan.

"She’s so adorable" Anamaria whispered, leaning slightly forward, hands clasped in front of her. "She really has Lyle’s eyes and his calm… "

Her smile was genuine, almost awestruck, as if she was discovering something she hadn’t expected. She stayed for a moment watching the little girl, then looked up at Donovan.

"And I wanted to tell you…" she added, her voice softer, tinged with delicate sincerity, "I was happy to meet you in a new light. Despite… everything that’s happened. Tonight, it was different. And… it did me good. "

Donovan remained silent for a moment, almost frozen. Anamaria’s words had slipped inside him like an unexpected warmth, gentle but unsettling. He hadn’t expected this kind of recognition, especially not from someone so deeply tied to Lyle’s pain.

He lowered his gaze to Grace, whose calm and steady breathing seemed to echo his own. Then, with quiet but deep emotion, he lifted his eyes slowly back to Anamaria.

"Thank you…" he said simply, but his voice, slightly hoarse, betrayed the emotion he was holding back. "That means a lot to me."

She gave him a compassionate smile, not adding anything further, as if she understood that sometimes silence spoke as loudly as words.

Behind her, Diane exchanged a few quiet words with Joan. Her mother placed a tender hand on her shoulder before turning to Lyle.

"It was a beautiful evening", Joan said softly. "Unexpected. But beautiful."

Lyle nodded, touched by the sincerity of her words. Joan smiled at him with a reserved gentleness, then approached to kiss him too.

"You can be proud of yourself, Lyle. What you’re building here… despite the scars… it’s precious."

Gradually, the voices softened even further, reducing to murmurs. The last coats were put on, and bags were collected.

Through the large bay window, car headlights began to pierce the darkness. The driveway filled with moving silhouettes, discreet goodbyes, waves, doors softly closing. The night took back its reign, carrying with it the confessions, the hesitations, the first attempts at reconciliation.

The silence that followed the family’s departure had something calming about it, almost sacred. The house, now rid of laughter, murmurs, and heavy glances, seemed to breathe more easily.

The evening had gently faded, the bustle of the guests now far behind them. The soft light of the hanging lamps bathed the kitchen, where the three men were clearing the table. The plates stacked, the glasses wiped carefully, the last bits of food stored in plastic containers.

Erik worked with quiet efficiency, slipping a plate into the sink before wiping down the counter. Lyle dried the cutlery, while Donovan took care of putting the glasses in the dishwasher. An almost familiar rhythm had settled in, as if time could resume, even if just for a moment.

"You know, it feels good to see this", Erik said, glancing over at Lyle, who was keeping an eye on Grace, asleep in her cradle near the window.

Lyle gave a tired smile, his features still marked by the weight of the past months.

"It feels good to me too. Having you all here."

After a few minutes, Erik paused, grabbed his coat from a chair, and headed toward the door. But before stepping out, he turned around, approaching Lyle with a deep and sincere look.

"I’m glad you held it together tonight" he murmured, the words heavy with meaning. Without hesitation, he enveloped his older brother in a long, almost protective hug.

Lyle gently gave in to the emotion. His arms tightened around Erik, as if drawing some of that fraternal strength that had been missing lately.

"Thanks for being here, E", Lyle whispered, his voice trembling.

"Always" Erik replied softly, slowly loosening his embrace, a tired little smile playing at the corner of his lips.

Erik shifted his gaze from Lyle to the cradle where Grace slept deeply, wrapped in a soft blanket, her angelic face bathed in the dim glow of the nightlight. The room’s silence contrasted with the earlier bustle, and the little girl breathed peacefully, unaware of the turmoil surrounding her.

With evident tenderness, Erik slowly knelt beside the cradle, his hands gently resting on the edge. He tilted his head and pressed his lips to the warm forehead of the baby.

"Sleep well, princess" he whispered, his voice soft, almost fragile, as if he feared disturbing this precious moment. "I’ll come see you soon."

This simple act, filled with warmth, seemed to seal a promise. For a moment, the wounds of the past faded behind this protective look of an uncle toward his niece, fragile light in the storm.

Then, softly, Erik rose. He turned his attention toward Donovan, who had been watching him in silence, a mix of apprehension and hope in his eyes.

Without a word, Erik extended his hand toward him, a simple but significant gesture, like a bridge between a painful past and an uncertain future.

"Take care of my brother" he finally said, his voice firm but kind.

Donovan took the hand with sincere gratitude, feeling in that moment the first true sign of acceptance he had received in a long time. This brief but powerful contact seemed to carry away some of the doubt, a weight finally lifting.

Time seemed to stand still for a moment, the looks exchanged speaking everything words could not. Then, slowly, Erik turned and walked out the door, leaving behind the warmth of the hearth and the peaceful silence of the cool night.

In the house, Lyle and Donovan were left alone, with Grace still sleeping, peaceful and innocent, like a promise of renewal amidst past wounds.

Silence settled softly in the room, only interrupted by the regular crackle of the fire in the hearth. The flickering light cast dancing shadows on the walls, enveloping Lyle, Donovan, and little Grace, sleeping in her cradle, in an almost sacred atmosphere.

Donovan finally broke the silence, his voice low and trembling, barely audible.

"You know" he said, initially avoiding Lyle’s gaze, "I dreaded this moment. Not so much because of your family, but… because of me. Of what I’ve done."

Lyle turned his head toward him, meeting his gaze with infinite softness, a faint encouraging smile forming.

"You were brave. I think… we all needed this meeting."

The words hung in the air, heavy with truth, like a balm on still-open wounds.

Donovan inhaled deeply, his hands slightly trembling. Slowly, with hesitation laced with hope, he reached out and gently placed his hand over Lyle’s, seeking a tangible connection, an anchor in this uncertain moment. A shared silence fell, heavy with unspoken truths but filled with mutual understanding. Only the crackling fire marked the rhythm of their breathing, each heartbeat seeming to slow time.

The relief in Donovan’s eyes was palpable. His tense features slowly relaxed, as if releasing a long-held strain. He nodded slowly, his lips trembling slightly, and his eyes, moist with emotion he no longer tried to hide, shone with a vulnerability that almost hurt.

Without a word, Lyle tightened his grip on his hand. This simple act, silent but intense, was like an anchor thrown in the middle of an ocean of uncertainty. Their fingers intertwined with shy but determined certainty, like two pieces of a puzzle finally coming together.

Then, their gazes met, found each other. There was no more apprehension, no more fear, just a silent, deep acknowledgment between two beings whose lives had broken them differently, but who, at this moment, chose to believe in something gentle.

They leaned toward each other slowly, almost as if afraid to break the magic of the moment. Lyle’s breath caressed Donovan’s face a millisecond before their lips met.

It wasn’t a hurried or passionate kiss — it was a kiss that took its time. A hesitant, fragile kiss, but so full of meaning that it became almost sacred. A gentle touch at first, timid, then a firmer pressure, as if they were learning to trust each other through this contact. The warmth of their shared breath, the faint taste of salt on Donovan’s lips, the slowness of the movement — all of it made this gesture a true promise.

When they parted, just by a few centimeters, their foreheads stayed pressed together, and their eyes remained closed for a moment longer. Neither of them wanted to break this suspended moment, outside of time.

Around them, the outside world faded. The distant sound of a car on the street, the steady crackle of the fire, even the peaceful shadow of Grace sleeping in her cradle… all of it seemed to fall silent, as if respecting this fragile miracle. There was nothing left but this suspended moment, this soft light in the heart of the new night, where two wounded souls finally found the strength to hope.

The vestiges of a drizzle that had fallen earlier in the evening clung to the windshield. The golden lights of the suburbs faded slowly in the rearview mirror, taking with them the muffled laughter, the sidelong glances, and the tense silence that had hung between the dishes. A silence that had sometimes said more than words.

Terry held the steering wheel with a steady hand, the headlights carving lines of light into the Californian night. Her eyes remained fixed on the road, lips pressed in a thoughtful pout. Anamaria, in the passenger seat, knew this look well: the face of a woman wrestling with something heavy in her mind. And not just the kind of things you leave behind when you walk out of a warm house, even one full of memories and shadows.

The silence in the car was almost comfortable… but not everlasting.

« Did you see how he looks at him? » Anamaria murmured, almost too softly for it to be a real question.

Terry flicked her turn signal, changed lanes. The rhythmic click-clack of the indicator echoed in the cabin like a nervous metronome.

"I saw", she replied finally, her tone calm. "Since the moment we walked in."

Anamaria sighed, a breath of both relief and exasperation. She had spent the entire dinner watching the discreet gestures, the fleeting glances, the heavy silences between Lyle and Donovan. Wondering if she was the only one noticing.

"They were… close", she whispered, as if saying it too loud might break something fragile. "But not just close like two friends. Did you see ? When Donovan wiped Grace’s cheek ? And Lyle… I don’t know. I think he blushed."

Terry nodded slowly, her eyes never leaving the road.

« It’s not just tenderness. Not just an old friendship trying to heal. There’s something else, beneath the surface. »

She hesitated for a moment, her fingers tapping lightly on the leather of the steering wheel.

"Lyle’s never been demonstrative. Not even when he was little. Not with Kitty and José… But tonight, with Donovan, he was… gentle. Guarded, yes, but gentle. And given how wary he’s been since all this circus, that’s not nothing."

"You think they’re together ?" Anamaria asked, turning her head toward her mother.

The word hung in the air like a fragile bubble. Together. As if it could burst against the windshield with the slightest shake.

Terry didn’t answer immediately. She slowed down, the car gliding more slowly along a tree-lined boulevard. Then : "I don’t know. But there’s something, for sure. Lyle’s never… he’s never looked at anyone like that. And Donovan… that boy was terrified tonight, but he didn’t stop searching for Lyle with his eyes. It’s not just guilt, sweetheart."

Another silence. Then Anamaria sighed, almost reluctantly :

"Dad would say it’s nonsense. That he already has enough baggage as it is. And it’s not the time to play sentimental."

Terry let out a short, dry laugh.

"Your father still thinks homosexuality is a side effect of tight jeans. And that therapy can fix everything if you just try hard enough. So honestly, I think we can skip his analysis."

Anamaria burst out laughing briefly, surprised. Then, becoming serious again:

"I think… if it’s that, between them, it’s beautiful. I mean… it could be. Did you see Donovan with Grace ? He was so attentive. And she immediately reached out to him. Like she already knew him."

"Yes" Terry murmured. "And you know what ? I saw Lyle smile. Genuinely. When he looked at the two of them. Not one of those awkward smiles he throws out to save face. A real one. I don’t know what Lyle feels for Donovan, maybe he doesn’t even know himself. They’ve been through things that bind them, but also wound them. But if he feels… anything good, anything gentle, anything new — after everything he’s been through, then I swear, I bless that boy with all my heart."

Anamaria gave a nervous laugh. "It sounds like you’ve already decided he’s the next family member."

"And why not ?" Terry answered with a wry smile. "Did you see him with Grace ? He’s not just a visitor passing through. He… he’s taking care of them. Like he’s trying to fix something that’s broken."

Anamaria nodded softly. Terry paused, sighed.

"Lyle’s doing well. Really. He has no idea what he’s doing, but he’s doing it with heart. That little one is clean, fed, loved. He’s learned how to rock her, to guess what she wants before she even cries. That’s not nothing."

"And Grace… what a wonder" Anamaria whispered, smiling. "She hugged me so tight with her little chubby hands. She’s strong, that little one. And those eyes… just like Lyle’s."

Terry smiled softly in return.

"You know, I was scared, at first. Scared that it would break him, that he wouldn’t hold up. But I think Grace saved him. Her and Erik."

"They’re still so close, those two" Anamaria said. "Like two branches from the same tree. It’s a miracle they survived all this without drifting apart."

"Erik would do anything for Lyle. And I think it’s mutual. But there are things Erik can’t heal. Things only Donovan seems to reach. Did you see how Lyle let him get close? Touch Grace, stay near them… That’s no small thing, for a man who’s been living locked away for a year."

A silence fell again. Heavier this time. Almost solemn.

"You think they’re gonna make it ?" Anamaria asked quietly. "With the media, the pressure, the… judgment ? The world isn’t kind to people like them."

Terry clenched her hands on the wheel. "They’ll have to fight. Again. Like always. But this time, they might not be alone. They have Grace. They have Erik. They have us, you and me. And if they hold hands, instead of hurting each other… yes. I think they have a real chance."

Anamaria nodded softly. Then, without saying anything, she reached out for her mother’s hand and squeezed it.

"Thank you" she whispered. "For being like this. For having an open mind."

Terry turned her head slowly toward her, her eyes shining in the soft shadow of the cabin.

"Always, sweetheart."

The engine hummed softly as the car sped down the highway, carrying its four passengers in a thick silence. The interior smelled of leather, the artificial pine scent of the air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror, and vaguely of the roast served earlier. No one had spoken since leaving Lyle’s house.

Joan nervously flipped through a folded New Year’s program found in the seat pocket. Diane, headphones on, stared out the window, arms crossed against her chest. Marta's husband drove with the stiffness of a man who had far too many thoughts and no words to contain them. And Marta, in the passenger seat, twisted a glove in her hands.

Finally, she broke the silence.

"I’ve been thinking about it all evening" she said in a voice barely audible. "And I think I have to say it out loud, or I’ll keep it stuck in my throat until Easter."

Her husband glanced at her quickly. Joan turned her head slightly. Diane didn’t move, but she had turned the volume down on her walkman.

Marta took a deep breath. « I thought I’d hate him for the rest of my life. That Donovan. For the trial. For what he said. For what he didn’t say, especially. I prepared myself not to speak a word to him tonight. But… » She tightened the glove between her fingers. The seams creaked. « He surprised me. His sincerity. The way he looked at Lyle. Not like a spectator full of remorse, but… like someone who’s fighting, you know? Someone who wants to fix things, even if they know they can’t erase everything. »

Joan made a small skeptical noise, a pinched « hmm » that didn’t reveal much.

"I’m not saying I’m adopting him, though" Marta quickly added. "But when he talked about what they went through together, him and Lyle, when he expressed his regrets… I felt like he really meant it."

« He could’ve done that back then, » Joan said, not turning her head. "He could’ve stood up and told the truth. He knew them. He knew. And he left them there, alone. It’s easy to regret after the fact."

« Do you think it was easy for him ? » Marta replied, a little more sharply than she meant to. « He was so young and terrified. We forget too quickly what it’s like to be a kid, in a storm like that. »

Her husband kept his eyes on the road, but his deep voice cut through the darkness.

I didn’t like seeing him so close to Lyle, I won’t hide it. Not because of his past. But because of… that look."

An awkward silence followed. Marta slowly turned her head toward him. "What look?"

He shrugged slightly. "That look… intimate. Too intimate. Like there was something more than friendship. And I don’t want to sound… old-fashioned, but… "

"But you are", Marta gently interrupted.

He smiled despite himself.

"It’s not against them." he murmured. "It’s just… the world is hard. Especially for people like Lyle. He already has enough to bear."

"Maybe that’s exactly what he needs." Diane said, not taking her eyes off the window. Her voice was calm, measured. As if she were thinking out loud. "Something soft. Someone who’s not afraid to look at him like that. I saw Lyle smile tonight. And not a sad, forced smile. A real one. When Donovan handed him Grace. He looked… human. Not just a broken man."

Joan finally turned her head toward her daughter.

"You think this is what a child needs, this situation ?"

Diane sighed.

"What a child needs is a parent who loves them. Who fights for them. And Lyle, he’s doing that. He’s there. He stayed even though he could have run away. That’s more than a lot of fathers in so-called « normal » families, don’t you think ?"

Marta smiled, a small but genuine smile.

"Grace is radiant. She laughs, she reaches out her arms. She looks at her father like he’s her whole world. And Donovan… he’s not pretending. He bows when she stretches her arms. He adjusts. Like someone who wants to earn their place."

Her husband slowly shook his head. "It’s still fragile. Very fragile. One word too many, one journalist, one bad photo… and everything could explode."

"You mean like the one we all saw ?" Joan said. "Lyle, Donovan, and Grace in the park ?"

Marta sighed. She knew Joan was trying to support Lyle, but she was worried about what this relationship with Donovan might mean. However, Marta knew how to read between the lines. She had seen Joan soften tonight, without showing it. When Grace had babbled in her arms. When Erik had shaken her hand with silent gratitude.

"Maybe it’s a beautiful little family" Marta murmured. "Broken, patched together, wobbly, but beautiful still."

A silence followed. No one seemed to want to break it.

Then her husband asked, his voice both gentle and thoughtful : « So, what now ? Do we close our eyes ? Let it happen ? »

"No", Marta said. "We watch them. We stay there. We support. And we speak up when it matters, not after. This time, we won’t be silent at the wrong moment."

Joan sighed deeply but didn’t reply.

Diane gently rested her head against the window, a sad smile on her lips.

~~

He was trying to breathe calmly, but every inhale felt heavier than the last.

The meeting with the lawyer was necessary, a formality that had suddenly become urgent ever since that photo was stolen by a paparazzi a few weeks earlier, while he was at the park with Donovan and Grace.

He knew he had no choice—he had to go out, had to go to the meeting. But it wasn’t the lawyer he was afraid of; it was what he felt every time he faced the world. The fear of others’ eyes, the judgment, the whispers hidden behind hands or sudden gestures. It wasn’t so much the memory of the trial that haunted him, but the constant sensation of being judged without respite—and the uncertainty of whether he’d ever reclaim his place.

Biting his lower lip, resigned, he muttered to himself, « I’m going to have to go. » A habit to convince himself he was capable.

He dressed quickly, pulled on his cap and sunglasses, trying to mask his nervousness behind a facade of normalcy. But as he stepped out the door, a wave of unease gripped him. He wasn’t really there. A part of him—the part that had survived everything he’d been through—remained hidden, wrapped in fear.

Meanwhile, inside the house, the atmosphere was different. No outside pressures, no awkward looks—just the calm air of a house too big for one person and a baby. Donovan busied himself, a little nervous, preparing a surprise. He knew Lyle suspected nothing, and that was perfect. He’d been waiting months for this moment, the moment he could give Lyle something else, a small gesture to show how much he meant to him .

Grace, now nine months old, was already a little accomplice in the preparations. She babbled happily, sitting in her playpen while Donovan dashed around. She followed him with her eyes, and as if to encourage him, she waved her arms in a small burst of joy, her crystal-clear laughter filling the room with endless tenderness. Donovan paused to look at her, a soft smile spreading across his lips. He’d only been spending time here for a few months, but he’d grown so attached to her. She was the embodiment of a future—a future he wanted to offer Lyle, even if he didn’t yet know how.

He’d blown up balloons, scattered around the living room. Not much of a decorator, but he’d done his best. Fairy lights hung around the windows, and on the coffee table, a small chocolate cake awaited. Nothing fancy, just a simple chocolate cake decorated with candles. But the important thing was elsewhere. He had put his whole heart into this. Because Lyle, with all his cracks and scars, deserved something beautiful. Deserved to be pampered, even if just for a moment.

Donovan lit the heart-shaped candle, stepped back a little, and watched the cake proudly. He’d never done this for anyone before. But for Lyle, it was worth it. Tonight, he was going to show him he had a place here, that he wasn’t just a victim of his past.

When Lyle got home, he was drained, more than when he left.

He was never really ready to face the outside world, but today had taken an even heavier toll. He closed the door slowly behind him, his back bent as if carrying more than his own weight.

The meeting with the lawyer hadn’t been as reassuring as he’d hoped. The stolen photo in the park, the intimate moment between him, Donovan, and Grace, had circulated everywhere and seemed to haunt him still. And despite its deeply personal nature, it had been taken in a public space, which made legal action more complicated.

The lawyer explained that unless they could prove targeted harassment or a direct violation of Grace’s privacy, their options were limited. Yes, they could send a cease-and-desist letter. Yes, the law offered some protection for children of public figures. But there was nothing immediate, nothing restorative. Not yet.

And Lyle didn’t want another trial. He wanted peace. Forgetting. Erasure.

So coming home, he wasn’t expecting anything to pull him out of the void.

He pushed open the door, the weight of exhaustion heavy on his shoulders, and stopped short when he entered the living room.

What he saw wasn’t what he expected. It wasn’t a scene he’d imagined, but a welcome. A soft, colorful, warm scene. Balloons floated in the air, fairy lights twinkled around the windows, and in the center of the room, a chocolate cake waited. A heart-shaped candle flickered in the muted light, ready to be blown out.

Lyle froze. It was… for him. For him. Someone had seen him, taken the time to prepare all this for him.

He searched for words but found none. His heart clenched painfully, and tears welled in his eyes, refusing to be held back. He scanned the room, his mind racing. The decor wasn’t grand, but it was perfect in its simplicity. Why would someone do all this for him ?

He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the emotion wash over him—the strange feeling of being seen, of feeling important for the first time in years.

Donovan approached, holding Grace in his arms, a shy smile on his face.

"I wanted to surprise you… It’s your birthday, after all" he said softly, almost nervously.

Lyle blinked, trying to steady himself. A rush of warmth surged through him, his shaky legs threatening to give way.

"I… I don’t even know what to say." His voice cracked slightly, as if he’d just found a part of himself he thought lost. He slowly turned to Donovan. "No one… no one’s ever done this for me. Ever."

Tears streamed silently down his cheeks, and he wiped them away with the back of his hand, embarrassed by the vulnerability he rarely showed.

"I’ve never had a birthday party. Never. Not like this… "

Deeply moved, Donovan stepped closer and rested a comforting hand on Lyle’s shoulder. "You deserve this, Lyle. You deserve so much more."

Lyle looked at him, struggling to hold back the sobs threatening to overwhelm everything.

“I never thought I’d start my thirties like this… I thought I’d still be fighting against everything. That I’d still be that… that monster in everyone’s eyes.” He collapsed onto the couch, his head swirling with emotions. “But tonight… I see that… I see I was wrong.”

Grace, cradled in Donovan’s arms, seemed curious about what was happening around her. She babbled happily, reaching out her arms toward her father, an innocent smile lighting up her face. Donovan gently held her close, his heart warming at the simple but meaningful gesture.

Lyle watched the scene, his gaze softer now, a faint smile touching his lips. He had never imagined he’d one day witness such tenderness between them—between Donovan and his daughter. It warmed his heart in a way he hadn’t thought possible. The family he’d lost, the one he’d always dreamed of… he saw it there, right in front of him.

He then turned to Donovan, his eyes shining. “I don’t need anything else to be happy,” he murmured, almost like a revelation.

A meaningful silence settled between them, heavy with unspoken feelings, before Donovan slowly moved closer. He placed a gentle hand on Lyle’s cheek, barely touching, and looked at him with an intensity full of emotion. Lyle didn’t look away, letting himself be fully absorbed by the warmth of the moment.

Without a word, Donovan leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. It was a slow kiss, shy at first, but filled with tenderness and sincerity—a kiss that said everything words never could. Lyle surrendered to the gesture, closing his eyes to savor this moment of peace and pure love, a peace he had thought impossible to reach. He returned the kiss gently, as if to seal a moment of beauty he hadn’t believed possible.

When their lips parted, Lyle stayed with his eyes closed a moment longer, savoring the warmth of the gesture, the taste of love regained. Then, he slowly turned his head toward Grace, who was still looking up at him with her wide, curious eyes, arms outstretched as if she instinctively knew her father needed her.

With infinite tenderness, Lyle leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to her little forehead, a smile full of gratitude and love lighting his face. The sweetness of this simple but profound gesture melted his heart. “I love you, baby,” he whispered before brushing a delicate kiss over her hair, holding her close.

Lyle’s gaze returned to Donovan, softer, more open. He had no more doubts. He was exactly where he was meant to be.

The door opened again, and Lyle turned his head, a shy smile spreading across his lips as he saw his brother walk in. Erik didn’t need to say a word to understand what was happening. He knew tonight was important—not just because it was Lyle’s birthday, but because it marked a turning point in their relationship, in their lives. After years of silence, pain, and mistrust, they had found a way back to each other, to support one another.

Erik stepped forward and without hesitation opened his arms to welcome his brother into a warm, almost protective embrace. Lyle let himself go, closing his eyes as the tension in his face finally softened. He hadn’t realized how much he’d needed that simple gesture until he felt it.

“You… you’re here,” Lyle murmured, his voice breaking under an emotion he couldn’t quite control. It wasn’t sadness — more a mix of gratitude, relief, and confusion. It felt like the room suddenly shrank, grew smaller, more intimate. They were no longer just two lost souls in the world; they were simply two brothers, bound by everything they’d been through together.

“What did you think ? That I’d miss the first real birthday of your life ?” Erik said with a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Besides, I heard there was cake.”

Lyle let out a small laugh, almost surprised he was able to.

“So that’s your real motivation all along. Not brotherly love, just chocolate.”

“Exactly,” Erik replied with a grin. “Well, brotherly love… and the fact that Donovan cooks better than you.”

Erik then grew serious and placed a hand on Lyle’s shoulder, stepping back just enough to meet his eyes. “I’m here, Lyle. Always. But tonight… tonight it’s different. You know, before, birthdays for us were just dates on a calendar. No party, no joy, just another day to endure.”

Lyle nodded, his gaze drifting away for a moment, lost in thought. Birthdays. Those days had always been filled with tension and distance from their parents. They were never celebrated properly, never met with the enthusiasm children deserved. Instead, their birthdays became just another day to hide, to blend into the mundane, as if those occasions had no meaning at all.

Erik continued, his voice softer now, tinged with nostalgia. “We never had that, remember? No cake, no joy. Just fleeting glances, hushed conversations. The kind of silence that weighs heavier than any spoken word.”

A dull ache spread through Lyle’s chest at those words. That emptiness, that lack of celebration and happiness around him… He had always believed it was normal. He had accepted that void as part of his reality. But now, with Grace, he was beginning to realize it wasn’t normal. It shouldn’t be that way.

Erik’s hand stayed on his shoulder, his tone growing gentler, more reassuring. “You and I—we’ve been through hell. But today, look around you. Tonight, you’re not alone. You deserve to be surrounded, to be loved, to be celebrated.”

Lyle turned his eyes back to his brother, his own slightly misted with tears. Erik’s words carried weight, but it wasn’t just what he said that touched Lyle deeply. It was how he said it. There was no blame in his gaze, no condescension he had so often felt from others. No, he spoke with compassion, with that brotherly bond that had survived all the hardships.

Erik smiled faintly, leaning in just a bit to catch his gaze. “Tonight isn’t about erasing everything else. It’s about showing you that you’re not alone. That you don’t have to face all this by yourself, Lyle. And… you know, it’s a little bit for me too. Because I never really had that either. A birthday where I felt truly… happy. But tonight, I feel like maybe we can start to change that. No matter what happened before, tonight is yours. Happy birthday, big bro.”

Lyle bit his lower lip, trying to hold back the tears welling in his eyes. Those words… just those simple words from Erik, his brother with whom he had faced the darkest moments of their lives, made his heart overflow. He felt something unravel inside him, a kind of release. They were here.

He turned his gaze toward Donovan, who was busy arranging the cake and candles, his hand extended toward Grace who babbled happily. And he understood. He understood that he was finally home, no longer a ghost wandering his own world. He had his family. He had found a new kind of happiness.

He looked back at Erik, his lips trembling slightly with emotion. “I never thought I’d have a party like this. Nor that I’d ever say these words… But I think tonight, I’m starting to understand what it means to be… happy.”

Erik nodded slowly, a genuine smile spreading across his face. “And I’m here to see it. I’m proud of you, Lyle. Because you made it through all of that… You survived, you’re here today, and that’s all that matters.”

They looked at each other, a moment suspended in time, before Erik gave him one last warm hug, longer than before, as if to mark this new beginning.

~~

The holiday season and his birthday had faded like a distant dream in Lyle’s mind. Christmas, New Year’s Eve, the precious moments filled with laughter and smiles — it all seemed to belong to the past now. Time had slipped away, and barely a few days after the start of the new year, reality came crashing back. The harshest reality: separation.

Donovan had to leave again. He had spent a few weeks in Los Angeles, savoring the Californian warmth and the moments shared with Lyle and Grace. But his family was waiting for him back in New Jersey, and unfinished professional obligations demanded his return.

That morning, Lyle felt more nervous than he had expected. The house was quiet, but a heavy tension lingered in the air. Grace played on the living room rug, innocent and unaware, a tiny ball of energy with only one thing on her mind: her next burst of laughter.

But Lyle was far from carefree. He knew what Donovan’s departure meant. This time, the separation would be harder for him, for Grace. Grace was growing more attached to Donovan each day, who played with her, whispered sweet words, and carried her as if she were his own daughter. And Lyle knew this goodbye would be even tougher for her than the first time Donovan had left for the other side of the country.

They had dressed deliberately that morning. Neither too plain nor too flashy, but enough to avoid drawing attention at the airport. Lyle chose a simple gray hoodie and jeans, while Donovan opted for a dark leather jacket and sunglasses that hid part of his face. They didn’t want to be recognized. Not yet. Not now. The media pressure around their relationship was unbearable, and they wanted to avoid the glare of flashing cameras. Grace was bundled up in a warm coat, her pink beanie covering her fine hair to shield her from the California chill — even if it was milder than the cold waiting for them back in New Jersey.

Grace seemed calm, almost distracted, playing with the edge of her knitted coat while watching the adults come and go. She probably didn’t understand the weight of this departure, but she sensed something subtle — a shift in the air. Lyle held her close, feeling his muscles tense under the pressure of the moment to come.

They arrived at the airport without any major incident. The line at the ticket counter was short, and despite the crowd, the atmosphere felt relatively peaceful. Lyle felt his nerves heating up with every step toward the security gate. They were so close to the moment he dreaded, but he knew he had to hold on. For Grace. For Donovan. But mostly, for himself.

"I’ll be back soon, Lyle. You know I don’t want to be far from you… from both of you," Donovan murmured, his voice breaking slightly.

Lyle didn’t answer right away. He wanted to tell him he trusted him, that he knew Donovan would come back — but he felt like, despite the promises, something fragile shattered a little more with every goodbye.

Finally, he broke the silence.

"I know. But… I hate it. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it. Seeing you leave again… It scares me, Donovan. Scares me of… losing what we have."

Donovan looked at him with deep understanding, sensing the weight behind Lyle’s words. He was afraid too, afraid of the distance he already felt creeping in.

"You won’t lose anything," Donovan assured, gently stroking the back of Lyle’s neck. "What we have stays, even when I’m away. You know that."

Lyle closed his eyes, savoring the touch. It was true, he knew it deep down. But the absence of someone you love always tested a relationship, like a silent challenge to trust and love. He wished these separations were mere formalities, but each time, the intensity of their bond left him more vulnerable.

Then, the moment came. The inevitable moment.

They stood by the boarding gate. A crowd of travelers swirled around them, a tangle of suitcases, hastily printed tickets, and hurried conversations. Instinctively, Lyle kept his head down, hoodie pulled low over his forehead. Few here would recognize him, but the fear still tightened in his throat, the fear of being spotted, photographed, judged. Not now. Not with Grace in his arms. Not when his heart was already raw.

Donovan seemed to feel the tension too. Calmly, he led them aside, to a quieter corner near a bay window, partly hidden by an information pillar and a vending machine. Away from curious eyes, he hesitated, then placed a tender, protective hand on Lyle’s cheek. A nervous touch, as if afraid it might be the last.

"Look at me" he whispered.

Lyle lifted his eyes briefly. In Donovan’s gaze was a heavy fatigue, a contained tension, but also a fragile spark Lyle hadn’t seen in months. Donovan said no more. Slowly, he leaned in and pressed his lips to Lyle’s.

It was a soft, measured kiss, almost trembling. Not a declaration, but a silent plea. A brush of lips that said everything they couldn’t put into words. This wasn’t goodbye. Not really. It was an « I’ll wait for you, » whispered in the sweetness of a shared breath.

Lyle responded with barely a touch of his lips. Not because he didn’t want to. On the contrary, his whole body screamed to hold on, to never let go, but he was too scared. Scared of being seen. Scared this precious, intimate moment would become a headline or a screen capture. He held back, even though every fiber of him wanted to cry, scream, beg him to stay.

He didn’t want to give in to his emotions too quickly, especially in public, especially in front of Grace, but it was harder than he had anticipated. The pain of seeing Donovan leave… that pain he had learned to feel with every separation… was much stronger this time.

When their faces parted, Donovan lowered his eyes to Grace, watching her with a delicate focus, as if trying to imprint every detail of her face. He took in the brown curls brushing her forehead, the little lashes resting on her cheeks, every small movement of her body. He had tried to prepare himself for this moment, but nothing could warn him of the pain that was about to overwhelm him.

“It’s really you, little fairy ?” he said softly, his voice trembling. He leaned in slightly, trying to catch Grace’s attention. She looked up at him, a smile lighting up her face despite her somewhat curious and distracted gaze.

Lyle felt the familiar sting of a wounded heart deep in his chest, but he watched this silent communion between Donovan and his daughter as a fragile, sacred moment outside of time.

Donovan then reached out to take Grace, clearly caught in a respectful hesitation. He approached his hand like one approaches a treasure, gently, with infinite care. When Lyle handed over the child, Donovan received her with an almost reverent tenderness, holding her close without rushing.

Grace seemed to relax in his arms, as if she instinctively knew he was someone she could trust. Donovan held her tight, his face marked by immense tenderness tinged with a soft pain, heavy with the absence to come.

“You know… I’ll come back,” he whispered to Grace, his words a bit shaky, almost inaudible. “I’ll always come back for you and your father. You mean so much to me, you can’t even imagine…”

Lyle, still standing back, watched silently. Every word Donovan said struck a sensitive chord inside him, but it was the intensity in his eyes that struck him the most. Seeing Donovan so vulnerable, so deeply connected to Grace.

There was something in the way Donovan held her, in the tenderness of his gestures, that melted the wall he had built around himself. This man, who once seemed so closed off, so numb to the pain of abandonment, was now there, a trembling hand on Grace’s small head, looking at her with infinite softness.

“I’m going to miss you, my darling,” he murmured again, a tear welling up at the corner of his eye, though he tried to hold it back. He leaned down and placed a light kiss on her forehead, brushing her hair with as delicate a touch as he could manage.

This departure was far harder than the first one, just a few weeks earlier, when their new relationship was just beginning. The bonds that connected all three of them were growing stronger every day, and this separation felt like a knife in Donovan’s heart, who was finding it increasingly difficult to imagine a day without Lyle and his daughter by his side.

Grace, probably too young to grasp the meaning of the moment, smiled faintly, waving her little hands as if trying to draw Donovan’s attention even closer. But her eyes remained intense, as if something in this moment touched her deeply.

“I’ll come back, my love, I promise you,” Donovan repeated, almost like a mantra, as his fingers gently traced Grace’s face, moving towards her soft cheeks and her little nose. “I will always make sure to come back.”

Then, with one last look at Lyle, Donovan turned to him, a nostalgic, sad smile, yet full of tenderness.

“Lyle…” he began, his voice hoarse. He stepped closer, placing his hand on Lyle’s arm with that comforting familiarity they shared. He closed his eyes for a moment, as if those few seconds were as important as the departure itself.

Then, without thinking, without even looking around to see if anyone was watching, Donovan gently pulled him close. Their lips met again, in a tender kiss but charged with a contained urgency, a painful promise. This time, Lyle allowed himself to lower his defenses slightly and let himself be carried away more easily by the kiss.

There was something sacred in this exchange, a silent confession, a shy farewell. They parted their gazes, and silence slipped between them, dense like a wave. Donovan then took a step back: just one, but heavy with all that remained unspoken.

Lyle felt Grace’s little heart tighten, her small arms outstretched, and he held her close, trying to soothe her. “He’ll come back,” he murmured once again. But in his heart, he knew this departure would leave a mark, a difficult imprint to erase.

Donovan turned one last time toward Lyle and Grace—his eyes full of pain, but also of love. Then he headed to the boarding gate. His steps were heavy, each movement seeming to pull him further away from them, and Lyle, with immense sadness in his heart, watched him disappear into the crowd of travelers.

It was at that moment that Grace began to cry. Not frantic sobs, but soft whimpers that seemed to pierce the calm airport air, like a gentle alarm, a warning of what she felt, even if she couldn’t fully understand it yet. Her arms reached out in the direction Donovan had gone, her little face marked by the confusion and sadness of a separation she couldn’t express in words.

Overwhelmed by emotion, Lyle held her close, nestling her head against his neck. He felt the same emptiness, the same awakened distress in his own heart, and in each of Grace’s sobs, he perceived his own loss.

He whispered softly to her: “It’s hard, I know, but he’ll come back. We’ll be okay, my love. We’ll be okay.” He murmured in his daughter’s ear as she sobbed in his arms, her little head buried in Lyle’s neck. He pressed a fleeting kiss on her nape, his words lost in the girl’s sobs, mingled with his own fear. But deep in his heart, he felt the immense void Donovan’s absence would leave.

Moments earlier, a bright flash had briefly lit up the room. A sudden burst of light that made no sound but captured the exact image of the kiss exchanged between Lyle and Donovan.

In that moment, Lyle noticed nothing. He gently rocked Grace, whispering comforting words, but his mind wasn’t quite present. He was too preoccupied trying to understand the pain of departure, the sadness of separation, to pay attention to what was happening around him.

The flash faded as quickly as it had appeared, and everything returned to normal. Everything except the sad smile Donovan had left behind and the echo of a kiss that, unbeknownst to them, would mark a new chapter in their story — and not in the way they had hoped.

Chapter Text

Lyle had always known it would happen eventually.

Not exactly like this — not so brutally, not so publicly — but somewhere deep down, he’d known that the quiet life he’d built for himself was nothing more than a fragile illusion. A makeshift shelter built atop still-smoking ruins. He’d constructed it brick by brick, that false sense of normalcy—timed routines, short drives, eyes lowered, invisible but very real walls between him and the rest of the world.

But that photo… that fucking stolen moment…

A single frame captured at the airport. A discreet goodbye. Honest. Painful.

Donovan kissing him softly. No performance, no pretense. Just a kiss on the lips, a hand at his nape, silence in his eyes. And Lyle, his eyelids half-closed, as if that fleeting contact was the only safe place in the world.

The kind of moment you keep to yourself. Not the kind splashed across every TV channel in the country the next day.

He’d only found out that very morning. No warning.

He had come downstairs like always, still half-asleep, Grace in one arm, a warm bottle in the other. She was calm, her forehead resting on his shoulder, tiny fingers clinging to the collar of his T-shirt. He’d opened the front door without thinking, stepping onto the driveway to collect the mail.

He hadn’t even taken a full step outside when he heard footsteps. Murmurs. Then the sharp click of a camera lens zooming in.

And everything had exploded.

"Lyle ! Any comment on the photo ?"

"Is it official between you and Donovan Goodreau ?"

"Is your daughter okay ?"

"Why hide the relationship, Lyle ? Are you afraid of public reaction ?"

“Are you gay, Mr.Menendez ?”

The flashes. The hum of rolling cameras. Hands raised, microphones pointed like weapons, faces hungry for scandal.

And in the middle of it all, Grace’s ragged breathing as she suddenly started to cry. Loudly. Her little body trembled in his arms, her cries slicing through the air like an alarm. Lyle had wrapped his hands around her, pressing her tightly against his chest, shielding her as best he could.

He hadn’t said a word. Not one. He’d stepped back slowly, shut the door with a trembling hand, double-locked it, and collapsed against the wood, choking back nausea.

In the days that followed, everything closed in again.

He didn’t go out. No more walks. No grocery runs. Nothing.

Local newspapers covered the story. TV anchors debated it.

Some neighbors gave him strange looks. Others had the nerve to knock on his door to “talk.” He never answered.

He ordered everything through drive-thru. Food, diapers, formula, cleaning supplies...he picked up his bags from the kiosk without leaving the car, windows rolled up, sunglasses on even when it was overcast. But even there, he wasn’t safe.

One young cashier, barely in her twenties, held his grocery bag a second too long.

Then she whispered, “It’s you… right ? I recognized you. That photo… it’s everywhere.”

There was admiration in her voice. Fascination. And that unhealthy hint of pity that made his skin crawl.

Lyle had grabbed the bag in silence, rolled up the window, and drove off without replying.

He began to believe that staying locked inside would eventually kill the story. But Grace needed air. And one morning, after hours of hesitation, he decided to go out.

Just a short walk around the neighborhood—quiet residential streets where no one ever really came. Where people walked their dogs and talked about gardens.

She was peaceful in the stroller, eyes lifted toward the rustling leaves in the trees, a small plush toy clutched in her arms.

Sunlight filtered through the branches. The wind gently stirred the brown wisps of hair on her forehead.

For the first time in days, Lyle had truly breathed.

Until he heard that voice.

Sharp. Venomous.

Right behind him.

“Is that her ? The little one… the murderer’s daughter ?”

He froze.

His entire body locked up. He didn’t turn around. He didn’t want to see the face of whoever had said it. Didn’t want to know if it was a neighbor. A passerby. A mother. A stranger. It didn’t matter.

The word was there : murderer. And worse: murderer’s daughter.

As if she already bore that weight on her back. As if she’d grow up with that label burned into her skin—without ever having asked for any of it. Without ever doing anything wrong. Without even understanding the world yet.

Lyle didn’t answer. He didn’t even speed up. He simply placed his hand on the edge of the stroller and kept walking. Eyes fixed straight ahead. Jaw clenched so tightly it ached. His heart pounding so hard he thought he might faint.

When he got home, he locked every door. Pulled every curtain shut. Then slid down against the wall and sat on the floor, arms wrapped around his head, eyes closed.

In the next room, Grace babbled softly. Surrounded by stuffed animals. Unaware.

He wanted to cry. But even that… he no longer allowed himself.

He stayed there for hours, unmoving. Back against the cold wall. Arms limp. Like a ghost trapped in a house that wasn’t a refuge anymore. Just a sealed box. Airless. Without exit.

When he finally got up, his legs were numb. His muscles hurt. His skin stuck to the rough fabric of his sweatshirt. His thoughts were frozen, like the air inside the room.

He cooked a tasteless dinner. Movements slow, heavy, mechanical. As if chopping vegetables through fog. He didn’t even smell the soup on the stove.

He fed Grace spoonful by spoonful, without looking at her. Couldn’t react to her soft sounds, her little hands waving in the air.

And when she finally fell asleep in his arms, her head nestled into the crook of his neck, one tiny hand clinging to his shirt in a comforting reflex.. He stayed there. Still. Clutching her tighter than necessary. As if she were the only thing keeping him from slipping away entirely.

The silence in the house wasn’t a respite. It was a leaden weight. It amplified everything: the distant tick-tock of the clock, the hum of the fridge, the uneven beating of his heart. Every sound felt strange, threatening. And in the middle of it all, his own thoughts screamed louder than the silence.

And at the center of this maelstrom, again, always: Donovan.

He saw his face again. His broad hands, his fingers with rough knuckles. The unexpected softness of his mouth against his own.

And that kiss, in a corner of the airport, stolen from the world. Or rather... given to the world without them knowing.

He remembered the sudden warmth. The bitter taste of the damp air around them. The subtle smell of Donovan’s jacket, mixed with the scent of kerosene. The fine electric charge that ran through his whole body, just before their lips touched. The raw truth in that gesture.

He loved him.

God, he loved him to the point of breaking.

Not a lukewarm or confused love. Not a mere impulse. A love rooted, anchored in everything they had been through. A battered love, silent at times, but visceral. A love that had sprouted in pain, survived shame, and grown where nothing should have grown. A love he never thought possible for himself. A love he hadn’t believed possible since Christy.

But love wasn’t enough to make him brave.

A long sigh escaped him as he laid Grace down in her bed. He lingered above her, breath held, listening to the slow rhythm of her breathing, the barely audible rustle of her sheets as she moved a leg in her sleep. Her little forehead glowed faintly with warmth. She had a fist pressed against her cheek.

He wished he could switch places with her. Stop thinking. Just... sleep.

Then he closed the door gently. As if leaving outside everything he didn’t want her to carry. And went to lock himself in his own room, like closing a coffin on what one no longer dares to hope for.

He sat on the edge of the bed, head in his hands, fingers clenched in his hair. The dampness of his palms stuck to his scalp. His scalp ached, tense.

Doubt came back. Insidious. Unstoppable. Like a drop of water falling endlessly into the same hollow. A slow-burning torture.

Do I have the right to put him through this ?

He thought of Donovan. What he represented in his life. All they had built in silence, brick by brick, despite the ruins around them.

It wasn’t a relationship. It was an anchor. A beacon. A place where he could exist without justification.

Donovan had come back into his life like someone entering a burning room without worrying about getting burned. He had seen Lyle at his worst moments. He had seen his silences, his absences, his tremors.

And he hadn’t run away. Not again. And now… he loved him.

Lyle knew it. No need for words. It was in the look. In the shared silences. In the way he placed a hand on his shoulder at the right moment. Took Grace in his arms as if she were his own. Never asked for more than he could give.

But Lyle... Lyle no longer knew if he could be loved without being a burden.

Not when the press hunted him at every outing. Not when neighbors closed their shutters at his passing. Not when people looked at his daughter as if she carried a curse.

He got up, took a few steps around the room, arms crossed over his chest, breath short. His bare feet struck the cold floor. He paced in circles. Like an animal trapped in a cage too small.

What if he ends up hating me? Regretting holding on to me?

Donovan had no child. No barricaded home. No name tied to a tragedy endlessly broadcast on every channel.

He could leave. Start over. Love someone else, simpler, brighter. Someone unafraid to leave the house. And yet, Lyle didn’t want him to go. He wanted him. Not a memory. Not a dream. Him.

Not now. Not after all this. But...

He collapsed back onto the edge of the bed, breath caught, lungs burning. He felt too big for his own body, overflowing on all sides. His fists clenched on his knees. His gaze slid toward the phone, resting on the nightstand. Black. Silent. Cold.

Lyle was afraid.

Afraid of what he’d read. Afraid of what he wouldn’t. Afraid that Donovan would say I’m waiting for you… because he didn’t know if he still had the strength to come. Afraid he’d say I’m leaving… because he knew he wouldn’t survive that.

He looked up at the ceiling, white, impersonal, silent. His broken voice rose into the darkness, hoarse, almost inaudible:

I don’t have the strength... not for both of us. Not yet.

Not yet.

Because he didn’t want to leave him. Because he loved him. Because he wanted to believe, just a little longer, that love could be enough.

But not now. He just wanted... to buy time. To breathe. To protect Grace. Find a place. A space. A moment where loving Donovan wouldn’t be a sentence.

And then, there was Grace.

Always, Grace.

Will she ever understand ? Will she know he did his best ? Will she feel the love in every gesture, even those dictated by fear ? Will she blame him for not fighting harder for the three of them ? Or will she blame him for exposing her, despite everything ?

Lyle fell backward, arms spread, breath erratic. The ceiling seemed endless. Crushing. Empty. Like a sky without stars.

He didn’t want to break. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t survive it.

But he couldn’t move forward either. Not now. Not when every step toward Donovan seemed to pull Grace farther from a safe world.

And maybe, that was the cruelest thing of all. To love so deeply… and not be able to show it without fearing to lose everything.

~~

The icy wind from New Jersey blew through the empty streets, bringing with it a sharp, damp air that made the bare trees creak. Donovan entered his apartment, the door creaking slightly under the pressure. The contrast with the Californian warmth he missed so much was brutal. The inside of the apartment seemed cold, almost abandoned, despite the warmth of his own body, which still felt the heat of California in his memories.

The apartment was modest, functional but impersonal. There were no decorations, barely a few books carelessly placed on a shelf, and a worn-out couch that was more a piece of furniture to pile clothes on than a comfortable place to sit. Nothing from his life on the other side of the country was there. No small touches of softness, no familiar scents, nothing.

He collapsed onto the couch, still wearing his shoes, his gaze lost in the void. The silence around him seemed heavier in the cold air of this little gray town. Everything seemed bleak. The winter was harsh here, not only in the air but also in his heart.

Donovan let himself fall backward, closing his eyes for a few seconds. A breath of nostalgia seized him. He thought back to the sunny days in California. To Grace, all smiles in his arms, her light laughter echoing in the air. To Lyle, just as bright and fragile at the same time, with his tender gestures and smiles that seemed to make him forget the rest of the world. Their home, the warmth of their moments together, and the sweetness of their life as three. This image of their happy daily life under the Californian sun kept coming back to him. Why did he have to be here, alone, in this cold and empty apartment, when his life seemed to have meaning elsewhere, with them?

He sat up abruptly, shaking his head as if to chase away his thoughts. His days here were long, dull. He spent hours at the office, dealing with matters that always seemed just as pointless, as disconnected from what he had lived in California. Work was a kind of automatic mechanism to pass the time, but he found no interest in it. Not like before, when he was with Lyle and Grace, when moments really mattered.

He had gotten used to the game of solitude and dedication to his job, but he knew it was just a ruse. This wasn’t his life. He had never wanted this. His heart tightened just thinking about it.

As he was about to get up to prepare something to eat, a sharp noise at the door of the small apartment caught his attention. He wasn’t expecting anyone. Another knock, and the handle turned. The door slowly opened.

Donovan froze. In the doorway stood his father. The man, in his sixties, with a face marked by time and years of hardness, looked severe. His black eyes seemed to scan Donovan from head to toe, as if even the apartment’s air was unbearable to him.

"Can I come in, or do you prefer to talk outside?" his father said in a deep, almost commanding voice, as if he were at home.

Surprised, Donovan slowly got up, his heart beating faster at the sight of his father. After all, he hadn’t come back in a while.

"What are you doing here?" Donovan asked, a bit abrupt, though he didn’t mean to be. He struggled to hide his astonishment.

His father entered without waiting, slamming the door behind him. He hadn’t come for warm reunions. His impassive, closed face gave nothing away. He approached Donovan, stopping a few feet away, and stared at him intensely.

His father’s face was harsher than ever, and his black, piercing eyes seemed to pierce Donovan as if he could see right through him. There were no greetings, no softness, just a heavy, imposing presence. Donovan’s father had never had tenderness in his voice, but today, that absence was especially felt.

"We need to talk," he said in a deep voice, his imposing silhouette outlined against the doorframe.

Donovan stood up, his stomach knotted, his heart beating faster as his father approached. He knew what he wanted, what he was going to say. With a fleeting glance, he tried to avoid the confrontation, but he also knew it was no longer possible.

"What do you want?" Donovan asked, his voice trembling despite himself. He hated that his father had this power over him. He had always hated his coldness, his lack of empathy, but today, it was even worse.

Donovan’s father stared at his son for a moment before taking a few steps into the apartment. He hadn’t changed, not even for a moment. Time had marked his face, but not his way of facing others. Still as straight, as confident as ever.

"I saw that photo," he said in a harsh tone, without trying to soften it. "You and that… that guy, Menendez. You were kissing at the airport, the day you left."

Donovan felt his heart stop for a moment. "What photo?" he stammered, surprised, not yet understanding what he was talking about.

Then he realized. That intimate moment he had shared with Lyle, that moment he never wanted to be exposed to the world. They had been photographed without knowing it. That image of him, displayed on the front page of the papers, his kiss with Lyle captured with a cold objectivity, without any respect for what it meant to him.

He tried to straighten up, but his gaze fell on his father, and he read in his eyes that disappointment. That contempt. His father had never been a man of understanding, but there was a new anger now, colder, sharper, in his words.

"You remember what Lyle did, don’t you ? You remember how he and his brother killed their parents? How they stole your ID card to buy the weapons they used to kill them? How they cried like little sissies on TV pretending they were abused by their parents ? I still don’t understand how those two criminals got away with it. The justice in this country sucks."

His father’s tone was harsh, accusatory, and each word felt like a stab in Donovan’s heart. He knew his father was right about the facts, but he couldn’t accept such a simplification of reality. Lyle hadn’t done it out of greed, but because he was terrified of his parents and wanted to protect his little brother, both traumatized by years of abuse. But Lyle had gradually changed. He was no longer the man he had been back then. And Donovan couldn’t abandon the man he had come to love.

Donovan took a deep breath, overwhelmed by a wave of guilt. He had never planned, never in his worst nightmares, that such strong feelings would develop for Lyle. Not after everything that had happened. He had sworn to protect himself, never to let his heart open to someone else, never to let such a complicated relationship develop. But Lyle… Lyle had been his best friend, the one he trusted, and he hadn’t seen this bond forming between them.

Deep down, Donovan had never thought he would end up falling in love with a man, let alone Lyle, the man he had betrayed during the trial, the man he had exposed to public shame by leaving him alone facing the murder accusation.

But it happened. Little by little, Lyle had slipped into his life, into his heart, just like Grace. And today, Donovan was ready to admit the truth: he loved him. He loved this complex, tortured man whom he had lost sight of for years and whom he never would have believed he could love so much.

"You forget all that ? You forget that during the trial, you were exposed to the revelation of what your uncle allegedly did to you ? You forget all that almost ruined our family’s image ?" His father’s gaze darkened as he spoke these words, and Donovan felt a sharp pain in his heart. His past, his abuse, all came back to the surface, all was mercilessly recalled.

Donovan looked away, trying to ignore the pain pouring over him. Not only did he still carry the shame of his own abuse exposed on national TV, but he also bore the pain that his father never believed him. The only thing that mattered to him was the family’s reputation. Donovan never wanted anyone to know what he had been through. But today, his father’s words opened him both to the suffering of the past and to a reality he had tried to bury: he never wanted to love Lyle. He never imagined it would happen. But it was too late. He could no longer turn back.

"And now, you’re with him ?" His father’s voice was full of disgust. "That guy was part of everything that destroyed your life, and you let him back into your existence. And on top of that, you’re with a man, Donovan. A damn man." The disgust in his voice was palpable.

Donovan felt himself shrink under this attack. He felt his world collapse with each word; this situation pushed him to a breaking point he never imagined. All the past came rushing back: the pain, the shame, the incomprehension. And now, even his love for Lyle was a new betrayal.

"I don’t understand, Donovan," his father continued, colder and more relentless than ever. "You did all this just to end up in this situation, with that guy. And you really want me to understand ? To be proud of you ? Proud of a faggot ? I hear what people say around me since those photos circulated in the press. You brought shame on our family."

His father’s words echoed in his head like a distant bell, ringing endlessly, trapping him in a circle of guilt and confusion. He wanted to answer him, to tell him it wasn’t that simple, that Lyle wasn’t that man, but the truth was that his own father would never accept that answer. He knew he couldn’t convince him.

"I’m sorry, Donovan, but you made your choice. And I can’t accept what you’ve become. I raised you to be a respectable man, and you chose to follow that pathetic example."

Donovan lowered his head, eyes filled with tears he didn’t want to let fall. But his father had no pity. He turned on his heel, ready to leave, as if this conversation was nothing more than an extra burden he didn’t want to carry.

Before leaving the apartment, his father turned once more toward him and, in a cold tone, added:

"Don’t come to me when all this falls apart. Because it will, Donovan. It will catch up to you."

The door closed with a dull thud, and silence fell on the room like a leaden weight. Donovan stood there, frozen, arms hanging limp, his heart crushed by the pain of isolation and rejection.

His father was right, or maybe not. But it didn’t matter. What he knew was that the weight of this conversation would haunt him for a while.

When the landline phone rang that evening on the living room coffee table, Donovan jumped. His hands suddenly became sweaty, without knowing why. He took a deep breath before picking up the receiver.

“Hello ?” he said, his voice rougher than he intended.

“Hey, Don. How are you ?” replied Lyle’s voice, familiar but with an underlying tension that Donovan didn’t miss.
Donovan felt a shiver run down his spine. It had been days since they last spoke. He had thought about him all the time but had never dared to call.

Donovan tried to give the impression that everything was fine, but the truth was that loneliness and isolation were more present than ever in his daily life. He felt trapped in a life that wasn’t his, in a place as cold as his own heart. And the photo...

“Yeah, I’m okay,” he finally said, trying to make his voice sound more natural. “Work, you know... it’s still as bleak as ever.”

Lyle sighed on the other end of the line. Donovan could almost imagine him running his hand through his hair, as he did whenever he was frustrated or anxious.

“I get it. I feel like I’m going in circles here too. But well... you know how it is, right ?”

Donovan took a long breath, his voice trembling as if searching for words.

“Uh… you know, Lyle... it’s not just work that’s... well, that’s weighing on me right now. It’s, well, that photo, you see...”

He heard a long silence on the other end of the phone. Then Lyle’s voice, deeper this time, took over.

“Yeah. I know.” He exhaled loudly. “I thought after that, the journalists would finally drop it. But no. Now, I’m followed everywhere. There are cameras everywhere, even at my place.”

Donovan felt a sharp pain pierce his chest. This situation he had never imagined was taking a turn he hadn’t seen coming. He had seen the images, of course, but hearing Lyle so vulnerable, the obvious fear in his voice, made him feel even worse.

“I get accosted in the street, at the grocery store, even when I go to get the mail,” Lyle continued in a weary voice. "Things had calmed down a bit a few months ago, but now I feel like it’s becoming like it was at the end of the trial, when we were acquitted. I’m safer at home. But now... now, it’s like they’re just waiting for one more screw-up. And I’m not the only one affected. Grace too.”

Donovan clenched his teeth, the weight of the situation hitting him full force. He had never imagined that their kiss at the airport—a simple act, a sincere gesture of love—would end up becoming such a burden. He knew this could happen, but hearing Lyle say it so rawly awakened a feeling of guilt deep inside him.

“I know it must be hard,” he replied, his voice a little shaky. “But, Lyle… you know, we can’t control all of this. It’s just... it’s just a photo.”

Lyle was silent for a moment, but Donovan could almost hear the thoughts racing in his head. Then, in a harsher, almost unfamiliar voice, Lyle answered :

“No, it’s not just a photo, Donovan. You know that’s not it. It goes deeper. The journalists, they’re ready to do anything for a juicy story, and now it’s us they want. And it’s all because of me, because of that damn past I can’t even erase.”

Lyle paused, then added in a heavy voice: “And Grace... it kills me to think she’s caught up in this, that she could be hurt by all of it. I try to protect her, but this world always catches up with us.”

Lyle’s words hit Donovan like punches. He, who had always seen Lyle as a strong, solid person capable of enduring whatever was thrown at him, was confessing that he felt terrified. Lyle was no longer just the man he loved; he was also a father with the responsibility to protect Grace. Lyle was not only afraid for himself, and Donovan knew that Lyle’s worry for his daughter weighed heavily on his shoulders.

“That’s not what I wanted, Lyle,” Donovan murmured, guilt rising in him. “I never wanted to drag you into this, or Grace. You understand ? It wasn’t planned, it wasn’t supposed to happen.”

Lyle didn’t answer right away. And during those few seconds of waiting, Donovan could feel the distance growing between them. The mere fact that they had talked about that kiss seemed to have reopened a wound they couldn’t close. The anxiety that had haunted Lyle all this time had turned into anger, a simmering rage just waiting to explode.

“But it already happened, Donovan,” Lyle finally said, his voice cold as ice. “It happened. And you know what that means ? That people, even you, even me, will always be tied to that damn past. What we did, what we lived through, it will never let us go.”

Donovan felt his heart tighten even more. He knew what Lyle meant; he knew that past stuck to them like a shadow. But he couldn’t find the words to reassure him, to make him understand that he was there, that he wouldn’t let him down.

“Lyle…” Donovan whispered, almost in a breath. “I love you, you know... This isn’t easy for me either. What we lived, what we’re going through, it’s tearing me up in ways I never expected. Never. All I ever wanted was to protect you, to protect Grace. But I’m… I’m losing control.”

The silence that followed those words was heavy with meaning. Lyle, on the other end of the phone, seemed lost in his own thoughts. Then, finally, he replied, calmer but with a sadness piercing through every syllable:

“I know, Don... I know you’re trying. But all this... all this mess makes me doubt. Doubt what we’re doing. Doubt what we want to become. I love you too, but… if this keeps going like this, what are we going to do, huh? How are we going to get through this, the three of us, with Grace in all of it ?”

The question hung in the air, suspended between them, unanswered. Donovan clenched his fists, feeling his own heart break under the pressure of this situation. They were tied by a complex past and a reality increasingly difficult to manage. And despite all the love he felt for Lyle, he didn’t know how to fix what seemed more and more irreparable.

“I don’t know, Lyle. I don’t know,” he finally replied, exhausted by this conversation that left them both more isolated than before. “I promise we’ll find a solution. But it’s not going to be easy. Nothing ever has been, not since the beginning.”

Silence fell again. Lyle didn’t answer immediately. But Donovan knew deep down that this conversation marked a turning point. Something had shifted. The weight of the journalists, the fear, the expectations of each, all pulled them in opposite directions. They were at a crossroads, and the path ahead seemed more and more uncertain.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Lyle said finally, as if to close the conversation, though he barely had the strength.

“Okay,” Donovan answered, but there was no hope left in his voice, just a silent acceptance of what was to come.

They both hung up, and Donovan stayed there, in the cold of his apartment, staring into space, trapped in thoughts that kept him from sleeping.

~~

The day had started like so many others in Californi, sunny, peaceful. Lyle stood in the kitchen, making a black coffee with the same routine he’d followed for months. Grace was still asleep in her room, a small shadow barely visible through the door. The calm that had settled over his life these past months, after the verdict of the trial, had become almost like a second skin. It was what he had sought at all costs: a bit of quiet, some peace, a refuge where he could raise his daughter away from prying eyes.

But in just a few days, everything had shifted. He’d felt it that morning : something in the air had changed. The neighbors’ glances had grown more persistent, more curious. Voices in the street seemed louder, as if whispers had crept into his garden. Lyle realized that despite all his efforts to isolate himself, the journalists and the public had never stopped watching them. The photo of him and Donovan kissing at the airport kept circulating in the media. He had suspected it, but he’d hoped it would eventually calm down.

But no. On the contrary, the pressure seemed to be rising.

The doorbell rang. Lyle frowned. He wasn’t expecting anyone. When he cautiously opened the door, bracing himself to face journalists again and ready to yell, he saw Erik, with that rebellious look he’d had in adolescence. His face held no friendly smile today; it seemed closed off, tense.

“Erik... What are you doing here ?” Lyle asked, a bit surprised.

Erik stepped forward hesitantly, then slipped inside without a word. Lyle closed the door behind him and looked at him. It wasn’t like Erik to come without reason, especially here, at his home. They didn’t speak as often as before, each busy with his new life, but since the trial ended, they had shared a few moments.

“I saw the photo,” Erik said bluntly as he sat on the couch. He crossed his arms over his chest. “The one at the airport. It’s everywhere in the media. It’s everywhere.”

Lyle didn’t answer right away. He had seen the photo. He knew exactly what Erik was talking about. The photo where he kissed Donovan. The photo that triggered everything.

Yeah, I know,” he replied in a lower voice, revealing his discomfort. “But that’s not what bothers me the most, Erik.”

Erik looked at him, eyebrows furrowed. “What bothers you is that you’re back in the spotlight, right?”

Lyle lowered his eyes, momentarily lost in thought. He wanted to hide. After the trial, after all he’d been through, he wanted to give Grace a simple, quiet life. But that desire for tranquility, that refuge he had built, was crumbling under the weight of media attention. He felt a heavy pressure on his chest.

“It’s more than that,” he finally said, his voice deeper. “It’s… what it’s going to do to Grace. She doesn’t deserve this.”

Erik stood up, approached him, and placed a hand on his shoulder. He’d always had that protective gesture, even though he was two years younger than Lyle.

“I know, Lyle,” he said softly, lowering his voice as if to spare his big brother. “But you know, at the university... it’s getting complicated. People stop me in the hallways, ask me questions… they want to know if it’s true, if it’s serious between you two. They keep talking about that photo. I try to answer without hurting anyone, but it’s exhausting. And… I think the paparazzi are following me again, like in the beginning. I didn’t want to upset you, but you need to know.”

Lyle felt a heavy knot form in his stomach. He knew this wouldn’t be limited to him. It was much bigger than his own life. It was Erik’s life, Grace’s life, Donovan’s life. And every curious glance, every whisper behind their backs, every intrusive question about their relationship became a heavier burden to bear.

“And then…” Erik paused, his face suddenly darker. “People around here… they’re starting to look at your house differently.”

Lyle shivered. He didn’t need Erik to go into detail to understand. People were looking at him differently, as if everything he had rebuilt after the trial no longer mattered. Everything was vulnerable. Everything was at risk.

"Have you seen the Los Angeles Times cover ?” Erik continued, his voice softer, almost hesitant. “They headlined: ‘Forbidden Love: Lyle Menendez and Donovan Goodreau, the surprise of a kiss at the airport, and the truth about their secret relationship.’ I know it must hurt, but I wanted you to know, because… you deserve not to be caught off guard by this kind of thing.”

A shocking headline that left no room for interpretation.

Lyle clenched his fists. Every word from Erik felt like a slap. Everything he’d tried to escape, to hide, was out in the open, exposed to all. The discretion, the safety he had sought for Grace—all shattered under the pressure of public attention.

“I know, Erik. I know.” His voice was a whisper, almost inaudible. “But it’s not just that…”

Erik looked at him for a long moment, his gaze both burdened and compassionate. He knew Lyle was fighting invisible demons, memories, expectations. He also knew that despite everything, Lyle remained a deeply human man who wanted at all costs to protect those he loved.

“Lyle…I’m not saying this will be easy. But you can’t control everything. If you really want a chance to get through this, you’ll have to accept this situation, one way or another.”

Lyle didn’t answer right away. He knew his brother was right, in a way. He couldn’t change the past, and he couldn’t stop the curious eyes. But at that moment, he felt more lost than ever. He felt like his life was breaking again, rebuilding on foundations that were no longer as solid as before. The love he felt for Donovan was undeniable, but as the days passed, one question persisted in his mind: was all this still sustainable?

He had wanted tranquility. But now, he no longer felt in control of his fate.

A heavy thought flickered through his mind: was the future of this relationship as fragile as the life he had tried to build?

Erik stepped back, turning his back to his brother for a moment, as if to give him space, but also to contain something inside himself. A silent anger. Not against Lyle—no, never really against him—but against a world that refused to leave them alone, that scratched at their raw wounds whenever they tried to live. He stopped in front of the living room’s glass door, his gaze drifting over the garden bathed in pale winter light. Even in California, January had that kind of pale, almost cruel whiteness. The grass was dry, crushed by the dry desert wind. Grace’s toys lay under a tree, abandoned in the urgency of a moment. There was something strangely melancholic about the scene, like a trace of happiness frozen mid-flight.

Erik sighed, resting his forehead against the warm glass.

“You know what I thought when I saw that damn photo ?”

Lyle didn’t answer, frozen near the counter, his hands gripping the edge, knuckles white with tension.

“I thought you looked… fragile.” Erik slowly turned around, his gaze heavy. “Not happy, fragile. Like you were holding onto something that could slip away any second.”

Lyle finally looked up at him, surprised. Erik shrugged.

“Because I remembered that in our family, happiness is always the beginning of the end. It’s something they give you just long enough to believe in… then take away while watching you drown.”

Silence returned, heavy. The kind of silence that haunts houses where too many tears have been shed. Lyle breathed in, but the air burned his throat. He didn’t know what to say to that. Because part of him thought exactly the same thing.

Erik approached slowly, his step heavy on the floor.

“But you don’t have to be ashamed, Lyle. Not for that. Not for him.”

He stopped a few centimeters from him. “What you have is real. I’ve told you before, you can’t live forever in fear of what others think. You can’t keep existing in rat holes hoping no one’s watching. You’ve paid your dues, man. We both have.”

Lyle felt a strange pressure rise within him. A mix of gratitude, sorrow, and brotherly love he hadn’t expressed in a long time. He’d spent his life wanting to protect Erik, then feeling guilty for failing to do so. Now it was Erik holding him up. And that role reversal shook him. He rubbed his eyes—a habit, as if he could erase the thoughts with a simple gesture.

“Do you think it’s worth it ?” he asked, voice breaking. “Even if everything explodes around us ? Even if it falls back on her too ?”

He gestured toward Grace’s room, invisible down the hall. Erik nodded slowly.

"What’ll hurt her most isn’t what people say. It’ll be seeing you give up on yourself to run away from them.”

He stepped closer, placing a warm hand on his brother’s neck.

“You can’t protect her from the whole world, Lyle. But you can show her what it means: to love someone, even when it’s hard. Even when it tears everything apart.”

Lyle closed his eyes. Erik’s words pierced him like needles—painful, but necessary. He felt his throat tighten, an emotion too strong to name. He briefly rested his forehead on his brother’s shoulder. Not a gesture of weakness. A need. An anchor.

Erik hugged him briefly, tightly. Then stepped back.

"I’m going to stay a little while. Okay ? Just here. I don’t have class today. And… honestly, I don’t want to leave you alone. You have that look… you know, like at the trial, when you pretended everything was fine but you were about to fall apart.

Lyle wanted to answer, but no words came out. He just nodded.

They sat side by side on the couch, silently. The kind of silence that didn’t weigh heavy. That actually felt good. A post-storm silence, where you catch your breath without looking at each other. A silence between brothers.
Lyle absentmindedly played with a string hanging from the corner of a cushion. Then, after several minutes, his voice rose, uncertain, as if coming from far away.

"Don’t you… don’t you find it strange ? That I’m with a man."

Erik slowly turned his head toward him. Another silence passed. Not an awkward silence, but a deliberate one. He searched for his words, not out of discomfort — out of respect.

"No", he finally answered. "Not strange. Just… unexpected. But not bad. Not shameful. And not false. It’s you, Lyle. It’s just you. And if this guy makes you less sad… then I don’t see why that would be a problem."

Lyle breathed softly, his gaze blurry but a little lighter. It wasn’t a spectacular approval. It wasn’t a declaration. It was better than that. It was Erik. And that was enough.

Lyle let out a small joyless laugh, shaking his head slightly. "It’s crazy… I never thought I’d get here."

Erik turned his head slightly toward him. "Get where?"

"To… loving a man. I mean, falling in love. That wasn’t on the list. Not in the plans."

Erik smiled, a bit teasing, a bit tender.

"Honestly, did you ever have a plan ? You never knew how to make a list without crossing everything out after two days."

Lyle raised an eyebrow.

"I’m not talking about a plan like that, idiot. I mean… you know, how we build ourselves. How we think we’re supposed to love. What it’s supposed to look like."

He sighed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. "I loved women. I thought I loved, anyway. But this, with Donovan… it’s something else. Like I’m discovering something I never dared to look for before."

Erik nodded slowly.

"And aren’t you afraid it’s just… because you’re lost"? That it’s him just because he’s there, because he understands you ?"

Lyle looked up at him, serious. "I’m lost, yeah. But that’s not why I love him. It’s not an escape. It’s not… accidental. It’s visceral. He sees me. Really. And that’s scary. Because I realize how invisible I was before. Not to you, of course, but… to someone else."

Erik looked down for a moment, touched.

"That’s beautiful, what you’re saying."

"It’s annoying, yeah."

They exchanged a small knowing smile. Then Erik sat up a little straighter, his tone a bit lighter.

"Do you remember… what was her name again ? The girl with the red skirt who smoked clove cigarettes in high school ?"

Lyle burst out laughing, surprised.

"Tamara ! Damn, yeah. She wanted to be a tattoo artist and open a shop in a van. She asked me to run away with her to Santa Cruz."

"And you freaked out and broke up by a word written on a paper napkin."

"I was a gentleman, you see."

They both laughed more openly this time. The kind of rare laugh, almost stolen from chaos. The kind that loosens your shoulders a bit, that makes you believe the world can still wait a few minutes.

Erik raised a brow. "And me, do you remember Kristen ? The one who only talked about astrology and thought you were an “old soul full of unresolved karmas.”

"Dude, she dumped you because you had Venus in Sagittarius."

"Exactly. And you were her “soul brother.” I still get cold sweats thinking about that."

They laughed again, softer this time. And the silence that came after was not like the one before. It was a warm, shared silence. One that doesn’t weigh heavy, that soothes.

But suddenly, Lyle froze.

Something in his eyes went out. He no longer saw the living room, nor Erik, nor the daylight filtering through the blinds. He heard a voice again. Donovan’s voice. But this time, it was not a tender memory or a comforting scene.

It was that call. The last one.

He saw himself again, standing by the kitchen sink, the phone pressed to his ear, eyes fixed on the front-page photo, carelessly placed on the table. The kiss. That stolen moment. Given without calculation. Thrown to the wolves. And his voice, cold, like a defense mechanism.

And Donovan… silent at first. Then that reply, so calm it became painful: “I promise we’ll find a way. But it’s not going to be easy. Nothing ever has been, not from the start.”

Lyle had only whispered “I’ll call you tomorrow” and hung up, without saying goodbye. Without calling back the next day.

That memory took his breath away like a punch to the gut. Shame rose inside him, dense and viscous. He had abandoned Donovan. He had hurt him. To protect himself. To protect Grace. But also because he had panicked. Because he was afraid that love would cost him even more than what he had already lost.

Erik, who sensed the change, turned his head toward him.

"Hey. What’s wrong ?"

Lyle looked away, shaking his head gently, as if trying to chase away an invisible pain.

"Nothing… Just…"

He ran a trembling hand over his neck, searching for words. His throat was dry, too tight.

"I was thinking about our last conversation. On the phone."

Erik waited silently.

"I was… cold. Really cold. I spoke to him like it was a problem to solve. Damage to limit. And he said nothing. He just… took it." He paused. The weight of that memory was immense. "And now, I can’t even call him back. Not even to apologize."

He closed his eyes, caught in that familiar tension between regret and fear. A dull, ancient fear, not knowing how to fix things anymore.

Erik placed a hand gently on his arm. "Maybe you’re just not ready, that’s all. But when you are, you shouldn’t wait too long."

Lyle nodded slowly. "I know… I just don’t have the strength yet. Not for that. Not today."

But even if he didn’t say it, part of him already knew the silence wouldn’t hold much longer. Not with that emptiness growing every second Donovan stayed away.

Erik gently tapped his brother’s arm, then spoke again after a few seconds of silence.

"Do you know if he saw the photo ?

Lyle looked up, surprised by the question. "Donovan?"

Erik nodded slightly. "Yeah. I mean… it’s everywhere, Lyle. TV, newspapers, dumb magazines. I even saw a girl wearing a T-shirt printed with the headline: “The fallen angel kisses his former witness.” Can you imagine?

Lyle grimaced, halfway between disgust and exhaustion.

"I wish you were lying."

"I’m your brother, not your press officer."

A silence fell. Less peaceful this time. A dense silence, full of everything this damn photo had stirred up, shaken, broken. Erik continued, more softly, staring at him:

"How does he see it ?"

Lyle lowered his eyes, fingers clenched around his empty cup. He took a few seconds to answer, as if he first had to swallow something bitter.

"Bad, I guess… Like I told you, our last conversation was… tense. I think I hurt him. I was abrupt. Like I was talking to a journalist, not to him."

He paused, took a deep breath, shoulders tense like a wire. "He wanted to reassure me, you know ? To tell me we’d find a way, that we’d face it together… And I shut everything down. I slammed the door and let it bang."

Erik looked at him, silent, jaw clenched.

"And since then… I can’t call him back. I can’t do it. I mean, I think about it every day, but… I’m scared. That it’s too late. That he’ll hold it against me. That he won’t pick up. Or worse, that he’ll pick up and talk to me like I was… nobody."

His voice lowered to almost a whisper.

"And yeah… I think I’m too cowardly to handle that."

A longer silence this time. Erik leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped.

"You’re not cowardly, Lyle. You’re just battered. Like him. Like me. Like all of us. But you have a choice: either you stay here letting this emptiness eat you up, or you take the first step. Even a tiny one. Even a message. A word. Because honestly, if I were in his place, I’d need to know. That it wasn’t just a stolen moment, that it mattered to you. That you didn’t run away because it was fake… but because you were scared it was real."

Lyle stayed still, his gaze lost in the void. Something in his breathing had changed. Slight. Like a crack in the armor. A fragile, but real light. He stayed silent a while longer, eyes fixed on his cup as if searching for an escape. Then, slowly, he set it down on the table, his trembling hands folding over his knees.

"You know what scares me the most ?" he murmured.

Erik turned his head gently toward him, saying nothing.

It’s not the press, nor the looks, nor even the rumors… It’s that I’m falling back into it. That black hole. The one after the trial. The one where you feel like even if you survived, you have nothing left to hold on to. Just… memories and the weight of what you did." He swallowed hard, eyes shining. "I can’t take it anymore, Erik. I can’t take being recognized in the supermarket and getting shitty questions about my “sexual preferences” or if that kiss was “real” or “calculated.” I can’t take being a spectacle, a living case file. I even saw some guy take a picture of Grace in her stroller. Can you believe that ?"

Erik frowned, shocked. "What ?! Did you call the cops ?"

"What’s the point ? I’m “the guy who killed his parents,” Erik. Even when I was acquitted, I was never free. Even you... And now, it’s starting again. Like I dared to love in the wrong place, at the wrong time, and that I deserve to be made to pay for it. And you...you’re paying the price too."

His voice broke. He shook his head, leaning forward, elbows on knees, hands clenched so tightly it looked like he was trying to stop himself from falling apart.

"And Donovan… fuck…"

He sat up a little straighter, one hand against his forehead, looking on the verge of collapse.

"I can’t stop thinking about him. About his arms around me when I couldn’t breathe. About his voice, the calm he radiated, the way he looked at me… like I wasn’t that guy everyone hates. Like I was a damn human being."

A sob rose in his throat, but he swallowed it down hard.

"He took up a huge space, you get that ? Not like a distraction, not like a bandage. He was... he had become home. And I pushed him out of my life like it was some goddamn survival instinct."

He looked at Erik, eyes wet and heavy with guilt. "I don't think I’ve ever been this scared of losing someone. Not even during the trial, not when we were waiting for the verdict... I was terrified, yeah, but not like this. This is... visceral. It's like I can’t breathe right without him. And at the same time, I’m so ashamed. Because if I lose him, it’s because I let him go."

Erik, silent, stood and slowly walked over to him. He placed a steady, comforting hand on Lyle’s neck, gently forcing him to look up.

"You're hurting, yeah. You're dealing with shit you should’ve never had to carry. But you loved, Lyle. For real. And even if you screwed up, that still matters. It means you’ve still got a heart beating under all this mess."

Lyle looked down, jaw clenched.

"And what if he never wants to talk to me again? "

Erik gave a soft shrug. "Then you’ll live with it. But at least you tried. At least you didn’t let the world decide for you who you’re allowed to love, or why."

He knelt in front of him, locking eyes.

"You’ve got the right to be happy. Even now. Even you."

Lyle dropped his head, shoulders shaking from a breath that came too fast, too heavy. His fingers trembled on his knees, and his eyes filled without him being able to stop them.

"I can’t… I can’t keep holding on," he murmured in a strangled breath. "I’m trying, fuck, I’m really trying… but I can’t do it anymore..."

And suddenly, the dam broke.

He bent forward, hands covering his face as a sob tore out of him, raw and hoarse, dragged from the depths. Not one of those quiet cries you let slip when no one’s watching. No. This was brutal. Shattered. The cry of a man who’d held too much in for too long, and whose heart could no longer hold the weight.

"I’m tired, Erik… I’m tired of being afraid. Of being seen as a monster. Of being that guy, the one people avoid, the one whose name they whisper. I just wanted… to be a good person, dammit. Just a decent father. To love someone without wrecking it all."

His shoulders shook, and his voice was reduced to a thread between ragged breaths.

Erik, momentarily frozen by the intensity of it, reacted quickly. He got up, circled the coffee table, and dropped to his knees beside him. Without thinking, he wrapped his arms around his brother, one hand on the back of his neck, the other on his back, as if trying to hold him together.

"Hey… hey, Lyle, I’m here. Just breathe… Breathe with me, okay? Look at me, breathe slow."

But Lyle stayed curled against him, gripping his hoodie like a drowning man clinging to a life raft. The sobs shook his whole body, violent, uncontrollable.

"You didn’t destroy everything, you hear me? You were scared. You protected yourself. You’re not a monster. You’re a goddamn survivor. And you’re doing your best, every single day."

Lyle shook his head against Erik’s shoulder, unable to believe a word of it. He sniffled loudly, breathing shallow and broken, drowning in emotion.

"It hurts, Erik… It hurts so bad. I feel empty. And at the same time, there’s this ache... Donovan… I miss him like someone ripped out a part of me. And I can’t even tell him now. Because I messed it all up. Because I’m not worth what he gave me. That look, that patience... that kindness."

Erik tightened the embrace, stronger this time, pressing his forehead gently to the top of Lyle’s head.

"You’re worth more than you think, Lyle. Yeah, you messed up. We all do. But you’re not beyond saving. You still deserve to want happiness. And you’ve got the right to hurt too. You’re breaking down because you’ve been carrying all this shit in silence. But you’re not alone anymore, okay? I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere."

Lyle’s sobs eventually quieted, not because the pain was gone, but because it had finally found a voice — unfiltered, unafraid. He stayed curled against Erik, eyes red, throat raw.

The room was quiet now. Only Lyle’s ragged breaths remained, and the steady beat of Erik’s heart against him.

"Thank you…" he whispered, almost inaudible.

Erik nodded gently, hand still resting on his neck. "We’ll get through this, brother. One step at a time. Even if we fall again. We’ll do it together."

~~

The house was cloaked in an almost unreal silence. Even the walls seemed to be holding their breath. Lyle couldn’t sleep.

He stood barefoot in the dim light of his bedroom, his forehead resting against the cool windowpane. Outside, the Californian night stretched out like a coat too heavy to bear. There was no wind, no sound, just that strange, falsely soothing calm that wasn’t really calm at all. A little earlier, he had gotten up without a sound to check on Grace. He had stood there, in the doorway, watching her sleeping face, her tiny hands resting open on the sheets. He had tried to draw some peace from it, to remind himself why he kept holding on. But even that image, so precious, hadn’t been enough to quiet the tremors inside. So he had come back here, weighted down by an even deeper emptiness.

He stared into the darkness, eyes fixed on the bushes, the shifting shadows between the trees. His gaze flicked from the fence to the corner of the street, to the occasional headlights of a car moving too slowly. Every light felt suspicious. Every silence, heavy with threat.

He almost expected a flash. The dry click of a camera. A stranger’s cold stare through a lens. Another piece of his privacy, stolen.

But nothing came. Just the waiting.

He’d left the bedroom light off — to be less visible. Harder to catch.

And yet, he felt exposed. Like an insect under glass. Laid bare.

Behind him, the house slept. Erik had stayed, setting his bag down in the guest room without asking questions. He’d said calmly that he’d rather stay the night. Just in case. Lyle had nodded, relieved. He never could’ve said it out loud, but he’d been afraid Erik would leave. Afraid of being alone.

But now, facing this night so quiet it felt threatening, the loneliness crept back into his bones.

He closed his eyes.

And like every time he kept them closed too long, the memories returned.
Violent. Overwhelming.
His parents. Their voices. The muffled shouting through the walls. The whispered insults at dinner. The thick silences. The weight of a look. That one slap too many.

And Erik. So small back then. The dark circles under his child eyes. The way he flinched at the slightest sound. His fear of being too loud. The little brother Lyle had tried to protect, save, comfort — and had watched sink anyway, just like him.

Then… that night.

The door slamming. The screaming. The crash. Shaking hands. Cold metal in his palm. The taste of blood in his mouth, even with no wound.
And the gunshots.
The silence.

He opened his eyes abruptly. He felt like he was suffocating. Air wouldn’t come. His chest tightened, like something was pressing down on it. He stepped back, staggering, then collapsed onto the edge of the bed, hunched over, arms wrapped around himself.

His breathing was ragged, uneven. Too fast. He was trembling.

He wanted to think about Grace — her sleeping face, the smell of milk and soap, her tiny hands reaching for his even in dreams.

But it didn’t help.

Everything inside him was screaming. Every cell. Every memory. Every doubt.

He trembled harder, breath tearing through him.

"Stop… stop, stop, stop…" he muttered between clenched teeth, pressing his hands to his temples. He was squeezing his eyes shut too tightly. Like he could crush the images. Silence the voices.

But they were still there.

"I can’t do this anymore… I can’t… I can't ! I CAN'T !!"

He didn’t even know if he was speaking or if the thoughts were just spilling out loud.

Then, a sound. A door opening. Quick footsteps. And suddenly, a hand on his shoulder.

"Lyle!"

Erik’s voice, panicked.

Lyle flinched violently, like yanked from a nightmare. He turned to him with a ravaged face — red eyes, trembling lips — unable to speak.

Erik dropped to his knees without hesitation. He placed both hands on Lyle’s arms, trying to catch his gaze.

"Hey, look at me. It’s me. Breathe. I’m here, okay ? I’m right here."

Lyle shook his head, unable to get a word out, barely breathing.

Erik cupped his face gently but firmly in both hands.

"Look at me. Inhale. Come on. Breathe with me."

He exaggerated his own breathing, slow, steady, trying to guide his brother.

"You’re not alone. This isn’t what you think. That night… it’s over. It’s not now. Look around. You’re here. With me. And Grace is here. She’s asleep, she’s safe. You’re safe. You’re going to get through this, you hear me?"

Lyle nodded weakly, unable to respond any other way. He managed to suck in a bit of air between sobs.

"I can’t anymore, Erik… I thought it would stop one day. That it would let go of me. But it’s eating me alive. I’m drowning and I don’t think I have the strength to come up again."

He was crying again now. Quieter this time. But it was a full collapse. A surrender.

His shoulders jolted in small jerks, emptied of resistance, and his fingers clung to Erik’s sweatshirt like his skin might fall apart if he let go. Each sob was softer than the last, like his body didn’t even have the energy to scream anymore. It was a heavy grief, deep and voiceless — but crushing as an anchor in his chest.

Erik gently pulled him into an embrace, one hand at his nape, the other at his back. He held him with rare tenderness, like he was cradling something broken in his arms. Lyle collapsed against him, forehead pressed to his shoulder, breath trembling against his neck.

Just like when they were kids. When the walls shook with screaming, and Lyle wrapped himself around Erik to shield him from a world that wanted to break them.

Except tonight, it was Lyle who needed catching.

Erik rocked him gently, his chin resting on his temple, murmuring meaningless things — simple, instinctive words: I’m here. It’s over. Breathe. I’ve got you. You’re not alone.

And slowly, very slowly, something in Lyle began to loosen. An old knot. A tension years old. His breathing became less erratic. The shaking eased, bit by bit. His body remained taut, tense, like he feared letting go too fast… but he was breathing. Finally. Even if the air still came in against the current — it came.

Erik pulled back just enough to meet his eyes.

"Come on. You need to lie down for a bit."

Lyle didn’t answer, but let himself be guided. He stood, unsteady, still hollowed out, and Erik slipped an arm around him to help him to the bed. He lifted the blankets and eased him in with care, like helping someone into a cocoon they’d been too long denied.

Lyle lay on his side, back to the room, knees drawn up to his chest. Erik hesitated a second. Then he said softly : "I’m not leaving you alone, okay ?"

He didn’t ask permission. He didn’t wait for a reply.

He climbed into the bed too, on the opposite side. Then, gently, he scooted closer and extended an arm to pull him in.

Lyle didn’t resist. He let himself be held. The warmth of his brother’s body, familiar and grounding, made him shiver again — but not from fear this time. It was the raw release of too much emotion, the surrender to a presence that didn’t judge, didn’t question — just stayed.

He rested his head on Erik’s chest, listening to the rhythm of his heart. Slow, steady. The kind of rhythm that, for reasons you can’t explain, anchors you to the world.

He closed his eyes. "Thank you…" he murmured hoarsely, barely audible.

Erik ran a hand through his hair, a protective gesture — almost fatherly, despite their age.

"It’s nothing. You did the same for me when we were kids. You carried me. It’s my turn now."

Lyle nodded slowly, eyes still shut. They stayed there for a while, unmoving. The silence, this time, was different. It didn’t crush, it wrapped around them.

Erik’s heartbeat. The calm breath returned. The warmth of another body. All of it created a tiny, solid island in the chaos.

Lyle didn’t sleep. Not really. But he let go.

There were no more camera flashes at the window. No more memories stuck to his skin. No more fear of who he was or wasn’t.

Just Erik’s presence. The fragile, but real certainty that he wasn’t alone.

And that night, that was enough.

Chapter Text

The silence in the house was almost too heavy.

Grace was sleeping peacefully, and Lyle lay on his back in the darkness of his bedroom. Erik had left that afternoon, after stocking the fridge to the brim and giving him one last look ; full of that worry he always tried, and failed, to hide. Lyle hadn’t known what to say. Truth was, he didn’t know anything anymore.

He should have been asleep. He should have at least closed his eyes, but his mind was elsewhere.

Not on the scandal. Not on the photos. Not even on the reporters who sometimes camped outside his gate like vultures hungry for blood.

No… His mind was caught on something else.

Someone.

Donovan.

He kept seeing his hands. That slightly awkward gesture when he’d tucked the blanket around Grace. The warmth of his body at the airport, right before that damn kiss. The kiss he hadn’t wanted, hadn’t planned… But had felt all the way down to his chest. To his gut.

Lyle inhaled deeply, as if trying to push the memory away. His hand moved up to his face, dragging across his mouth, his tense jaw, then slid down over his chest. His skin shivered under his own touch, caught in a low, restless agitation. He felt nervous. On edge. Almost ashamed of what was rising inside him.

It wasn’t an uncontrollable urge. It was worse. It was precise. Intimate. Deep.

He had never thought of a man that way. Least of all Donovan.

He had never had the luxury of questioning what he wanted, who he was. His whole life had been ruled by fear, by appearances, by constant escape. And now, here he was : burning with need for a man he had loved, then hated, then loved again… Without ever really understanding when the line between the two had disappeared.

His hand slid lower, seeking that carnal comfort, that fantasy turned memory. He was already hard, tense beneath the fabric, as if his body had reacted before him. He slowly lowered his pants, letting the cool air caress his skin. His fingers cupped him, and he sighed, almost reluctantly. It wasn’t pleasure, not really. It was missing. Cruel. Vital.

He saw Donovan again, that night. Their first night.

Their bodies pressed against each other, in a silence heavy with everything they didn’t yet know how to say. The warmth of his thighs around his hips, his mouth on his throat, his muffled gasps against his ear. The way he’d whispered « I’m here » into the crook of his neck, as if that were enough to fix anything.

It wasn’t just sex. It was the way Donovan had kept his forehead pressed against his, their breaths mingling, fingers slowly tracing the line of his jaw as if discovering it for the first time. They hadn’t spoken. They hadn’t needed to. Lyle had fallen asleep against him, lulled by a calm he’d never known. And when he woke, Donovan was still there, still warm, still real. He hadn’t run away.

Lyle bit his lip, increasing the pressure. The rhythm of his hand matched the memory of their movements. He remembered the taste of his skin, the feel of his fingers gripping his hair. The precise moment their eyes had met just before they came, when desire had ceased to be an escape and become something burning, alive, irremediable.

His back tightened. He gave himself over to the memory of Donovan moaning his name, trembling against him, his back arched, his breath hitching. He would have given anything to feel Donovan’s skin against his again, his warmth, his presence, that raw truth they had never spoken aloud but had made flesh, for a moment stolen from the rest of the world.

He sped up, panting, eyes shut, his thoughts unraveling in the damp rhythm of his hand. And then everything broke loose, too fast, too hard, and he muffled a moan into the pillow, his body taut, heart racing, breathless, alone.

He stayed there, motionless. His hand dropped onto the sheet, his chest rose and fell in uneven waves. Fists clenched. Throat tight.

Not relieved.
Not emptied.
Just… hollow.

It wasn’t sex he needed. It was him. Donovan. His heavy silences and uncertain glances. That hand that, one night, had rested on his like it had always belonged there.

He opened his eyes in the dark. And for the first time in months, he thought about picking up his phone. Not to explain. Not to apologize. Just to tell him he missed him.

But he didn’t.

~~

Lyle felt nervous at the thought of seeing Andy.

He knew that seeing Andy after all this time wouldn’t be easy. Their family had always been tense after the trial, and Andy in particular had kept his distance, as if the situation had paralyzed him. The geographical distance had only added to that. But Lyle knew the real reason for that distance wasn’t just other people’s judgment. No, Andy, even though he and Lyle had been close during their childhood, had his own demons to face.

In fact, Andy had been one of the first to know the truth about what happened in their childhood. He had seen the signs of their parents’ abuse, heard it from Lyle and Erik’s own mouths, and yet he had said nothing at the request of his cousins. He was the silent witness, the one who had lived for years with that terrible secret. And that secret was still a burden he carried today.

Their lives had taken very different paths after the trial, and Lyle didn’t know where to start. But the warmth of Andy’s embrace when he arrived home relaxed him slightly. Andy, his younger cousin by a few years, had always had a somewhat naive air, but also a reassuring calm. That same calm which, back then, had allowed Lyle to confide in him during happier times, before everything turned to chaos.

The house was quiet, as if frozen in time. The evening light slipped through the half-open curtains, bathing the living room in a warm, golden, almost unreal hue. An apparent peace, but heavy with buried emotions.

The door opened quietly, and Lyle felt his heart skip a beat. Andy’s face appeared in the frame, a mix of apprehension and tenderness in his eyes. He had changed, marked by the years, but he was still the same clear-eyed boy who once knew how to listen without judging.

Andy entered slowly, as if weighing every step, also carrying the invisible weight of the past. His gaze searched for Lyle’s, hesitant, as if dreading this meeting as much as he desired it. Then, without a word, he stepped forward and hugged Lyle tightly. This embrace was heavy with silence, but full of unspoken words: forgiveness, pain, relief, need for belonging.

Lyle felt the warmth of this embrace penetrate his own defenses. For a moment, the barriers he had built around himself, made of grudges and fears, seemed to waver. He could almost hear Andy’s heart beating, the same heart that had carried the secret they shared.

Andy’s hands gently rested on Lyle’s shoulders, as if to give him an anchor, a reminder that he was not alone. Their eyes met, and in this silent exchange, Lyle perceived all the complexity of the years gone by, all the wounds never healed.

The house around them seemed to hold its breath. The soft evening light, filtered through the curtains, cast delicate shadows on their faces. Time seemed suspended, as if this moment could piece together all the scattered fragments of their shared history.

Andy finally broke the silence, his voice low and trembling, barely a whisper: “It’s been a long time, Lyle.”

A simple murmur, but charged with an emotion words couldn’t hold.

Lyle nodded, holding Andy tighter, feeling both the fragility and strength of this renewed bond.

The two men struggled to hold back their emotions after all these years. Too much silence, too many unspoken things, yet a familiarity remained intact, like an old scar that refuses to fade but also reminds them of what they had been through together.

Andy cautiously sat on the couch, hands clenched between his knees, fingers nervously playing with the seam of his pants. His eyes darted around the room, as if rediscovering every object, every corner, trying to anchor himself in a past both familiar and distant. But above all, he carefully avoided Lyle’s gaze, perhaps afraid of awakening wounds still raw.

Lyle, for his part, had dropped into the armchair across, a little stiff. He crossed his arms over his chest, an instinctive gesture, an invisible shield raised between him and the vulnerability Andy’s arrival stirred. His breath was short, his heart beating faster, as if this simple moment rekindled inner battles he thought were set aside.

A thick silence settled, broken only by the soft rustling of leaves stirred by the wind outside, an almost inaudible whisper in the frozen room.

Then, finally, Andy broke the ice, his voice low, almost shy, betraying sincere hesitation:

“So… how are you?”

It wasn’t a casual question, nor a simple formality. He knew, just like Lyle, that the answer couldn’t be reduced to a vague “I’m fine.”

Lyle gave a sad smile, his eyelids dropping for a moment as if gathering strength. He took a deep breath, letting the air fill his lungs, searching for a strength he hadn’t yet found.

“How am I…” he murmured, his voice hoarse, broken by the emotion he’d been holding back for too long.

He looked away, eyes lost in a corner of the wall, as if looking for an answer outside himself.

“I don’t really know, Andy. Sometimes, I feel like I’m groping around, like in a fog. Between what we lived through, what we had to endure…”

He shrugged, a bitter laugh escaping his lips.

“And now, this damn scandal, the looks, the whispers. It’s like I can never fully breathe.”

He finally lifted his eyes, meeting Andy’s gaze, more vulnerable than he had let on. He knew his cousin had probably seen the photo, like the rest of the family, like the whole country.

“But… seeing you here does me good. More than you can imagine. Even if it’s hard. Even if it hurts.”

A breath, a pause.

Then, in a softer, almost fragile voice: “I need that, Andy. You. Us.”

He finally looked up at Andy, searching in his eyes for an anchor, a security.

Andy stayed silent for a moment, his eyes heavy with compassion. He searched for the right words, not wanting to rush Lyle nor run away from this shared pain. Deep down, he also knew that Lyle was living a new kind of hell: relentless harassment, accusatory looks, rumors spreading everywhere because of that stolen photo at the airport. A photo that, in the heart of America, had circulated like wildfire, impossible to ignore.

Finally, he spoke, his voice calm and sincere:

“I can’t pretend to understand everything you’re going through, Lyle. But I know what it’s like to carry a weight you can’t share. That silence, that loneliness… I was locked inside that secret too, and it ate away at me from the inside for years.”

He let out a sigh, his gaze fixed on his hands which he nervously clenched.

“And I can see it’s happening again for you, with that photo, the media, the judgments… There’s no one in America who hasn’t seen it, huh?”

A veil of sadness crossed his features, tinged with anger and helplessness. “No one deserves that, especially not you.”

Andy lifted his eyes to Lyle’s, placing there a frank tenderness, a silent promise to be there no matter what.

Lyle nodded slowly, feeling a lump form in his throat. He gathered his courage, his fingers gripping his arms as if to anchor himself in the present, and finally said:

“After the verdict, I tried to find my place. I just wanted to disappear, to get out of this world where people looked at me like a monster.”

He paused, the memories weighing heavily on his chest.

“But I ended up alone. Alone with Grace, and with everything I never said.”

Andy nodded slowly, as if convincing himself. His face betrayed the rising emotion, but also a palpable hesitation, a fear of saying the wrong thing, of waking wounds he thought buried forever.

Then he leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees, hands clenched.

“I remember the articles, the catchy headlines… Newspapers screaming on the front page that your parents had been killed by their own sons. And then, the TV shows, those debates where you were called monsters, criminals. Where they tried to dehumanize you, to make you out as something other than what you were.”

A heavy silence fell, filled with all those images etched in his memory.

“I was there, watching it all on TV, powerless. Unable to say anything, unable to protect you from that crushing gaze. It left marks on me too, you know.”

He raised his eyes, finally meeting Lyle’s gaze, full of rare tenderness.

“I should have been there,” he whispered. “When I understood what had happened… what you’d lived through… I was scared. Not of you, but of what it meant. For the family, for what we thought was true.”

Lyle stared at him, surprised. He had never heard Andy say that. There was something in his voice, a mix of regret, regained loyalty, and pain he also carried, even from a distance.

“You know, you were the first to know,” he said. “And you kept your promise, not to say a word. Even though I know it cost you.”

Andy slowly lifted his eyes to Lyle, searching his gaze for the strength to ask the question he dreaded.

“And… Erik, how is he, really ?”

His voice was soft, almost hesitant, as if he wanted to make sure his younger cousin wasn’t left alone carrying this burden.

Lyle took a deep breath, his fingers tightening on the armrest. He paused, as if gathering his thoughts before answering.

“Erik… he’s okay. Well, on the surface. He’s at UCLA now, doing what he loves, trying to build something. But since that photo leaked… everything came down on him too.”

He lowered his eyes, nervously clenching his hands.

“You know, it’s not just the sideways glances, or the whispers in the halls. It’s worse than that. He has to answer questions, insinuations. Questions he’d rather ignore, looks that weigh like judgments.”

Andy nodded gently, understanding without needing more words. Lyle shook his head, bitter.

“It’s like we never really left that trial behind, that story is tattooed on us, a mark we could never erase. It weighs heavily on him, he doesn’t talk about it much, but I see it.”

A breath, a moment of silence. Then Lyle resumed, his voice lower, almost a whisper: “He finishes classes today, and he’s supposed to come by here afterward. He really wants to see you, he’s missed you a lot. Me too, actually. I was looking forward to it.”

Andy placed a reassuring hand on Lyle’s leg, his eyes shining with contained emotion.

“I never stopped loving you both, you and Erik. Even when I didn’t know what to do, even when I was lost. You’ve always been like brothers to me.”

Lyle felt Andy’s hand on his leg, a simple touch but charged with a warmth he hadn’t felt in a long time. His gaze slowly lifted, meeting Andy’s, also shining with restrained emotion.

A weight he’d carried for years seemed to lighten, even if the pain remained, present, ready to resurface at any moment. He took a deep breath, his throat tight, before answering in a trembling, almost whispered voice:

“I’ve been waiting a long time to hear that…”

A faint smile formed on his lips, awkward but sincere.

“Sometimes, I was afraid no one loved us anymore, or worse, that we were alone with all this.”

He lowered his eyes for a moment, his gaze lost in the void, then raised his head toward Andy.

“Thank you… thank you for being there, even when you didn’t know what to do. It means more than you can imagine.”

A companionable silence settled, broken only by the whisper of the wind through the windows. Then, after a suspended moment, Andy dared to ask the question that had been hanging for too long, his voice low, almost shy:
“And Donovan?”

Lyle tensed imperceptibly. His gaze averted, avoiding the intensity of the question. The silence that followed seemed to grow even heavier, saturated with that unspoken truth, heavy and obvious.

Andy, for his part, had never met Donovan in person. Yet, his name was familiar to him. Impossible to miss after all Donovan had done during the trial. In the hushed corridors of family gatherings, in whispered conversations, Donovan’s name often came up, loaded with grudges, doubts, but also sadness.

He remembered the furtive glances exchanged when his role was mentioned, the heavy silences that fell as soon as he was brought up. Andy had kept his distance, preferring not to get involved, too aware of the still-open wounds.

Then, a few weeks earlier, at the New Year’s party, his mother—always cautious—had finally agreed to meet Donovan, accompanied by other family members. Andy had heard the stories, at first wary; relatives had observed this man whose presence stirred so many painful memories.

And yet, as the evening went on, Donovan managed to ease the tensions. His demeanor, his calm, his apparent sincerity, his gentleness toward Lyle and his daughter—all of this surprised everyone. Even those who, like Andy, expected a confrontation, felt a kind of opening.

It was as if, despite everything, a fragile bridge was being built between them, a possibility for reconciliation, or at least, for peace. A surprise in such a heavy past, a timid light amid the scars.

“He… it’s complicated.” Lyle rubbed the back of his neck, uncomfortable.

How to explain something that still eluded him ? Their story couldn’t be told in simple words. Not in what the journalists thought they captured in the flash of a camera, in a stolen snapshot.

“I was mad at him for what he did. But when I saw him again, when I really listened… all that lost time, all that pain we each had on our own… I was mad, yes. But I also understood. What he’d been through. What he felt at that moment. It wasn’t easy. Neither for him, nor for me.”

Andy looked at him intently, as if to understand. “But now ?”

Lyle bit his lip. It was the question haunting his life right now.

“I… I think I love him.” He stopped, almost shocked by the clarity of his own words. “It’s strange to say, but it’s the truth. After all this time, and after everything we’ve been through together, I… I love him.”

He stood abruptly, agitated by his own words. He turned toward the window, fighting the heat rising within him.

“All he did, and how he acted, it changed everything. I forgave him, but I don’t know if everyone can understand that. Even me, sometimes, I don’t understand it.”

Andy, though surprised, nodded gently.

“But that kiss, Lyle… Wasn’t it hard ? Letting that image circulate ? I mean, people, the papers, all that…”

Lyle lowered his head, aware of the impact of that moment.

“I know. Believe me, I know. I didn’t want it to go public. I hate that my life gets reduced to a single image, a stolen moment. But… it was a moment between him and me. A moment where I thought only of us. And I think that’s what people don’t get. It wasn’t just a kiss to them, it was… it was everything we were, after everything we’d been through. There’s a part of me that regrets it was exposed that way. But at the same time… I can’t go back. I… I love him, Andy.”

A heavy but soothing silence settled. Andy said nothing for a moment, letting his cousin process his emotions. Finally, he whispered:

“I… I understand. It’s not easy. But I think if anyone can understand, it’s you.”

Lyle looked at him, his eyes shining with an emotion he hadn’t dared to show.

“You don’t have to understand everything, but thank you, Andy. Thank you for not judging me.”

Andy gave a small smile, then a moment passed, a certain awkwardness lingering in the air.

“You know,” Lyle finally said, “I often wondered what you thought all this time… after the trial,” he said, with a tone more relaxed than he really felt. “Do you blame me, too, for all this?”

He had asked himself that question before, indirectly, silently, in his sleepless nights. Even though Andy had assured him several times over the phone that no, he didn’t, Lyle always had this nagging, almost compulsive need to hear that truth again and again. As if to convince himself, as if words were a balm capable of soothing his doubts and guilt.

His fingers gripped the fabric of his sleeve, betraying his anxiety despite his calm exterior. He finally raised his eyes to Andy, searching his gaze for that intangible proof of acceptance and forgiveness.

Andy looked at him for a moment before shaking his head.

“No, Lyle. I never held a grudge against you, or Erik. But I… avoided you, I suppose. It was easier for me not to know how to react. You see, the family… It was a complete mess after all that. People whispered behind our backs, took sides. We were supposed to be united, but really, everyone did what they could. I was young. And I had this constant feeling that everyone expected me to take a side. But I didn’t even know what I was supposed to think…”

Lyle smiled, slightly bitter.

“I get it. No one knew what to do, not even me. I was a bit… lost after all that. I just needed air. And then there was the verdict. When the jury acquitted us, it was a relief, but also a burden. Like they were telling me: ‘You’re free.’ Except I didn’t know what to do with that freedom anymore. I never really felt I could go back to who I was before, and maybe that’s not such a bad thing, but I had a sort of identity crisis where I didn’t really know who I was or what I was supposed to do.”

Andy stared at the floor for a moment, as if weighing every word.

“And you, Lyle, did you really find your place after that ? Or did you just… hide ?”

He asked softly, with an almost worried look.

Lyle swallowed before answering.

“I hid, I think. For a while, I didn’t want to face the world. I stayed in this house, away from everything, away from everyone, alone with my daughter. It was easier that way. But you know… Donovan came back.”

Andy nodded slowly. He had heard about this visit, this unexpected return. His mother had told him, using cautious but not cold words.

He remembered very well his reaction, a few months earlier, when he saw in the press that paparazzi photo: Lyle, sitting on a blanket in a park, Grace lying on her stomach, her face turned away in the photo, and Donovan beside them, leaning toward the little girl, a shy smile on his lips.

That image had gone around the tabloids, reigniting old judgments, debates, unsolicited opinions. His mother, like many others in the family, had reacted with suspicion. She had pressed her lips together when she saw the photo, worried, almost protective.

“He comes back after all these years, and he’s getting close to Lyle again ?” she had whispered, more to herself than to Andy.

At the time, she hadn’t tried to hide her doubts. But things had changed at New Year’s. Donovan had been there.

Andy, bedridden with a high fever, couldn’t attend, but he had listened to the stories in bits, between medicines and a cup of lukewarm tea. What really struck him was what his mother confided a few days later, as they were having breakfast late in the morning, in that quiet everyday silence where sometimes the most important things are said.

Marta had set down her cup a little too softly, a sign she was searching for words.

“I don’t know…” she began, her gaze a bit blurry, as if she was reliving the scene. “There’s something genuine in his voice, that boy. No pretense. No grand speeches. He didn’t try to justify himself or win us over. He just wanted… to be there, I think. Present. For Lyle, and for Grace.”

She paused, then added with almost disarming sincerity: “And when we started asking him all kinds of questions and expressing our doubts, well, he didn’t run away. He held firm. He didn’t try to defend himself or shift the blame. He just… answered. Calmly. With a kind of modesty.”

She fell silent for a moment, thoughtful, before concluding, almost reluctantly: “I was suspicious. And I still am, a little… but that night, he made a good impression on me. Against all odds.”

For Andy, that was a silent turning point. If even his usually suspicious, cautious, almost rigid mother could feel that sincerity… maybe Donovan wasn’t just the traitor from the trial. Maybe there was something else, something more human, more complex.

He also remembered that when the photo of the kiss had flooded screens and magazine pages, his mother had been a little shocked, of course. That kind of sudden, brutal exposure left no one untouched. But deep down, she hadn’t truly been surprised. As if she had always known. As if some quiet, clear-sighted part of her had long expected that this truth would eventually come to light. Her gaze hadn’t held judgment, but rather a calm resignation and a silent kind of tenderness. She hadn’t said much, not really. Just a slightly too long silence, a slow nod. As if, at last, things had fallen into their rightful place.

And Andy felt, for the first time, a tiny crack in the wall of resentment his family seemed to carry for years.

So now that he was here, facing Lyle, he wanted to understand what he himself hadn’t yet been able to put into words.

“I didn’t think it would end like this between you, after everything that happened.”

Lyle shrugged, looking slightly embarrassed.

“It’s… complicated. Donovan was there through the whole trial. He betrayed me, I know. But when he came back, after all those years… he didn’t look at me like someone who wanted to justify himself. He looked at me like someone carrying as much pain as I was. When he saw me, he saw a broken man, and he told me he wanted to try to make amends… to make up for everything he took from me. And little by little, it… changed.”

Andy listened silently. He could see that what Lyle felt didn’t fit into simple words or easy categories. Above all, he saw how much Lyle was awkwardly trying to build something real, in a world that had done everything to take away that possibility.

“And you just… accepted ?” Andy asked, his tone surprisingly calm, as if walking on a tightrope. There was no blame, no judgment. Just genuine curiosity. A desire to understand.

Lyle was caught in an inner storm, but he felt safe here, with Andy.

“I struggled to accept it, really. For a long time, I told myself it was impossible. How could I forgive him, after everything he did to me…? But I think I forgave him… not because he deserved it, but because I needed it. I was tired of carrying that resentment. And then, one day, everything changed. We started getting closer without even realizing it, and little by little, it became… something else. He became more than a friend, more than a shoulder I could cry on. It became a sort of accomplice, someone with whom I could rebuild what I had lost.”

He smiled barely, almost despite himself.

“And I found myself loving him.”

Andy nodded slowly.

“It’s not easy, I know. But… I see you found something, somewhere.”

Lyle stood up abruptly and walked toward the window.

“And then, there was that photo. That damn kiss. That moment between us, which turned into a public spectacle.” He turned to Andy, his eyes a little wild. “It’s like my life, everything I’ve tried to rebuild, was reduced to that. To a simple image.”

“You’re right,” Andy replied.

“But… I don’t think that image defines what you are, Lyle. That kiss… it symbolizes something much bigger than what people see. It’s not just voyeurism. It’s your story, it’s yours.”

Lyle gave him a hesitant look, searching for a form of truth in his cousin’s words.

“I know… but it’s hard not to feel exposed when the whole world is watching.”

Andy got up and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“I understand, Lyle. But you deserve to live your life, even if the world always wants to stick its nose in. If Donovan is the one you want to live it with, then that’s what you have to do. Everything else… will pass.”

Lyle closed his eyes for a moment, letting Andy’s words sink in. Maybe deep down, he had already made the choice. Maybe all this was part of healing, part of acceptance.

Suddenly, a small noise came from the baby monitor on the coffee table, a slight cry. A whimper, faint but unmistakable. Lyle immediately looked up toward the stairs, recognizing the familiar sound. He didn’t need anything more to react.

“Excuse me, that’s Grace,” he said in a calm but tender voice. “She’s waking up, I’m going to get her.”

Andy nodded, straightening up a bit.

“Of course. Go get her, I’ll wait.”

Lyle quickly stood and disappeared upstairs, his footsteps echoing lightly in the quiet house. Andy stayed there, alone in the living room, his mind still wrestling with everything that had just been said. He felt a little lighter but also more vulnerable, as if he had just plunged into a world he never really understood. Yet at the same time, he felt a renewed respect for Lyle and his journey.

A few minutes passed before Lyle came back down, holding Grace in his arms. The little girl, still asleep, snuggled against her father, a small smile on her lips, her eyes half-closed. The scene was sweet and comforting, a striking contrast to the heavy conversation that had just taken place.

“Here’s Grace,” said Lyle, a sincere smile stretching his lips as he settled next to Andy with his daughter in his arms.

Andy turned toward them, wide-eyed, suddenly moved. He had heard about Grace, of course, but seeing her there, alive, real, so small in Lyle’s strong arms… it was something else.

“She’s… beautiful,” he murmured, eyes full of wonder.

Lyle looked at his daughter tenderly, a gentle sparkle in his eyes.

“She’s nine months now. Time goes too fast, you know.”

Andy tilted his head, a warm smile on his lips.

“She already looks like you. She has your eyes.”

He watched the little girl in Lyle’s arms who, though so young, seemed already to show a little personality: a curious expression despite her sleep, a hand that gently waved as if she knew she was the center of attention.

“You must be a great dad.” He added.

Lyle blushed slightly, feeling a bit awkward. “I try,” he said simply, his voice softer, almost shy. “It’s not always easy, but she’s my priority, Andy. Everything I do, I do it for her.”

“Looks like you found some peace in her.”

Lyle nodded, a sad but sincere smile on his lips.

“She’s my everything. She’s my reason to move forward. And it hasn’t been easy, but… I think we’re managing.”

Andy nodded, a solemn expression crossing his face.

“I know it’s not easy. But you seem to handle it, Lyle. Grace is lucky to have a dad like you.”

Lyle’s gaze clouded for a moment, a shadow of sadness crossing his features.

“I do what I can, but sometimes there’s still that absence…”

Andy, sensing the conversation was taking a more intimate turn, leaned forward a little.

“That void… you mean about her mother, right?”

Lyle let out a slight sigh, looking at the peaceful face of Grace asleep in his arms.

“Yes. Christy. Grace’s mother.” He paused, searching for the right words. “She… she fled shortly after the birth. She was never able to stay, Andy. She wasn’t ready to be a mother. Maybe she never was.”

Andy tensed slightly, the mention of Christy breaking the lightness of the moment.

“I… I remember her. I remember what you both went through back then, and I know it was hard, but… but to run away like that, after everything you’d been through, it’s… it’s hard to understand.”

Lyle let out a small nervous laugh, biting his lower lip.

“Yes, I guess. But I don’t know. Maybe, in a way, I understood. After everything that happened before… it’s like everything became too much for her. She never knew how to get back up after all that. She left me alone. And that, I think, was the worst thing for me. I wanted Grace to have a mother, you know. I wanted her to have that kind of ideal family that Erik and I never had.”

He lowered his eyes, too emotional to continue right away. “Maybe I wanted to understand because I loved Christy ? But deep down, I knew it would never be possible.”

Andy felt awkward, struggling with his own feelings. He didn’t dare judge Christy, but he never understood her choice.

“It’s hard, what you’re saying, Lyle. I… I know it must be difficult to carry all that alone. But, you know, I think you’re doing your best. And Grace has what she needs: you.”

Lyle nodded, his gaze on his daughter with infinite tenderness.

“That’s all that matters now. She’s my future, my anchor.”

He then turned to Andy, a shy smile on his lips.

“I just wanted you to know that. That everything I do, I do it for her.”

Andy smiled, a sincere smile, and placed a hand on his cousin’s shoulder.

“I see that. And that’s what matters most. I’m proud of you, Lyle. And… if you ever need help, or just someone to be there… I want you to know I’m here too.”

Lyle looked at him for a long moment, a little surprised but deeply touched. He just nodded, his heart too full to respond otherwise.

A peaceful silence settled, a bubble of intimacy between the two men. Then Andy, a bit more nervous this time, turned to Lyle. He had heard bits of information but needed to understand. To understand his cousin, and this new reality he was struggling to grasp.

“And… Donovan ?” he asked, hesitantly. “How is it going, with him and you ? With Grace ?”

Lyle kept his gaze on Grace for a moment before answering with an almost protective gentleness.

"Donovan has really integrated well with Grace. He has… he’s really made an effort for us." He lowered his eyes, a bit embarrassed, as if mentioning Donovan was still a delicate subject, even after all this time. "At first, it was hard, of course. We both struggled to understand what we felt, but… he was patient. Very patient."

Andy slightly raised his eyebrows, listening attentively, but a fleeting doubt crossed his gaze. It was hard for him to admit this situation.

" I… I see" he replied slowly, a hint of confusion in his voice. "But… how? Did you start living together as a family ?"

The question, though asked in a neutral tone, betrayed a feeling of disbelief, that of a man struggling to see beyond what he knew.

Lyle took a deep breath, searching for the right words. "No… well, not yet. Not really. Donovan doesn’t live here, not full time. He’s still between two cities, two lives. But when he’s here… he really invests himself. He plays with her, sings her weird songs, makes her laugh even when she’s grumpy. And sometimes… » he smiled softly, almost despite himself, « sometimes he puts her to sleep better than I do."

He slowly turned to Andy, as if gauging his reaction.

"He’s learning, you know. And so am I. We’re learning together. To trust, to open up, to exist differently. We haven’t put a precise label on what we are. We don’t need to, not yet. But we’re becoming… something."

He sighed deeply, a weight lifted with his words.

"I know it must be hard to imagine. For you, for others. It’s not… easy to accept. Two men, a baby, a complicated story, baggage trailing behind. It’s not the perfect family."

His gaze hardened a little, not with anger, but with determination.

"But Donovan loves Grace in a way I never could have imagined. And Grace loves him so much, too. She recognizes him, looks for him when he leaves. And when she hears his voice on the phone, she reaches out to the device like she knows. Like she’s already chosen to make room for him."

A soft, tired smile appeared on his lips.

"It’s different, yeah. Nothing conventional. But it works, Andy. Living like a family, even if it doesn’t look like anything you see in magazines or on TV… it works for us."

Andy looked at him silently, a mix of perplexity and discomfort creeping into his features. He struggled to fully grasp the situation. « But when he’s here, you live like a kind of couple, he and you? »

The question sounded almost accusatory, although he didn’t intend it. He was just disoriented by his cousin’s new reality.

Lyle, having anticipated this reaction, bit his lip, a slight unease hanging in the air. "Yes, exactly. It’s hard to accept, I know. But we found our place. I… I found someone in Donovan. Not just someone who helped me with Grace, but someone who… gave me a reason to believe again. And, for the first time in a long time, I feel complete."

Silence settled between them, heavy and complex. Andy, though loyal to his cousin, felt an inner resistance. What he was hearing challenged his own boundaries. In 1990s America, the idea of a gay couple, and even more so a father in such a dynamic, seemed almost unreal. He knew it was still a taboo subject, rarely openly discussed.

"But… people ?" he finally asked, more to himself than to Lyle. "You know… the looks, the judgments. It’s hard to accept such a situation, even today."

Lyle gave him a gaze filled with fatigue but serenity. "I know, Andy. I know all this isn’t easy for you, or for many people. But even if it’s hard, I’m ready to face the judgments if it means I can have a family. If it means Grace can have a father and a man she can love as she should. Donovan and I support each other. And it’s not perfect. But we’re together."

And as he said those words, he felt a pang in his chest. Because even though they were honest, they carried a quiet contradiction, they betrayed the doubts he had shared with Donovan just a few days earlier. The fears, the tense silences, the wounds still too fresh. There had been nights when he had wanted to give up. Moments when the urge to run had almost surfaced. But in front of Andy, he had chosen to keep all that to himself.

Not out of shame.

But because deep down, he wanted those words to be true. He wanted that to be their future. And maybe, by saying them out loud, he was bringing them a little closer to it. He didn’t want to open the door to their current tensions, didn’t want to lay them bare. He preferred to keep that between him and Donovan. Because in the middle of all this chaos, there was still something intimate between them, fragile, but precious, and he refused to let anyone, even Andy, cast doubt on it.

Andy stood up, running a hand through his hair. He searched for words, struggling against the part of himself that wanted to reject this reality he wasn’t ready to accept.

"You know, Lyle, I like you, you’re my cousin, and I want you to be happy. But I don’t know… I don’t know how all this could work for you, for Grace, for everyone."

Lyle looked at him calmly, a glimmer of understanding in his eyes.

"I understand how you feel, Andy. But for us, this is reality. This is how it works, and it works. We found our balance. That’s all that matters to us."

Andy was silent for a moment, trying to digest this new information.

"And Grace? Do you think she’ll understand all this later?"

Lyle smiled as he looked at his daughter. "I don’t know what the future holds, Andy. But all I know is that she will be loved, that she will have a home where she feels safe. And that’s all that matters."

A heavy silence of unspoken words fell again. Andy was not yet fully convinced, but he knew deep down that Lyle had made difficult but sincere choices, and that he was happy with them. And for him, that was all that mattered.

But as Lyle lost himself in watching his daughter, a twinge of sadness crossed his mind. He remembered the last conversation he had had with Donovan a few days earlier, after the photo of their kiss had been published in the media. Donovan’s tone, hurt and confused, was still etched in his memory.

Lyle had collapsed. He still remembered it with painful clarity. The weight of anxiety, the looping thoughts, the breath he couldn’t catch. He had curled up in a corner of his bed, heart pounding, body shaking.

And then, Erik. Erik had shown up unannounced, as if he had sensed from afar that something was wrong. He found him there, curled up, unable to speak. Without a word, Erik joined him in bed, held him tightly without asking questions.

Lyle remembered the reassuring warmth of his body, Erik’s hand resting in his hair, the weight of that familiar presence which, without saying a word, had allowed him to breathe again.

They had fallen asleep like that, cuddled up against each other, like two children trying to survive a nightmare that wouldn’t end.

Lyle gently shook his head to chase away those thoughts. He knew this was a difficult time for both of them, but he felt the tension between them had grown beyond what they had anticipated. He just hoped they would manage to overcome this trial, to rebuild themselves again, like a family. But the fear that they might drift apart because of outside pressures always lingered, lurking in his mind.

Andy looked up at Lyle, a slight smile playing on his lips, as if to lighten the heaviness of their conversation.

"Alright, enough serious talk. At least let me meet this little princess ?" he asked, his voice softened by a hint of amusement, pulling Lyle out of his thoughts.

Lyle laughed softly, a sound that betrayed his relief. He sat up slightly, holding Grace carefully, like a fragile treasure. He stretched the little one toward Andy, who leaned in gently to take her in his arms. The baby opened one eye, curious, her long lashes blinking slowly, then let out a little coo, as if responding to the new presence.

Andy immediately felt the delicacy of the tiny body, both soft and so alive, a little heartbeat against his chest.

"Hi, Grace, I’m Andy, your uncle… well, your cousin, but you can call me uncle if you want, okay ?" he said in a gentle and slightly awkward tone, trying to make a connection.

To his great surprise, the little one seemed to calm instantly, her tiny hands softly gripping Andy’s sweater, while a faint smile brightened her still sleepy face. Andy exchanged a knowing look with Lyle, who, eyes misted with tenderness, watched the scene as if it were a miracle.

"She’s really adorable", Andy whispered, his voice filled with sincere emotion. "You can be proud, Lyle."

Lyle nodded gently, a calm and tired smile resting on his lips. "Thanks, Andy. It really means a lot to me that you’re here, that you want to be part of her life."

A warm calm settled in the room, like a bubble suspended outside of time.

~~

The sky over New Jersey was gray, low, uniformly faded. The air smelled of wet tar and soggy newspapers. Donovan had parked his car a little further than usual, just to avoid the looks from employees smoking in front of the building. That morning, he didn’t have the strength to exchange even a greeting.

Climbing the stairs of his building late the night before, he had found a newspaper slipped under his door. The National Enquirer. No subscription. More like a small gesture from a neighbor, or a discreet colleague. There was no note, no need.

« LYLE MENENDEZ AND DONOVAN GOODREAU – SHOCK ROMANCE AT THE AIRPORT »

Blurry but clear: the photo in question. Lyle, visibly tense, his hand on Donovan’s neck, their faces close, their lips joined. The moment before the separation. Captured without their consent.
He had felt nauseous. Not because of the kiss, but because of what was made of it.

The office lobby was clean, impersonal, as always. But the looks were no longer the same. Some colleagues looked away, others, on the contrary, lingered on him with a little too much curiosity. He felt every micro-emotion like an invisible slap.

He crossed the corridor like a ghost, heading mechanically to the break room. He needed coffee. Or air. Or both.

Three colleagues were already there. Ben, the guy with shirts that were too tight. Rachel, the junior partner who always looked alert. And Mark, the one he sometimes went out with to smoke a cigarette, without really talking. The usual morning trio.

They fell silent as soon as he entered. A silence too smooth, too sharp.

Rachel gave him a forced smile. “Hey Don. How are you ? Haven’t seen you here in a while.”

He didn’t answer. He had heard his name, spoken too loud a few seconds earlier. He knew.

The Globe was laid out in the middle of the table, clearly visible. The double page showed the controversial photo taken at LAX airport: Lyle leaning toward Donovan, their lips joined in a light kiss. But between them, pressed against Lyle, a small bundled figure: Grace. Her face hidden, turned toward the floor or out of frame, but impossible to ignore.

Donovan felt his stomach twist. Still, he stepped forward, back straight. He grabbed a paper cup with surgical precision and placed it under the machine. The sound of the coffee maker seemed to last forever.

“Nice shot,” Ben said without looking up. “Looks like a movie scene. Almost romantic.”

“Yeah,” added Mark with a cold smile, “that’s exactly it… A Hollywood romance. With a baby on the side. Like in one of those diaper commercials.”

Rachel pressed her lips together, visibly uncomfortable. “Except the kid didn’t ask for any of this. She’s being exposed in the tabloids, not just you or Lyle.”

Donovan didn’t answer. He stared at the machine as if it could swallow him whole.

“We didn’t think you were… well, with him, at least,” Rachel continued, hesitantly. “It’s just… unexpected.”

“You always kept a low profile,” Ben added. “And now, bam. Page two, airport photo, the guy in your arms, Lyle fucking Menendez, with his daughter. Great PR for perfect dad.”

The name hit like a gunshot.

Donovan finally looked up. Slow, cold. He took a sip of coffee, then calmly set it down. Too calmly.

“Are you done?”

“No, not really,” said Mark. “You never said a word about him. Or about… you two. And now you’re surprised people are talking?”

“I never said I was surprised. I’m just saying you talk like you know everything. Like you were there.”

Ben crossed his arms.

“You don’t have to be there to know that he and his brother killed their parents, claiming they were abused. We all saw the trial. And you? You were in the fucking witness box.”

“You didn’t hesitate to throw him under the bus back then,” Rachel said more softly. “And now what? You’re back to finish what you started? What is this, redemption or an existential crisis?”

The jab was nicely packaged. It hit him in the gut.

Suddenly, Donovan exploded:
“Do you think this is some fucking game? That I staged this? You think I want to see my face and a baby’s face in the tabloids? That I’m sleeping well since it came out? Seriously?”

A thick silence settled. Heavier. Colder.

Ben didn’t back down. He had that calm and cruel tone, the one of people who just want to finish the job.

“You slept with a guy you helped send to prison,” Ben shot back. “Don’t pretend it’s just some complicated story. It’s sick. It’s weird. And since when are you gay anyway?”

Donovan felt fury boil in his veins as heat rose to his cheeks.

“You want to know what’s really weird ?” Donovan said, his voice trembling with rage. “It’s hearing you talk like you’re clean. Like you’ve never been a coward, a hypocrite, a bastard. Like you’ve never run away from shit. Like he, Lyle, was just a file in a drawer, a neat little monster, convenient for feeling better than him.”

He stepped forward, gripping the cup so hard the plastic creaked under his fingers.

“You think you know everything, huh? You read the headlines, watched two documentaries, and that’s it, final verdict. But what Lyle went through, what I went through… it’s not something you can understand sipping your lukewarm coffees between emails.”

He caught his breath. He wasn’t even aware his hand was trembling around the cup.

“What he went through… what I went through with him… you can’t understand. Because it goes beyond your little comfortable certainties. It’s about surviving. Shame. Things that stick to your skin for years.”

Rachel opened her mouth to say something, but he cut her off sharply.

“No, shut up. You’re going to say something passive-aggressive wrapped in irony again, and I don’t have time for that.”

His voice now trembled, with rage and clarity.

“Yeah, I testified against him. I spat on someone I loved. I lied, or let lies happen, to not sink with him. I was terrified. And I spent years telling myself that was what I had to do. For me. For my survival.”

He slowly turned his head toward Ben, locking eyes with him.

“But you know what he did? He forgave me. He could’ve slammed the door in my face. Called me a traitor, a coward. But no. He let me in. He introduced me to his daughter. He believed in me when I hadn’t done a damn thing to deserve it.”

And his voice, despite himself, broke. Just for a second.

“So yeah, maybe I’m another fucking asshole. Maybe I blew my chance to be someone good. But I’m not like you. I’m not one of those who hide behind haughty looks and biting remarks while other people’s lives fall apart.”

He dropped the cup on the table. It fell on the plastic with a dry, muffled sound, almost ridiculous… but it echoed in the room like thunder. A full stop.

“I’m not a bastard laughing over coffee with colleagues, pointing fingers at a broken man,” Donovan spat, his gaze moving from one colleague to the next. “A man who lost everything. Who loved me despite everything. Despite what I did to him. Despite what you keep doing.”

He paused, just long enough for the silence to stretch tight like a rope. Then he continued, quieter, graver.

“And whom I still love.”

The words tore at his throat. He hadn’t planned to say them. Not like that. Not in front of them. But they had come out, too heavy to stay trapped in his chest. And now they were there, in the air, hanging between them, burning with truth.

And his voice, despite himself, cracked:

“So yeah… yeah, maybe I’m just another asshole who screwed up. A coward. A lost guy trying to pick up the pieces. But I’m not a bastard who hides behind cynicism while someone’s life falls apart right before his eyes. I’m not one of you.”

He stood up, slowly, shoulders tense as if carrying a huge weight but refusing to buckle.

No one said a word. Even Rachel, whose arms had fallen to her sides, had a frozen look, wavering between disgust and a doubt beginning to crack her facade.

Donovan stepped back. Then two steps. His gaze slid over them one last time, one by one. Not with hatred. With a kind of fatigue, maybe mourning. As if he had just understood, with brutal clarity, that there was nothing left to save here.

And he left.

Not a word more. No door slam. No need.

The void he left behind was deafening. Like a sudden chasm opened in the room.

~~

Donovan’s apartment was shrouded in heavy darkness, broken only by the flickering glow of the streetlights outside. The ticking of a clock seemed to amplify the silence.

Sitting on the edge of the couch, his head in his hands, Donovan replayed again and again the hours that had changed his life.

He saw himself once more in the courtroom. The cold, dry air. The heavy gazes of the jurors. And himself, standing before the judge, denying everything. Burying the memories of the abuse he had confided in Lyle, distorting the truth to protect himself, to try to save his own skin.

His voice trembled, but he didn’t want anyone to hear his fear, his shame.

Then, in his mind, another moment brutally overlapped the memory: the voice on the recording. A recording of his conversation with Robert Rand, where Donovan had recounted the day he and Lyle had opened up to each other, an intimate piece of evidence of their fragile bond.

But Robert Rand had leaked that recording after Donovan denied everything in court, turning the whole case upside down.

There he was, hearing himself, in a rare moment of honesty, admitting that he and Lyle shared buried wounds, terrible childhood traumas that, in some way, had bound them together forever.

The words pierced his ears, loaded with a truth he had tried to flee for far too long.

He remembered Lyle’s tears.

Trembling, silent, running down his pale cheeks.

And Erik’s, his brother, in front of the courtroom, his face marked by pain and confusion.

Lyle, crying, finally admitting that he had hurt his own brother during their childhood. Speaking of the physical and emotional abuse from their parents. His chaotic, controlled childhood. His fears, his thoughts, and his most intimate memories laid bare before the entire nation.

Donovan clenched his fists, feeling the sting of regret wash over him, burning in his chest.

But it was another fire, even more unsettling, that was eating away at him from the inside.

A fire he had never really acknowledged, nor dared to name.

He let himself be swept away by a flood of bittersweet memories: the long days at Princeton University, where he had met Lyle. The hours spent talking in the hallways, the shared laughter beneath the trees on campus, the secrets exchanged in the quiet of studious nights.

He remembered sitting next to Lyle in the library, their shoulders barely brushing, that fleeting touch that still managed to ignite a spark in his heart. Those moments had been the first steps toward that deep connection, one he had always tried to understand but chose instead to suppress.

All his life, Donovan had loved women. That had always been a certainty, an unshakable fact, until these memories came to challenge everything he thought he knew.

With Lyle, everything felt different.

A mix of fear and awe would overwhelm him whenever their eyes met.

He wondered, painfully, whether the feelings he had for Lyle had always been there, hidden in a dark corner of his heart, but that he had been too fragile, too afraid to face them. Like a truth he had buried under layers of certainty and denial, because it was too confusing, too intense, too different from what he believed about himself.

He saw Lyle’s face again, lit by that dim light, and the kiss they had shared later, a kiss filled with promises and apprehension. That first kiss, hesitant but burning, where their lips had met in a blend of need and discovery.

Then the memory of that night thickened, like a scene unfolding in slow motion: their bodies slowly drawing closer, hesitant, exploring a new kind of intimacy. The warmth of their skin, the shivers down their spines, the tenderness of hands seeking to understand the other without fear or haste. That night when everything changed, when the walls fell to reveal a shattering truth.

Donovan felt a lump in his throat, a mix of raw emotion and gnawing fear. He now understood that what he had always thought impossible might be exactly what he needed the most. But accepting that truth also meant abandoning the certainties that had shaped his entire life.

He closed his eyes, searching for the courage to face who he really was, to finally allow himself to be vulnerable.

He remembered the fragile smile Lyle had given him, and he knew, deep down, it was one of the most beautiful things he had ever felt.

But at the same time, that truth upended everything he believed he was, and he feared the destructive power of that feeling.

He knew those memories wouldn’t shield him from judgment, nor from his own demons.

But they were all he had left, the only thing that gave him a reason to go on.

He stood up, walked to the window, his throat tight.

The cool wind brushed against his face, bringing with it a breath of air, and with it, a fragile hope.

The music pounded against the crumbling walls of the old gymnasium, temporarily transformed into a chaotic, vibrant sanctuary of youth. A rusty disco ball spun on the ceiling, casting shards of light over hastily strung multicolored streamers. The wooden floor creaked under the uncoordinated steps of students, their shifting silhouettes bathed in cigarette smoke and the heady mix of cheap beer, sweat, and overly sweet perfume.

It was one of those nights where everything felt suspended. Where the adult world, the outside, expectations, all of it faded behind a curtain of new wave music, shouting, and promises made in plastic cups.

In the middle of the crowd, Donovan was laughing out loud, leaning against a stack of folded gym mats by the wall. Lyle stood beside him, hair tousled, his shirt half unbuttoned to reveal a faded Talking Heads t-shirt underneath. They bumped into each other gently to the rhythm, like two slightly drunk, slightly too-free electrons. Lyle, cheeks flushed from alcohol or sheer euphoria, was singing off-key to the chorus, and Donovan, for once, didn’t try to correct anything. He laughed. He forgot.

It was rare, that feeling of simply existing, without being watched, without being expected to perform, without needing to apologize for being there.

“I’m getting us drinks,” he shouted in Lyle’s ear. Lyle nodded without stopping his swaying, eyes sparkling.

Donovan made his way through the crowd, narrowly avoiding a couple kissing against a basketball pole, and finally reached the table that had been turned into an improvised bar. Behind it, a student in a hoodie was mechanically pouring beer into red solo cups, already checked out.

Donovan grabbed two cups, filled them halfway, no point in wasting this cheap stuff, then turned around, heart still beating fast with adrenaline and music.

But what he saw stopped him cold.

Lyle. At the far end of the gym. Near a wall plastered with student club posters. Wrapped in the arms of a girl : curly brown hair, oversized sweater slipping off one shoulder. She was laughing. So was he. Their faces close, bodies pressed together, barely dancing — just enough to touch. The kind of quiet intimacy that said everything.

Something twisted violently in Donovan’s chest. A knot, raw and unexpected. Like someone had shoved a dull blade under his ribs.

He didn’t think. He walked forward, steps sharper now, gaze hardened.

He set the cups down on a table without even looking at them and approached.

“Hey. You need to move,” he said to the girl, voice tense, sharper than he intended.

She stared at him, surprised, then frowned, confused.

“Excuse me ? We’re just dancing. You got a problem ?”

“Yeah, I’ve got a problem with you. You’re standing between him and me. And you don’t belong here.”

His tone didn’t waver, but inside, he felt ice-cold, like he was hearing his own voice without recognizing it.

The girl stepped back slightly, her look turning colder. She cast one last glance at Lyle, questioning, almost hurt, then turned on her heel, arms crossed tightly over her chest.

Lyle looked at Donovan, caught off guard, a mixture of surprise and amusement in his eyes.

“What the hell was that ?” he asked. “You just scared off my dance partner.”

Donovan froze for a second. Then shrugged, as if it didn’t matter.

“I just wanted to dance with you.”

Lyle burst out laughing, shaking his head, his curls bouncing around his face.

“Getting jealous, Goodreau ?”

He grabbed Donovan’s hand without waiting for a reply and pulled him onto the dance floor, their fingers briefly interlaced, damp from too much drinking, too much moving.

They started to dance, or at least move in a syncopated, disjointed way, like two kids too big for the party but too young not to enjoy it.

“Seriously,” Lyle shouted between steps, laughing, “you should’ve seen your face. Like you bit into a lemon that wasn’t ripe.”

Donovan smiled, halfway. A tight, slightly forced smile.

“I think I just discovered a new talent: ruining awkward moments.”

Lyle shook his head but didn’t let go of his hand. He leaned in a little closer, their foreheads nearly touching. In the spinning lights, their shadows danced across the walls — slightly blurred, slightly real.

They kept laughing, pretending to be carefree.

But somewhere deep in his mind, Donovan knew what he’d felt watching them dance hadn’t been some passing wave of jealousy.

It was something else. A raw revelation. Irreversible.

He didn’t yet know how to name it, but one thing was certain: he never wanted to see anyone else standing in the spot next to Lyle.

The music was in full swing inside Princeton’s old gym, transformed for the night into a joyful mess: bodies in motion, bursts of laughter, the slap of sneakers on the wooden floor, and the acrid smell of warm beer and cigarette smoke drifting among the paper garlands hanging from the ceiling. Colored lights cast a blurry, almost unreal glow over the scene, as if the outside world had ceased to exist.

Amidst the crowd, Donovan and Lyle seemed to have found a kind of refuge, a shared rhythm, an instinctive closeness. They bumped into each other playfully, laughing, exchanging complicit glances. Lyle had drunk a little more than Donovan — his laughter louder, his gestures looser. Donovan let himself be carried by the atmosphere, but even more so by Lyle’s presence just inches away.

Suddenly, Donovan froze as Lyle leaned his face toward his, but it was only to shout something in his ear through the noise.

“You wanna get some air ?”

Donovan hesitated, thrown off. Then nodded.

“Yeah. Air sounds good.”

They left the noise of the gym through a side door. The hallway smelled like chalk and disinfectant. A bit farther down, an exit led to the back of the building. The night air bit into their bare arms. The silence was almost violent after the chaos of the party.

They both leaned against the red brick wall.

“I looked like an idiot, didn’t I ?” Donovan asked, without looking at him.

Lyle turned his head toward him.

“No. Not an idiot. Just… weird. Different tonight.”

Donovan let out a short laugh.

“Yeah. Different. That’s one way to put it.”

They stood there for a while, listening to the distant thrum of music still reaching them. Lyle tilted his head back to look up at the black sky and said, simply:

“You know, you’re a complicated guy.”

Donovan gave a faint smile.

“Yeah. I try to stick to that.”

They didn’t touch. They didn’t say anything more.

And yet, between them, there was that silence — not an emptiness, but a suspended electric tension. An invisible wire, stretched to the breaking point.

Donovan felt it through his whole body. He wanted to say something. To take a step.

But he didn’t.

Not yet.

Morning light filtered through the curtains in Donovan’s bedroom, softly bathing the room in a golden glow.

He sat on the couch, a steaming cup of coffee in his hand, eyes locked on the TV screen in front of him without really seeing it.

The photo of the airport kiss had been on a loop across the news channels for days now. He hadn’t been prepared for the impact a single image could have. Within hours, his entire life, everything he had slowly rebuilt after the trial, was once again on display for the whole world to dissect. And now, everything felt unstable again.

A door creaked open behind him, and he turned his head to see his sister, Audrey, step into the room with a sly smile. She wore an oversized shirt and jeans, her hair a mess, clear proof she had just woken up. But her eyes — those sharp, knowing eyes, were wide awake. She knew exactly what she was doing.

“You look stressed, bro,” she said gently, sitting beside him. “Something on your mind ?”

“You know, Audrey,” he muttered, “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this. The idea that a kiss can become the event of the month.”

She gave him a small, sympathetic smile and lightly rubbed his shoulder.

“It’s not just any kiss, Don. It’s you and Lyle. It’s… the kind of kiss that makes noise, don’t you think?”

He turned his head toward her, a flicker of frustration in his eyes.

“I didn’t sign up for this. It was just us. Not putting on a damn show.”

Audrey looked at him in silence for a moment, choosing her words carefully. She knew her brother hated being in the spotlight — hated anything that felt like media attention. But she also knew his heart, and that underneath the sarcasm and defensiveness, he was more vulnerable than he let on.

“And how do you feel, really, Donovan ?” she asked softly, her voice unusually tender. “Because I know all of this is throwing you off, but you also seem… a little lost lately.”

He stared at her for a long moment, then leaned back against the couch with a heavy sigh.

“I feel like a guy who’s managed to screw it all up. Lyle was already cautious. He’s been through so much… He protects his daughter like a wounded animal, you know ? He hung up on me last time after not even two minutes. And it wasn’t anger in his voice. It was worse. It was the sound of someone closing a door.”

He rubbed a hand over his face, visibly exhausted. “And now Erik’s caught in the crossfire too. Apparently, a tabloid snapped a photo of him, and the media’s dragging him into this like he’s somehow involved. And Dad… Dad showed up to yell at me. And my boss called me in for a chat about my image.”

Audrey nodded, understanding. Since coming back from California, she’d seen how the pressure weighed on her brother, the pressure of his past, and this budding relationship with Lyle. But what worried her most was how Donovan had begun shutting down, like he was refusing to own the connection he’d built, with Lyle, and with Grace.

“You think Lyle’s going to walk away from you ?” she asked gently.

He was quiet for a while. Then, barely above a whisper:

“I’m afraid he’ll leave me… and not let me see her again.”

Audrey frowned. “Grace ?”

He nodded slowly, eyes distant.

“That little girl… she walked into my life without warning. I wasn’t looking for it. And then one day, she laughed when she saw me, reached out her arms… Like I really existed. Like I mattered.” He swallowed hard, his throat tight. “She gave me a place. And now I’m terrified I’ll lose it. That Lyle will decide he has to keep me away, to protect her. And Grace… she’s so small. She’d forget me fast. Too fast.”

Audrey felt her heart ache.

“Don, do you really think Lyle would just erase you like that? Overnight?”

“I don’t know.” His voice was rough, worn out. “He’s fought so hard just to have a bit of peace. He’s been hiding from the world for months. I was supposed to help him protect that… not blow it all up with one damn kiss caught on camera. He might think he has to cut me out, to keep her safe. And… I couldn’t even blame him.”

Audrey leaned in and gently laid her hand over his.

“And you? Are you ready to lose them?”

He slowly lifted his eyes to hers. And what she saw shook her, raw, almost childlike fear.

“No. Never. I don’t want to lose them. Not Lyle, not Grace. I could take anything : the headlines, the insults, even Dad’s lectures. But not that. Not losing them. They’re my life now. Nothing else matters.”

Audrey smiled, her eyes warm with silent affection. “Then fight for them. And make sure they know it.”

She straightened a little, then looked at him again.

“But do you know what you want, Don ? Because right now… it feels like you’re letting the fear eat you alive.”

She paused briefly, then added, more softly, a hint of a smile on her lips:

“You know, that kiss at the airport… it wasn’t a slip-up. It was a real moment. A moment between the two of you. Not a performance for the papers.”

Donovan bit his lip, his gaze avoiding hers.

“I know. It was… instinct. Just him and me. I didn’t want it to go public.”

He paused, his voice cracking.

“Now I kind of regret it. Not the kiss. Just everything it brought with it. I hate that they’re watching us like this. I just wanted to keep us… ours. Not theirs.”

Audrey leaned closer again, her hand squeezing his a little tighter.

“Don’t let that photo define you, Don. Don’t let them decide how you feel. You’re not here to live up to their expectations. You’re here for you. And you know deep down, that kiss — it was your choice. It was between you and Lyle. Not them.”

Donovan’s eyes hardened for a moment, then softened again when they met his sister’s. He realized how hard it was for him to accept this reality. What he had with Lyle, what they had built, felt so fragile, yet so precious, like something he had to shield constantly from the world. But he also knew he couldn’t keep running every time people started watching. Not with Lyle. Not with Grace.

“I just want it to work, you know?” he whispered. “It’s all so… complicated. I feel like I’m getting lost in it. Like it could all fall apart at any second. Like I could lose him without even realizing it.”

Audrey nodded, her gaze gentle. “You’re not alone, Don. You’ve got Lyle. And you’ve got Grace. And you’ve got me. Just because people judge doesn’t mean we have to be ashamed of what we’re living. You and Lyle found each other. And no matter what anyone says — no matter that photo — you know it’s real.”

He looked at her, a sad smile on his lips.

“I know… but I’m scared. I’m scared it’s all slipping away.”

“We’re all scared, Don. But that doesn’t mean we run.”

She stood slowly, still watching him.

“Call him. Or write. But tell him what you really feel, not what everyone else is telling you to feel. You’re allowed to be afraid. But you’re also allowed to hope.”

He sat in silence for a moment, his thoughts caught between fear and longing. Audrey moved away, then turned back, her hands in her pockets.

“Come on. You don’t have to carry this alone. Let’s get some air, okay ? You’ll see, it’ll pass.”

Donovan nodded slowly, grateful for his sister, though the weight in his chest hadn’t quite lifted.

The cold wind bit at their cheeks, numbed their fingers through gloves, and occasionally lifted loose strands of Audrey’s hair from beneath her wool beanie. She sniffled now and then, her nose red, but said nothing.

The sky was a pale, almost cottony gray, and the park felt suspended in a kind of winter torpor, broken only by the steady crunch of their footsteps on the frozen gravel.

Donovan walked slowly, hands buried deep in the pockets of his coat, collar pulled up to his chin. His breath came out in soft white clouds that disappeared almost instantly. Inside, though, he was still boiling, with emotion, with regret, with doubt. The contrast between the stillness around him and what he felt inside was almost absurd.

“Do you come here often ?” he asked after a long silence.

“Not really,” Audrey shrugged. “It’s not the kind of place you come looking for answers…”

She glanced around them. “But it’s quiet. And you needed quiet.”

He nodded, without replying. A silence settled, not heavy, but full. Full of history. Of memories. Of what they knew, and what they were still avoiding.

Eventually, Audrey broke it.

“You know… you can call me nosy if you want, but I saw it a long time ago.”

Donovan turned to her, curious.

“Saw what ?”

She gave him a small smile : mischievous, but gentle.

“You and Lyle.” She raised her hands, as if to defend herself. “It wasn’t obvious, okay ? You two were careful. Quiet. But it was there. Something in the way you looked at each other. In the silences. A tension, not bad, just… obvious. I remember one afternoon in the common room, do you remember ? You talked about him like he was a chapter you were trying to close. But your face… You didn’t want him to go. Not at all.”

Donovan let out a short laugh, but it held no joy.

“I was lost. Really lost. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. And with all the stuff I was carrying… Lyle was like… a lighthouse. A safe place in a sea of shit. He shone without ever burning me.”

They walked for a few more minutes, passing a few solitary walkers, kids bundled up in thick coats chasing pigeons. Then Audrey stopped near an empty bench, dusted with a thin layer of frost. She brushed off a spot with her gloved hand and sat down. Donovan followed silently and sat beside her.

She waited a moment, her gaze fixed ahead. Then, in a deeper voice : "Do you still think about it ? The trial. Everything that was said.”

He tensed slightly. His eyes drifted into the distance, where the bare trees stood like skeletal figures against the winter sky.

“All the time,” he whispered.

His fingers clenched in his pockets, trembling, and his lips tightened.

“The day I testified… I thought I was going to fall apart right there. The prosecutor’s look, cold, methodical. Every word he said was like a blade. ‘Physical abuse. Psychological. Sexual.’ And I was just sitting there, frozen, exposed, like my skin was being stripped off in front of everyone.”

Audrey remained silent, heart aching, compassion glinting in her eyes. She knew the demons her brother was fighting — demons she had felt powerless against.

“And then there was this moment…” He inhaled, as if bracing himself to relive it. “He asked me if I had ever told anyone about the abuse. If I’d ever confided in someone. If Lyle had ever told me about abuse — his or his brother’s.”

He turned to her, his voice cracking:

“And I lied.” His eyes welled with tears. "I said no. That I’d never told anyone. And that Lyle had never told me anything either... And right then… I met Lyle’s eyes. He was in the courtroom. I’d forgotten how much his face can say without a word. He just… crumbled. Literally. It was this mixture of pain, and surprise, and betrayal. He looked at me like he was trying to understand why I was erasing him.”

A tear slid down his cheek, cold against his already-numb skin.

“He was the only person I ever told everything to. Everything. The shameful stuff, the memories I wanted to erase. And I erased him, Audrey. I cut him out of my story, like it had never happened. And that… that look he gave me that day… it’s haunted me ever since. I still see it at night.”

“Do you think he blamed you ?”

He shook his head slowly. “I think he understood. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt. And that’s what kills me.”

A few seconds passed before he continued, more softly : “And even after that… even after all of it… He let me come back.”

He started to smile, just a little, almost shyly.

“It wasn’t easy. I said something stupid, again. I told him maybe he should give Grace’s mother a chance, if she ever came back. He literally exploded. And he kicked me out. And I deserved it. But…” He looked up at Audrey, with an almost childlike emotion in his eyes. “While I was packing to leave, the hotel receptionist told me that ‘a friend from my past' wanted to talk to me.’” He gave a soft little laugh. “So I went back to his place. And he opened the door. Like I had never really left. He introduced me to Grace. For real.”

His smile turned tender.

“She looked at me… and she laughed. A real baby laugh, you know ? And she reached her arms out to me. Like I was someone familiar, someone safe. Like I was already part of her life. And Lyle… he looked at me with a kind of softness… I’ve never seen that in anyone. Not once in my life.” Audrey was watching him, not daring to move. “Since then, I think about those moments a lot. The simplest things. Grace asleep against me, her little hand resting on my sweater. Lyle handing me a cup of tea without saying a word, then sitting next to me in silence. And that silence… it was never empty. It was full of trust.”

He lowered his eyes, like he was diving into a memory he didn’t quite know how to share. “The first real night we spent together…” His voice softened, almost breaking under the tenderness of what he was recalling. “It was when I came back early from New Jersey. I wasn’t supposed to return until the next month, but I booked an earlier flight. I couldn’t stand being away anymore. I had this feeling in my stomach, this emptiness… I needed to see them.” He paused for a second, breath catching. His fingers clenched in his pockets. “When he saw me on the doorstep…” He closed his eyes briefly, like he was trying to capture that image again in his mind. “I think I could spend my whole life trying to describe that look, and I’d never be able to. It wasn’t just surprise. It was relief. Pain. Love, too, I think. Like my return had fixed something in him.”

Audrey stayed silent, hanging on his words.

“That night, I couldn’t stop myself from checking on Grace. She was sleeping peacefully in her little crib. I leaned over her, I stroked her hair. I missed her so much, I felt like I was suffocating without her.” He gave a small smile. “And then, I started talking to her. Softly. I told her what was on my heart. That I loved her. That I wanted to be there, for her. For him. For us.”

He took a breath, his throat tight. “And when I stepped out of the room… I saw him. Lyle. He was there, in the hallway. Still. He’d heard me. He heard everything.

He looked up at his sister, eyes shining with emotion.

“His face… Audrey, he had this expression I’d never seen on him before. Like he was fighting something too big to hold back. Like hearing those words had shaken something deep inside him. He didn’t say a word. He just grabbed my hand and pulled me into his bedroom.”

He paused, and a nervous little laugh slipped from his throat as a faint flush crept up his cheeks. He lowered his eyes, suddenly shy.

“It was… indescribable. It wasn’t just desire. It was… raw and gentle at the same time. Quiet and burning. Like our souls had found each other. Like every wall we’d ever built just collapsed in a second. I’d never felt anything like it before. It wasn’t just a night. It was a rebirth. I even thought I could die like that. In his arms. My heart finally where it belonged.”

Audrey still said nothing. She watched him, overwhelmed by what he was telling her—not just the facts, but the way he carried them.

Donovan went on, softer now: “He makes me feel… calm. Alive. Like I’m more than a survivor. More than a guy just trying to tape the pieces back together. And it’s not just attraction, you know? It’s like… I’ve been waiting my whole life for someone to actually see me.”

He turned toward her, eyes shining with something painful and beautiful all at once. “And he saw me. From the beginning. Even when I wasn’t ready to see myself. Even when I was on my knees, broken, cowardly. He saw me. And he loved me when I didn’t deserve a damn thing.”

Audrey felt something tighten in her chest. She’d seen her brother in all kinds of states : angry, in love, wrecked, euphoric. But never like this. Never this bare. Never this vulnerable.

“You love him,” Audrey whispered, her voice thick with emotion. It wasn’t a question. It was a fact, plain as day, as clear as the man sitting next to her. She watched him closely, waiting for him to finally admit it, even as he seemed to struggle to let it settle.

Donovan nodded slowly, as if the words themselves were too heavy. He looked away, eyes fixed on the ground beneath their feet, lost in his tangled thoughts. “Yeah. I love him…” Donovan’s voice broke, and it took him a moment to keep going. “I’m scared. I’m ashamed, I’m a mess… But yeah. I love him. Him, and his daughter. I love them like I’ve never loved anyone. And it scares the hell out of me. It’s real. It’s right here. And I don’t know how to handle any of it.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, pain flashing across his face. Fear still clung to him, raw and relentless, like it had sunk its claws in and wouldn’t let go. He thought back to his last conversation with Lyle. He could still hear his voice, fragile, riddled with doubt. The memory of those words, that echo in his mind, brought the anxiety rushing back. Lyle had sounded uncertain, distant in a way Donovan had never heard before, all because of the shockwave set off by that one photo of their kiss. Their intimacy, their relationship, everything they had built was suddenly thrown into the spotlight, exposed to the world in a way neither of them had wanted. And Donovan, with all that old fear rooted deep in his chest, had heard those doubts seep into every word Lyle said. Every pause. Every silence.

“I think he’s… scared.” Donovan’s voice dropped, almost a whisper, like he was ashamed of his own thoughts. “After the whole photo thing, he told me he needed time. That all of it was making him question what he really wanted.”

Audrey gave him a steady look. No judgment, just quiet insistence. “And you, Don ? Do you know what you want ?”

Donovan closed his eyes, a shiver running through his body. “I… I don’t know anymore. It’s complicated, you know? It feels like every word, every gesture, everything we’ve built, it’s all tearing apart right now. Maybe he’s right. Maybe we’re not strong enough to get through all this, all this noise around us. It’s… too much.”

Audrey took a deep breath and moved a little closer to her brother. She laid her hand gently over his, trying to catch his gaze. She knew how many demons he was fighting, but she also sensed that this love : messy, intense, uncertain, was the key to whatever came next.

“Don… I know you’re scared. But you can’t let fear decide for you. Lyle… he’s just as lost as you are. But if you really love him, you can’t just wait for things to magically fix themselves. That’s not how this works.”

Donovan looked into her eyes, heart aching. “But how am I supposed to tell him that? How do I talk to him when he’s so… guarded, so unsure ?”

Audrey squeezed his hand a little tighter, her voice firm but kind, filled with a conviction Donovan rarely saw in her. “Tell him everything. Even if you think it’ll scare him away. Especially if you think it’ll scare him away. If you want him to know how you feel, if you want him to know that you’re here, that you’re ready to fight for him and for his daughte, then say it. Even if it’s hard. Even if you’re terrified he might reject you. And if you can’t say it to his face, then write it down. Send him a letter, Don. That’s a way of showing him that you’re willing to be vulnerable. And that matters.”

Donovan closed his eyes, the weight on his chest heavier than ever. He knew Audrey was right. But the thought of laying his heart bare like that, of putting it all in writing, of letting Lyle see him in his rawest form, terrified him.

“And what if it’s not enough ? What if it doesn’t change anything ?” His voice shook under the weight of that possibility.

Audrey shook her head. “It’s not up to you to decide how he reacts, Don. What matters is that you take that first step. That you show him you’re not hiding anymore, that you’re not afraid to be honest. And if it doesn’t work… at least you’ll know you tried everything.”

He inhaled deeply, as if trying to breathe in her words. His heart was pounding in his chest, but somewhere inside, a small spark of hope flickered to life. Maybe he hadn’t lost everything. Maybe, just maybe, Lyle would still be willing to listen.

Then, after a moment, Donovan turned toward Audrey, that spark of hope dimmed by a flicker of worry. “And Dad… he’ll never accept this. This thing with Lyle, with Grace… I know he saw that airport photo, and I know exactly what he thinks. He already came to my apartment, told me I was a disgrace to the family, said everything would fall apart because of my choices. He looked at me like I was… like I was a stranger.”

He clenched his fists, gaze drifting, as if reliving the moment in real time. “I think he’s already erased me.”

Audrey sighed, a little weary but resolute. “Dad… he’s always had this very rigid idea of what family is, Don. And it has nothing to do with what you’re living. But you don’t need his approval to know what’s right. You don’t need him to define what love looks like. What matters is what you feel. And what Lyle and Grace mean to you.”

Donovan lowered his eyes, a sad smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah… but it’s not easy.”

“It’s never easy. But it’s your life. And no one else gets to live it for you. So fight for them. Because I’ve never seen you more alive than when you talk about him. And love like that, Don… you don’t let it slip away. Not twice.”

They stayed there in the cold, in the stillness of winter, and for the first time in a long while, Donovan felt ready to face it all, to say what was truly in his heart, no matter the cost. He didn’t know what the future held, not really. But he knew he had a choice to make. And this time, he would make it, for himself. For Lyle. For Grace.

Lyle,

I hesitated for a long time before writing to you. I hovered over my phone for hours, and every time I thought about calling you, something stopped me. Maybe the fear of being yet another burden. Or maybe I just dreaded hearing, in your voice, what I thought I read between the lines during our last call.

I know you’re angry. Scared. Confused. Or maybe all three. And you have every right to feel that way.

But I need to tell you what I’ve kept inside for far too long.

I often think back to Princeton. To a time when everything was still… simple. Or at least, it seemed that way. I remember how you carried yourself in class, your laugh echoing in the hallways, the way you walked a bit too fast, like you were always trying to escape something. And those nights when we stayed up talking about everything and nothing, or sometimes not talking at all. I never told you, but that was the first time I felt safe with someone. I think I was already in love. But I hadn’t put words to it yet.

Then everything changed. The day I learned about your parents’ death—I remember the dizzy feeling. I was in my room when I saw the CNN banner: “Double Homicide in Beverly Hills: Menendez Sons Suspected.”

I didn’t understand. Not right away. Then I saw your photo. And Erik’s. And the world began to spin out of control.

Then came the hellish months. The news reports, the articles, the speculation. And the trial…

You can’t know how much it hurt me to see you in that courtroom. So still. So tired.

And then my name came up. They contacted me. Told me you had mentioned me. Said my testimony might help.

I know I’ve told you before, but I need to explain again. I was scared, Lyle. Terrified. Because I knew that if I told the truth—if I said I had lived through similar things, that I too was a child who no longer slept at night—then my father would have destroyed me. And I’m not just talking about anger or yelling. I’m talking about silence. The kind of silence you never get through. I chose to protect myself. And by doing so, I betrayed you.

I looked at you. In that courtroom. From the bench. And I lied.

I lied to myself for years after that.

But every sleepless night, it was you I saw.

Only recently have I started to breathe again. When I saw you again. When you let me in.

And even more… when you let me meet Grace. When you showed me that little piece of your life you guard so fiercely.

Lyle… I fell in love a second time. With both of you. With you, of course. But also with that little girl, so bright, so innocent. She didn’t know who I was, or what I’d done. She just held onto my finger and smiled at me. Like I was someone good.

You can’t imagine what that did to me.

Then there was that kiss at the airport.

That damn kiss.

And they stole it.

That moment that belonged to us, that needed no proof, no hiding—they took it. Turned it into an object of judgment, rumors, mockery.

And I saw your look change. Heard your voice grow colder.

I understood I had reopened your wounds. And God knows I never wanted that.

We already had that conversation, the one I dreaded for years, where I told you about the betrayal, the cowardice, what I did and didn’t do during your trial. You looked me in the eyes, let me speak. You could’ve rejected me again. You didn’t. After slamming the door in my face the first time, you finally opened it.

And yet today, I’m afraid it will close again.

I keep thinking about our last conversation. You were distant. Cold, even. Not cruel, never, but closed off. And I think that’s what hurts the most. Not the journalists. Not my father. Not my coworkers or the strange calls at work.

It’s your silence. It’s your voice sounding like you’re pulling away.

When I left California, I thought I could hold on. I just needed to manage the rest, patch up family pieces so I wouldn’t fall apart. But the truth is, all I’ve done since boarding that plane is think about you and her.

Your house had become mine. Your routine, ours. The sound of Grace’s footsteps in her walker, your morning rituals, our comfortable silences at night… I don’t know exactly when it became vital. I just know I can’t look at a toothbrush without seeing yours.

And that kiss at the airport… I know it triggered everything. But not for the wrong reasons, Lyle. Not for what it meant to them. For what it meant between us. I saw you trust me more and more each day. You let me get close—not just to you, but to your daughter.

And you can’t imagine what that meant. The day she reached out to me without hesitation. The day she rested her head on my shoulder to fall asleep. It’s ridiculous, but I felt like the world stopped spinning.

You let me in. And I think I’ve never felt more at home than between you two.

That’s why I’m writing to you. Not to ask for forgiveness this time. Not to explain. But to say I’m here. Even far away, even broken. I’m not turning my back. I’m not giving up on what we’ve built.

I’m not giving up on you or Grace. I still want to be here. For you. For her.

I want to keep being part of this little world we started building together, stone by stone, in silence and tenderness. I want to see you cast that shy but sincere look when you smile, like you forgot you still knew how to.

I want to hear you laugh with her in the kitchen in the morning, when she spills her puree without shame. I want those mornings when the day is barely up and you come slip against me, half asleep, just because you want to.

I want to keep touching you. I want to keep making love to you like tomorrow doesn’t exist, with that gentle urgency, full of trust. Feeling your body against mine, your breath, your warm skin. Those moments when it’s just us. Nothing else.

Those gestures, that quiet intimacy… I’d never known it before you. I didn’t even know it existed.

I want us to keep that everyday life we invented together, that slightly shaky but real rhythm—full of diapers, bottles, silences loaded with meaning.

Of shows we watch half-heartedly because Grace wakes up. Of dinners forgotten in the oven because we talk too much and forget everything else.

And more than anything, I’d love to have the privilege of watching her grow by your side. Day after day.

To witness how you look at her, the patience you find when rocking her, the love you give her unconditionally, even on days when you doubt everything.

What we’ve built, even in so little time, is real. And I don’t want to lose it.

I know you’re scared. And you know I am too. But that shouldn’t stop us from moving forward.

I’m not perfect. Sometimes clumsy, sometimes too angry at the world, sometimes too hard on myself. But I love you, Lyle. And I don’t want to lose you because of a world that doesn’t understand what we are. I’ve always been slow to understand my feelings. But with you, I’ve learned not to run anymore.

So I’m writing to you.

Because despite the distance, despite your wavering voice, despite the doubts you hold inside… I’m still here.

I’m ready to walk through fire. To face the journalists, my father, my coworkers, the rumors, the insults. I’m ready for the whole world to spit on me if I have to—as long as you stay there, with me.

I don’t want to run anymore. Not ever.

You gave me a second chance without knowing it. And I’m not going to let it pass. You deserve to be loved out loud. To be chosen, no matter what.

And that’s what I’m doing today.

I choose you, Lyle.

I choose Grace.

I choose our chaos, our silences, our scars.

Because that’s where I want to be. With both of you.

And if you want me to come back, even just to talk, I’ll already be on my way home.

Tell me if you still want me.

— Donovan

Lyle found the letter lying on the coffee table, where he usually left his things and mail before taking care of Grace. The soft afternoon light bathed the room, and the little one was asleep in her playpen, her tiny hands moving gently in her sleep. His heart jumped in his chest when he saw the sender’s name.

He took the letter between his fingers, feeling the weight of the paper, the somewhat awkward folding, a sign of Donovan’s hesitation. Slowly sitting down on the couch, he took a deep breath, knowing this moment would change something, or at least, he hoped so. He unfolded the paper carefully and began to read.

From the first lines, memories surged back: their years at Princeton, those suspended moments when everything seemed possible before life broke them. The weight of the trial, the media, the looks, everything they had lived through, and what Donovan had hidden behind a silence too heavy.

Lyle felt his heart tighten as he finally discovered the depth of Donovan’s regret, the confession he hadn’t dared say out loud. A gentle warmth crept inside him as he read the words about Grace, about how Donovan had welcomed her into his life, how she had reached out her little hands to him without fear, with pure trust.

Lyle closed his eyes for a moment, imagining that innocent little face, the softness of her chubby cheeks, the soothing rhythm of her breathing. He recalled the time Grace had fallen asleep on Donovan’s shoulder, and how that simple moment had sparked something fragile but true between them.

The words about the stolen kiss struck him in the heart, that intimate moment betrayed by prying eyes, the bond they had tried to protect. Then came the last part, that firm promise, the “I choose you,” the will to face the world for them, for her, for him.

A warm, silent tear rolled down Lyle’s cheek. He pressed the letter against his chest, feeling both the pain of the past and the fragile hope of the future. He gently leaned toward the playpen and looked at Grace, her heavy sleepy eyes half opening, then closing again. She stirred a little, her tiny fingers brushing the air, innocent and radiant. At that moment, Lyle knew that, despite everything, they still had a chance, not just for him and Donovan, but for Grace, who deserved a home where love would not be a shadow to hide, but a light to live fully.

He stood up, the letter still clutched in his hand, and for the first time in a long while, a weight he hadn’t known he was carrying began to dissolve. He wanted to reply. He had to reply. Because for her, for them, it was time to believe again.

The living room was bathed in the soft light of late afternoon. Lyle sat in the armchair near the window, Grace cuddled against him, her tiny fingers gently gripping the collar of his shirt. The house, silent since Donovan’s departure, seemed to breathe with their slow, calm rhythm.

Grace had developed a new ritual in recent days. Each time she saw a bag, a pair of shoes, or heard the sound of a door opening, she turned her head searching for Donovan. Her big brown eyes followed every movement, betraying a sweet, innocent impatience.

Lyle watched his daughter, a smile mixed with melancholy on his lips. He slowly stroked her soft cheek, as if to pass along some of the warmth and presence they once shared as three. “You know, Grace, Donovan misses you a lot too. He loves you so much, you know.”

The little one furrowed her brow slightly, as if she understood, then stretched her arms toward the door, as if calling for her absent father. Lyle felt his heart tighten, torn between the joy of seeing that impatience and the pain of the void left by their man.

He rose gently, carrying Grace in his arms, and went to the bedroom where all three of them had shared so many moments of closeness. He laid her carefully on the bed, playing with her feet, tickling them softly. Grace burst out laughing, her little face lit up with a bright smile.

“Do you remember when Donovan made you laugh like that ?” Lyle whispered, his voice full of emotion. "He really misses you, you know."

Grace gently grabbed one of his fingers and squeezed it tightly, a simple gesture, but full of tenderness.

Lyle leaned toward her, placing a kiss on her forehead, a warm breath against her fragile skin. “We’re going to do everything we can to make this house a real home again, my baby."

A soft sigh escaped his lips as he took his place back in the armchair, Grace against him, her little head resting on his chest. He closed his eyes for a moment, imagining Donovan walking through the door, their smiles meeting, the sound of their laughter mingling once again.

~~

Lyle gripped the phone in his hand, his gaze lost in the dim light of the living room. The room was silent, disturbed only by the gentle ticking of the clock hanging on the wall. He had put off this call several times, his finger hesitating over the keypad, trapped between the fear of hearing what he dreaded and the fragile hope of a new beginning. On the coffee table, Donovan’s letter lay, its words still etched in his mind—words of raw truth and vulnerability he had never dared hear so openly.

Finally, he took a deep breath and dialed the number. Each ring on the other end seemed to last an eternity, his heart pounding in his chest as if it wanted to escape.

“Hello ?” Donovan’s voice, soft and a little tense, crossed the line. It was both a balm and a burn, filled with anticipation.

“Hi… it’s me, Lyle.” His voice was rough, almost broken, hesitant, but he tried to infuse it with all the sincerity he could muster.

“Lyle!” A sigh of relief, almost a stifled cry, escaped on the other end. “I was wondering when you’d call.”

Lyle felt a bit of the weight inside him ease.

“I wanted to tell you I read your letter.” His throat tightened. “I’m sorry I didn’t answer sooner. I needed time.”

“I understand.” Donovan replied softly, with infinite patience. “Take all the time you need.”

A silence, heavy with unspoken words, then Lyle resumed, his voice firmer, almost fragile at once:

“Your letter… it’s everything I felt but couldn’t say.” He took a deep breath, as if gathering courage. “The memories of Princeton, the trial, everything we went through… I’d forgotten how heavy it was. Seeing you lie, having to lie to protect you and betray you at the same time… It broke me inside.”

“Me too, Lyle.” Donovan’s voice grew fragile, loaded with pain he’d long held back. “Every night, I relived that. But since I’ve been with you, with Grace… I’ve found a little light again.”

A tender smile appeared on Lyle’s lips, though far from complete.

“Grace, yes…” He let out a soft, muffled laugh, full of fatigue and tenderness. “She surprised me today. She reached out her arms to the door, as if she knew you weren’t there. She calls for you sometimes, even if she can’t say your name yet.”

A silence settled, sweet and heavy with almost tangible emotion, as if the distance between them was fading a little.

“I miss her so much.” Donovan murmured, his voice almost breaking. “And you too, Lyle. My life is too quiet without you both.”

Lyle closed his eyes for a moment, his heart tight with Donovan’s words.

“The photo at the airport…” Lyle shook his head, as if shaking off a bad memory. “I thought it would break everything. That it would ruin what we started to build.”

“It shook things up, for sure.” Donovan admitted with a sigh. “But I don’t want it to destroy us. Not after everything we’ve been through.”

Lyle felt a familiar warmth course through him, a mix of hope and determination.

“Me neither.” His voice grew more assured. “I want to move forward with you. With both of you.”

“That’s all I want too.” Donovan’s voice softened further, full of unshakable tenderness. “Despite everything, despite the noise of the world, I’m ready to fight for us. For this life of three that I already love so much.”

A soft breath, a nearly suspended silence, then Donovan, in a gentler, almost shy voice, finally dared to ask the question that had been burning on his lips for weeks:

“Lyle… tell me… do you still want me ? Despite everything ? Despite this storm that’s fallen on us ?”

The silence that followed seemed to stretch endlessly, a silence loaded with all they hadn’t said until then, a wait full of fear and questions. Donovan felt the weight of the world on his shoulders, each passing second making him feel like his future hinged on a single answer.

Then, in a breath, Lyle’s voice came through the line. It was low, hesitant, but incredibly sincere.

“Yes, Donovan. I want you. I still want you.”

The words, soft but filled with deep emotion, soothed a pain that had haunted Donovan for too many nights. A breath of relief escaped his lips, and a shy smile appeared on his face, even if Lyle couldn’t see it.

Lyle, on his side, struggled to control the wave of emotions rising inside him. His heart was pounding hard, his whole body reacting to this answer. He was both surprised and relieved, but above all, he felt immense gratitude. Suddenly, a light seemed to penetrate the darkness they had sunk into, as if that simple phrase had dissolved some of the weight that had pressed on him since the start of this media storm.

“Thank you…” murmured Donovan, his throat tight with emotion. “I’ll do everything for us.”

He felt as if he held a fragile promise, yet solid at the same time. He felt that a path, until then hidden, had just appeared beneath his feet, a path he absolutely wanted to take with Lyle.

Lyle, eyes a little moist, answered with a soft voice, almost like a vow, a silent declaration of renewed trust:

“Me too,” Lyle replied, his warm breath against the receiver, his eyes watering despite himself. “We’re going to make it, Don.”

“So, we move forward.” Donovan concluded softly, the weight on his shoulders finally lightening. “Together, that’s all.”

“Together,” Lyle replied, a note of tenderness in his voice, as if he had found a new anchor, a new strength to face the challenges ahead.

A silence settled between them, sweet and soothing, like a tacit agreement, a silent pact uniting their souls despite the miles and obstacles. Finally, Donovan broke the silence again.

“I love you, Lyle.”

Donovan whispered these words, his voice trembling but filled with a new certainty, as if, after all the trials he had endured, after the weight of confusion and unspoken things, he was finally releasing something deep inside him. This « I love you » was not just a declaration; it was an act of faith, a cry from the heart, a promise he had not yet dared to make to himself but now felt with unshakable clarity.

Lyle, on the other end of the line, felt his heart race. A shiver ran through him, like a surge of emotions he hadn’t expected. He bit his lip, trying to hold back the tears welling up, his throat tightening with the wave of feeling. Donovan’s words were like an anchor in the storm. A balm. An answer to all the nights of uncertainty and questioning. He felt as if everything that had passed—the pain, the fear they had endured—suddenly dissolved in that simple confession.

He closed his eyes for a moment, allowing himself to savor the moment before replying in a softer voice than he intended, slightly broken by emotion:

“I love you too, Donovan.”

The words came out naturally, as if they were the only thing he wanted to say. But this time, there was a special depth in his voice, a tremor he couldn’t hide, a mixture of relief and pure vulnerability.

Those words echoed inside him, but they also reminded him of the very first time they said « I love you »: that night, in the intimacy of their first real closeness, after so much silence and doubt. That first night together, everything changed between them. This « I love you » was not just a confession, but a promise, a silent commitment. Two hearts, intertwined in an embrace full of tenderness and desire, had broken down the invisible walls they had built over the years.

They stayed on the phone for a long time after, sharing their fears, hopes, and love, their voices blending into the night, united despite the distance, despite the wounds, ready to build a future together.

~~

The late afternoon sun still gently beamed over the property, tinting the sky a pale, almost milky blue. Despite the lingering warmth of this Californian day, right in the middle of March, the water in the large in-ground pool was still too cold. So Lyle had preferred to set up a small inflatable kiddie pool in a corner of the garden, just big enough for him to sit in with Grace and for both of them to escape the day’s humidity.

Almost two months had passed since that infamous photo that had made headlines, the brutal snapshot that had plunged Lyle into the heart of the storm. Gradually, the spotlight shifted away, and the journalists began to grant some respite to the broken man. The media frenzy had subsided, finally offering a breath of calm, fragile but real.

Yet, although time had allowed Lyle to regain some stability, Donovan’s physical absence was still painfully felt. The geographical distance between them carved a void that no letter or phone call could truly fill. Every evening, Lyle felt that dull ache, a loneliness amplified by the echo of silence where Donovan should have been. Even amidst the newfound calm, his heart remained stretched toward the hope of a return, a moment when they could finally reunite and rebuild the precious bond broken by the separation.

He knew it was only a pause in their story, a temporary distance, but the pain of missing him lingered like a persistent shadow amid the emerging light.

The garden basked in a soothing calm, disturbed only by Grace’s enthusiastic cooing and the gentle splashing of water. Dressed in black swim shorts and a soaked tank top, Lyle sat cross-legged in the warm water, a tender smile lingering on his lips. In front of him, Grace joyfully clapped her hands on the surface, splashing without restraint, her face flushed with excitement and sunlight, her damp curls plastered to her forehead, her chubby arms waving in every direction… She was radiant. Alive.

For a moment, far from rumors, prying eyes, and judgments, Lyle found peace in this simple shared happiness, a respite in a pure and unconditional love.

Lyle tilted his head slightly, elbows resting on his knees, and looked at his daughter with wonder.

“You know you’re the prettiest little frog I’ve ever seen,” he said softly, his eyes shining, his voice laden with an almost painful love.

Grace turned her little face toward him with a wide smile, then let out a high-pitched squeal, as if to agree. She raised her arms, laughing even more, splashing her father in the process.

“That’s it, attack me !” Lyle laughed, stepping back slightly, hands raised in defense. He gently grabbed one of her soaked feet and wiggled her chubby toes with his fingertips. “And you’re cheating, but you’re way too cute to be mad at.”

She straightened up on her knees in the water, clumsily trying to get closer to him while babbling joyful sounds, then suddenly her gaze drifted toward the garden entrance. Lyle followed her look, initially distracted, thinking she was watching a bird or a fallen leaf.

But there was something else.

Footsteps. The soft crunch of gravel. Lyle felt his stomach tighten for a split second before turning around.

He froze.

Reality took a moment to sink in.

Donovan had appeared. There. Without warning. In the golden light, like a mirage too beautiful to be true, at the edge of the lawn, a familiar yet almost unreal figure in this too-quiet setting. With suitcase in hand, bag slung over his shoulder, he looked like he had traveled without stopping to catch his breath. His hair was tousled by the wind, his clothes wrinkled, and shadows underlined his tired eyes. Yet, he stood. Right there. In front of him.

Lyle took a deep breath, but the air seemed to have turned to lead. His heart pounded in his temples, heavy, erratic, as if refusing to believe what he saw. A mixture of shock, disbelief, and something softer, buried under the weight of emotion.

The silence hung in the air. Even Grace had stopped, her arms still raised, looking intrigued.

Donovan’s gaze moved slowly from Lyle to Grace, as if engraving the scene into his memory. His eyes shone, perhaps reddened from fatigue, but mostly from an emotion too strong to be held back.

“Hi…” he said, his voice softer than ever. “I know, I should have warned you. But I couldn’t bear being away from you anymore.”

Lyle blinked several times, as if unsure of what he was seeing.

“Don…?”

Donovan took a hesitant step, then another, dropping his suitcase onto the grass. He approached the edge of the inflatable pool and sank to his knees as Lyle stared at him, eyes wide and mouth agape. Grace, still standing in the water, didn’t take her eyes off him. Then, without hesitation, she reached out her wet arms toward him.

“She… she remembers,” Donovan whispered, visibly overwhelmed.

Lyle blinked. “Of course she remembers,” he replied softly. “She was waiting for you. Me too.”

Donovan bent down, scooped the little girl into his arms, and gently held her, resting his forehead against Grace’s damp curls. She cooed contentedly, nestled against his shoulder. Lyle, still in the small pool, watched them without moving, his lips trembling, emotion choking his breath. Every drop of water on his skin felt icy, his breath caught in a torrent of feelings. His lips quivered, he wanted to speak but no sound came out.

Donovan then lifted his head, eyes fixed on him.

“Lyle… are you sure you still want me…?”

Lyle took a long moment to gather his thoughts, letting his emotions rise to the surface. He slowly climbed out of the pool, water sliding down his legs, his feet sinking into the warm grass. He knelt beside them, his hand resting on Donovan’s cheek, feeling the still-rough, warm skin beneath his fingers.

“I want you, Donovan,” he answered, his voice deep, vibrating with sincerity. “I will always want you, even when everything seems lost, even when the world turns against us. I have always wanted you.”

A sad but hopeful smile crossed Donovan’s face. He closed his eyes, as if letting go of all his fears, all his sleepless nights.

“Thank you…” he whispered, holding Grace tighter, protecting her like the most precious thing in the world. “I’m going to do everything to make this work.”

Lyle moved closer gently, slipping his arm around Donovan. He pressed his forehead against his, breathing deeply, finally feeling the tremble in his body start to calm.

“You have a way of surprising me, Don,” he murmured, his voice full of a mixture of tenderness, admiration, and wonder.

They stayed like that, embraced, under the soft light of that day, with only their daughter’s steady breathing between them as music.

Night had gently fallen over California, wrapping the hills in a golden mist before yielding to a black sky studded with stars. The night breeze softly rustled the leaves of the large magnolia tree bordering the garden, as if nature itself sought to soothe what had long been unsettled.

Lyle and Donovan were sitting on the wooden garden bench, settled on decorative, comfortable cushions. They didn’t need words to feel the weight of recent weeks between them: the distance, the doubts, the lonely nights, interrupted gestures, and words held back at the edge of their lips.

The garden was bathed in soft light from the outdoor sconces recessed into the stone. Their shadows stretched gently across the paving stones. The atmosphere was calm, almost sacred. Inside, the house lay silent: Grace slept peacefully in her room, her chubby arms spread over the mattress, her lashes fluttering in her sleep.

Lyle rested his arms on the armrests, legs slightly bent, gaze turned to the sky. Donovan, beside him, was slightly turned toward him, eyes fixed on the profile of the man he had missed so much. This shared moment, so simple, contained a whole story.

A sigh escaped Lyle’s lips, gently breaking the silence.

“I can’t believe you’re here, Donovan,” he murmured. His voice was low, rough with emotion, yet steady. “After all this time. After everything we’ve been through.”

Donovan blinked, as if reconnecting to reality.

“Me neither,” he replied softly. “When I left, I had this deep fear I’d come back too late. That something would be broken for good. But… now, here, with you, I’m just… grateful.”

Lyle slowly turned his head toward him, features still tense, marked by sleepless nights. He furrowed his brow slightly, as if trying to grasp the full weight of the word.

“Grateful for what?” he asked.

Donovan took a deep breath, eyes fixed on their nearly touching knees.

“For you. For Grace. For the fact that you let me come back. That you didn’t close the door. That you didn’t let that photo or that damn media storm take everything away. And above all… for your patience. You never asked me to be perfect. Just to be here. And God knows it took me a while to understand what that meant.”

Silence settled again, but this time it wasn’t uncomfortable or heavy. It was soft, contemplative. Lyle absently fiddled with the sleeves of his sweater, crumpling the fabric between his fingers as if to center himself.

“I think we’ve both learned to be patient,” he finally said, voice a little quieter. “I was scared, you know. Scared you’d leave and never come back. Scared I’d been too harsh. But I wanted… for you to come back knowing exactly why. Not out of obligation. Not to fix things. Just… to choose.”

Donovan nodded slowly, moved by the truth of his words.

“And I choose you,” he whispered. “You. Her. All of this. Even on the nights when I’m lost. Even the days I doubt everything. It’s you. Always.”

The wind picked up then, light but cool, and Lyle shivered slightly. Donovan, without a word, took the blanket lying beside him and draped it over their knees—a simple, intimate gesture.

“You know,” Lyle continued, looking at him, eyes slightly shining, “at first, I never would’ve thought it’d be you. That you’d be the one sharing my life, my daughter’s life. But I see how she looks at you, how she reaches out to you without any fear… And that’s no coincidence.”

Donovan closed his eyes briefly, overwhelmed by emotion.

“I don’t deserve this… sometimes I think that. But then I see you both, and I just want to fight to be worthy.”

He leaned slightly toward Lyle, their shoulders brushing, and gently brushed his fingers with his own.

“You are my family, Lyle. You are my home. And I promise I’ll do everything so nothing breaks that. Not my past, not my father, not the journalists, nothing.”

Lyle finally turned fully toward him, their knees touching, their gazes deeply anchored.

“I know. And I believe in you. We’ve built something that doesn’t have to be perfect to be real. And I… I’m ready to protect it with you.”

A shy smile spread across Donovan’s lips—the kind of smile you only give to one person in the world.

“We’ve got what it takes to make it work,” he whispered.

“Yes,” Lyle confirmed with a nod. “We’ve already proven it.”

They stayed like that for a long time, hand in hand, hearts calmer, scars still there but less painful. Far away, in the sleeping house, the quiet breathing of Grace resonated like a promise of peace regained.

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. It wasn’t awkward or incomplete; on the contrary, it overflowed with that rare kind of silent understanding between two people who no longer need to prove anything to each other. Sitting side by side, shoulders barely touching, Lyle and Donovan exchanged glances full of gentle unspoken meanings, discreet smiles, the quiet certainty of two souls finally reunited.

The cool breeze brushed their faces, and the night sounds of the garden—the rustling leaves, the distant drone of an insect, the subtle creaking of the wood beneath the bench—accompanied their silence like intimate music.

Lyle slowly turned his head toward Donovan. His eyes were calm but shining with contained emotion. He had that look he reserved only for him: deep, clear, a little tired, but above all sincere.

He rose gently, his movements measured, almost shy, then reached out his hand toward Donovan.

“Want to go upstairs ?” he asked, voice a little lower, tinged with infinite tenderness but also quiet desire. It wasn’t a rushed invitation. It was an offering. A natural continuation of everything they had just shared.

Donovan looked at him for a few seconds, a little surprised by the suddenness of the gesture—not in the sense of unexpectedness, but in the gentle, clear way Lyle had broken the silence. His fingers naturally intertwined with Lyle’s. He stood up too, heart beating a little faster.

“Yes,” he whispered, a tender, almost mischievous smile playing on his lips. “I want to go upstairs.”

They entered the house in respectful, intimate silence, their footsteps soft on the wooden floor like a well-rehearsed choreography. The dim light of the hallway cast golden hues on their profiles as they climbed the stairs, hand in hand.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. They had already said everything with their silences, their looks, their acknowledged wounds. It wasn’t their first night together, of course. They had already shared their bodies, but this time, there was a different depth, a renewed meaning to every gesture to come. It was no longer just desire. It was reunion, forgiveness, trust.

Lyle opened the bedroom door, entered first. He paused for a moment in the doorway, looking at Donovan in the soft light of the room. His gaze said everything: relief, silent joy, fatigue, love. He slowly closed the door, in an almost symbolic gesture, as if to signify that they were leaving behind the turmoil, doubts, and whispers of the world.

“I’m glad you came back,” he said softly, voice even lower, vibrating with emotion. He approached the bed slowly.

Donovan followed without hesitation. Reaching behind him, he placed his hand in Lyle’s hair, sliding his fingers through his curls, brushing them as if to make sure he was really there, tangible, real. Then his hand slowly moved down to the nape of Lyle’s neck, pressing a gentle, reassuring, almost protective touch.

“I’m here for good this time,” he replied, voice barely a breath, like a promise breathed into the night.

Then he kissed him.

It wasn’t a passionate or rushed kiss. It was a deep, slow kiss, as if he wanted to imprint every millimeter of this moment, every nuance of their reunion, into Lyle’s memory. Their lips met with the ease of familiar gestures but with the gravity of those who know what they could have lost and never want to be apart again.

The kiss deepened but remained controlled, gentle, filled with emotion. A contained, vibrant tenderness. Lyle slipped his arms around Donovan; their torsos touched slowly, their shared warmth growing little by little, like two embers rekindled by the wind. Their breaths mingled, their breathing responded to each other in a slow synchronicity.

They silently took off their shoes, removing their sweaters and shirts blindly, half in the dark, each piece of clothing falling to the floor without haste, like a voluntary shedding. The rustling of fabric against the wooden floor seemed to mark the moment with discreet solemnity. No words disturbed this silent choreography, only the sound of attentive gestures and the shared certainty of being exactly where they needed to be.

When they reached the bed, the sheets seemed to welcome them like a promise of peace. They lay down together, face to face, their foreheads almost touching. Their legs intertwined. Donovan’s hands rested on Lyle’s hips, his thumbs drawing absent circles on his skin, as if trying to anchor him in the present.

Lyle closed his eyes. He felt safe. Whole. He heard Donovan’s calm breath, the steady beat of his heart under his palm, that deep, reassuring music he thought he had lost. Each caress was slow, attentive, almost sacred. Their bodies reunited like two rivers that had separated for a time but now flowed again toward the same ocean. A form of forgiveness slipped into their gestures. A silent rebirth.

And there, in a strangled whisper, with a voice trembling with mingled desire and emotion, Donovan breathed against Lyle’s throat :

“Fuck, I missed you so much…”

Lyle felt the words make their way to his heart. They vibrated inside him like a truth held back for too long. He reopened his eyes, his own shining despite the dim light. For a moment, he stayed still, his fingers suspended in Donovan’s hair.

“Say it again,” he murmured, almost inaudible, as if he couldn’t believe those words had really been said, really for him.

Donovan lifted his head just enough to look at him. He caressed Lyle’s cheek with the back of his fingers, slowly, then repeated, quieter, closer :

“I missed you. Every day. Every night. It was like breathing with half a lung.”

Then Lyle pulled him closer, stronger, with a gentle urgency, almost desperate. Their bare skins pressed together, warm, moist with fever and tenderness. The touch of their flesh was like a balm: soothing, necessary, long awaited. Their hearts beat side by side, resonating against each other like two perfectly tuned drums.

“I missed you too, so much,” Lyle said simply, but his voice trembled under the weight of all those two words contained: longing, forgiveness, love still there despite everything.

Donovan rested his forehead against Lyle’s, their breaths clashing, fast, uneven, full of contained emotion. Their noses brushed, their eyelids half closed, as if facing the intensity of this moment head-on would be too much.
“I’m here,” Donovan murmured, almost inaudible, his voice hoarse with emotion.

Lyle closed his eyes, furrowing his brow. Yet his hands remained gentle, open, on Donovan’s warm skin.

“Are you really?” he asked in a whisper, like a child who had been abandoned too many times.

Donovan didn’t answer right away. He slid his fingers into Lyle’s hair, letting them stay there.

“I am. And I will be. Even if you push me away again. Even if you doubt.”

A dry sob shook Lyle, but it wasn’t sadness. Not this time. It was something else, a deep, visceral relief. The release of a tension he had carried alone for too long, like a knot in his chest.

He buried his face in the hollow of Donovan’s shoulder, breathing in deeply, almost convulsively.

“I was so afraid I’d never feel this again,” he finally said.

“Feel what?”

“Safety. Love… the real kind.”

Then Donovan placed his hands on his cheeks, and their lips met again, this time without restraint. Not to possess. Not to consume. But to unite. They discovered each other anew, in a slow, instinctive, vulnerable dance. Each kiss said: I missed you, I’m sorry, stay a little longer.

And then the tears came. Silent. Pure. They welled at the corners of Lyle’s eyes, rolled gently down his temples, slipped into his hair. He did nothing to stop them. He didn’t hide them. Because it wasn’t sadness, not this time. It was something else, a deep, visceral relief. The release of a tension he had carried alone for too long, like a knot in his chest.

A long pain, finally released.

Donovan closed his eyes. There was nothing left to add. Everything had been said, everything felt.

The room darkened slowly around them, as if the outside world finally agreed to leave them in peace. The turmoil of the past hours seemed to have dissipated with the twilight, carried away by the soft whisper of the sheets. The walls seemed to hold their breath, and the silence was no longer empty, it was full of them.

They held each other like that for a long time, without exchanging a word. Their hands caressed curves already known but rediscovered as new. Their legs intertwined again, without hurry, like roots anchoring themselves to one another. Every gesture carried the tenderness of those who know what it means to lose. Every touch was a promise.

Lyle let his fingers run along Donovan’s spine, brushing every hollow, every tension, every shiver. He stopped for a moment on the scar he knew, beneath the left shoulder blade, a mark of the past, and kissed it gently, as if to bless it. Donovan closed his eyes at the touch, his hand curling into Lyle’s hair with a slow, almost religious motion.

Their bodies united in a slow, instinctive, fluid movement, as if they had been waiting for each other for years. Lyle trembled slightly, not from fear but from contained emotion. Donovan held him tighter, his chest against his, their noses barely touching, their breaths mingled.

They made love without urgency, like lighting a candle in the dark: gently, preciously. Their movements became prayers, their sighs incantations. Nothing was mechanical. Everything was an offering. They explored each other, rediscovered, attuned, like two stretched strings finally vibrating together.

Shivers were born from every slow caress, every glide of skin on skin, every shared heartbeat. Lyle buried his face in Donovan’s neck, whispering a barely perceptible thank you, just a breath.

And when finally the world seemed to dissolve around them, when their bodies relaxed in the afterglow, united by sweet exhaustion and raw emotion, they still said nothing. They didn’t need to. Everything had been said, in the language of skin.

When they finally fell asleep, exhausted but peaceful, it was in each other’s arms, their fingers still intertwined. Their breaths united in a slow, steady rhythm, a quiet symphony in the waking night. And even in sleep, their bodies remained close, perfectly intertwined, as if an invisible force : the memory of absence, of love, of redemption, held them together.

And for the first time in weeks, Lyle slept deeply. No nightmares. No emptiness.

And Donovan, in his sleep, dreamed. He dreamed of four things: himself, Lyle, Grace, and that fragile, luminous future, that flickering light they finally held in their trembling hands.

Chapter Text

After the trial that had shaken the country, Erik Menendez decided to start studying art at UCLA. A risky choice, perhaps naive, but visceral. He had always drawn in secret as a kid, the pencil being his only way to silence the screaming inside.

It was a decision he made alone, without telling Lyle, without consulting anyone. Just himself, his exhausted body, and that strange fatigue—not just physical, but a dense, sticky weariness of the soul. For months, he hardly spoke. He got up aimlessly, ate without taste, dragged his feet like a ghost in a world that had become too loud.

The days were long, but the nights were worse. He woke up with a start, short of breath, his heart pounding against his chest as if trying to escape from within. The bed, the room, the walls—all felt too tight. He closed his eyes and his parents came back. Always.

Their faces frozen in the moment everything changed. His mother standing in the middle of the living room, eyes wide open, looking as if she didn’t understand. He saw again the splash of blood on her light-colored shirt, the way her arms had risen—reflexively, too late. And his father, slumped on the couch, his gaze already extinguished, his chest shaking with uncontrollable spasms, like a machine refusing to stop.

He saw the scene again and again, out of order, illogically. The sounds, the smells, even the yellowish light of the ceiling lamp—all were etched in his memory. Too vivid. Like a film where he was simultaneously the director, the main actor, and the powerless spectator.

He also remembered the texture of the carpet, too thick beneath his knees. The heat of the gun’s metal in his trembling hands. The echo of the gunshots, long after silence had fallen. There was no pause, no forgetting. The memory lived inside him, autonomous, like a beast he could neither feed nor silence.

The trial hadn’t helped. Sitting there, exposed to the whole world, dissected, reduced to a story of family violence and parricide, had been a public humiliation. He remembered every question from the lawyers, every twisted word, every guilty silence. The jurors’ icy stares, the murmurs in the courtroom, the photos brandished like war trophies. They weren’t trying to understand. It was another form of torture. They were hunting monsters.

They had been dissected, reduced to a series of facts, dates, photos, and confessions.

He remembered how the lawyers rephrased his words, cut them in two, drained them of meaning. The prosecutor’s contemptuous tone. The stifling heat. The crowd’s murmur, like an acid tide. And the photos—of the living room, the bodies, the blood—projected on the screen, brutal, cold, almost unreal.

The jurors didn’t see two broken sons. They saw two murderers. He felt it in their eyes: the anticipation of punishment, the need for a clear culprit, without nuance. Years of silence, abuse, the fear etched into their skin since childhood meant nothing. They wanted monsters. So he became one.

Yet the hardest part wasn’t that. Not even the verdict. The hardest was that precise moment, in the defendant’s box, between the deliberations and the final announcement, when he thought: I want to live. He hated himself for that. For that desire. For that crack.

He no longer knew exactly why they did it. Fear, yes. Rage. Exhaustion. But today, none of that was enough to explain the blood. Nothing justified what they had become. And above all, nothing erased the images.

Sometimes it was the screams. Other times, the most mundane memories broke him. His mother’s voice in the kitchen, the sound of the coffee maker, his father silently flipping through the newspaper, his Rolex shining on his wrist. Innocent gestures, repeated a thousand times, haunting him as if they held the key to everything lost.

He didn’t know what hurt most: remembering that he had loved them despite everything… or discovering that part of him still loved them.

Sometimes he told himself that the worst wasn’t what they did. The worst was what he felt afterward.

Relief.

Once the bodies were still. Once the screams silenced. There had been a few seconds of silence, unreal, almost gentle, like a dizziness. He looked at Lyle, and there was nothing in their eyes. Nothing but emptiness. And that emptiness, at that exact moment, seemed preferable to everything else.

He blamed himself for that. More than for the weapon. More than for the blood. He blamed himself for feeling that calm, that false peace, that stillness born of a crime.

And that guilt, muted, impure, he could not express. It did not say: I killed, I am monstrous. It said: I killed… and I breathed for the first time.

Every day, he carried that inside him. He could walk, laugh, speak like anyone else. But always, in the background, there was that reminder: you are not allowed to be well.

When he drew, he avoided warm colors. When he sat down, he forced himself not to get too comfortable. He never allowed himself a second helping. He often left before movies ended.

He called it modesty. But deep down, he knew: it was self-punishment. A way to never forget. To never stray too far from what he had done.

Another memory that continued to hurt Erik was the months following the murders, when his relationship with Lyle took a new turn.

It didn’t happen all at once.

After the murders, their growing distance was slow, almost imperceptible at first. A silent crack, a kind of fog that settled between them after the killings. An unease creeping into the silences. A weight in every exchanged glance. Half the words held back, for fear of shattering what little still held them together.

A mixture of fatigue, tension, and unspoken things.

Lyle talked about the future. Erik no longer saw anything beyond the haze. He didn’t want that future. Not like that. They were together in the horror, but not in what came next.

At first, they slept in the same room, like when they were kids. As if to reassure each other, to be sure they had really woken up, that they were still there. But soon, Erik started spending nights awake, wandering from room to room. He couldn’t stand the light. Nor the silence. Nor the closeness of his brother, who breathed as if nothing had happened.

He stopped eating. Barely washed himself. He spent hours sitting on the edge of a bed, motionless, with an empty gaze, as if waiting for a sentence that never came. His body floated, detached, uninhabited. He had moments of absence. He cried without knowing why.

He sometimes heard his parents’ voices. Or the sharp sound of gunshots, without warning. He jumped at nothing. He couldn’t stand being touched.

And Lyle… Lyle kept going.

He handled things. He organized. He made calls, sorted papers, endlessly repeated the same phrases like a mantra. He drew up plans, looked for lawyers, prepared strategies. He carried it all without ever breaking.

Erik admired him for that. But he also resented him. Because at that time, he needed Lyle to collapse, just once. To scream, to break down, to say he was scared too, that he couldn’t take it anymore. But no. Lyle stayed standing. And maybe that was the most painful thing.

So Erik closed himself off. He stopped speaking. He drifted away, unwillingly, but unable to do otherwise. Lyle would sometimes try a word, a gesture, but it all fell flat. Like two different languages. Two pains that no longer recognized each other.

And then there was that appointment.

Dr. Oziel. The office. The chair. The smell of leather.

Erik sat there as if entering an interrogation room. He hadn’t planned anything. He hadn’t come to confess. He just wanted it to stop.

He spoke. He didn’t even remember the exact words, only the moment the dams broke. Like a leak in a dam cracked for too long.

“We killed them.”

It wasn’t a release. It wasn’t relief. It was dizziness. As if, by saying it, he realized for the first time that it was true. That it had happened. That they wouldn’t come back.

And then there was Lyle. The look he gave him when he found out what Erik had done. He didn’t scream. He didn’t hit. But something broke in his eyes. Not hatred. Not contempt, but a kind of unfathomable sadness. As if he had lost Erik a second time.

Erik wanted to scream that he hadn’t meant to, that he hadn’t thought, that he wasn’t okay. That he needed to talk to someone, anyone, or else he would explode.

But words were useless now. They fell silent. For a long time.

Weeks without news. Then months. Each on their own. Lyle enduring. Erik sinking.

In March 1990, Erik was in Israel when he learned that Lyle had been arrested.

That morning, he was alone in an apartment far from everything, far from home, far from the whispers that haunted him daily. The phone rang, an unexpected call. A name on the other end, a voice too fast, too trembling.

The words fell, cold and clear. Lyle was in custody.

And suddenly, the world collapsed around him.

It wasn’t a surprise. Deep down, Erik had always known it would happen. But it had been a distant thought, almost unreal, like a dark cloud in a sky he still hoped was blue.

At that moment, that cloud became a storm.

He felt his heart tighten, stop, then start again in a chaotic rhythm. His breath caught. He wanted to speak, scream, plead, but no sound came out.

He was there, frozen, head in his hands, unable to accept that his brother, the one he had shared more with than anyone, was now locked away.

Without thinking, Erik started arranging his return. Every hour, every minute counted. He took the earliest flights, skipped connections, crossed time zones without sleep, pushed by an invisible and desperate force.

Because deep down, he knew what awaited him.

Lyle’s arrest was only the beginning of a larger, crueler nightmare. The trial. The public exposure. The merciless judgment. He already felt the weight of stares, silent judgments, and the cutting words that awaited him.

But he had to face it. He had to be ready. He could no longer run.

As he stepped off the plane, his chest tight, he felt the ground slip beneath his feet. Barely had he placed his foot on the baggage carousel when he saw, there, motionless and silent, two police officers waiting for him.

Their eyes didn’t try to hide what they were about to do.

A panic ball tightened his throat. He felt the passengers’ gazes around him, muffled whispers. Time seemed to slow down. Without a word, the agents grabbed him firmly by the arms before slapping handcuffs on his wrists. Erik didn’t even try to resist. He knew it was inevitable.

But what he hadn’t expected was the cold violence of the moment, the brutal feeling of being exposed, humiliated, arrested right in the middle of an airport hall. Eyes landed on him, curious, shocked, sometimes accusatory. He felt every look like a blow, every held breath like a verdict.

A new battle had just begun. A battle against the past, against memories, against fear. A battle against himself. And deep inside, he knew that nothing would ever be the same again.

That trial, that terrible trial, would be the indelible mark on their entire lives.

And yet, between Lyle and him, something had held on. An invisible line, stretched between them. Unbreakable. Erik didn’t know if it was love, blood, or just a habit born of trauma. Maybe all three.

But even at the lowest points, even in Lyle’s wounded gaze, even in his coldest silence, he had never seen the door close completely.

Lyle remained. Present in his own way. Discreet. Quiet. But there.

And Erik clung to that bond like a rope stretched over the void.

At university, he wore that memory like a second skin. He kept his head down. Some recognized him. Others didn’t. It didn’t matter. What he had seen, what he had done, what he had been through, none of it ever left him. Not even in front of his blank sheet. Not even art could free him. Of course, he still drew. But sometimes, his hands would tremble, and he no longer knew if he was drawing to heal or to punish.

From the first days, he had felt watched. The name Menendez still sent chills—not admiration, but discomfort. Judgment. He found himself facing dark looks in the hallways, muffled laughter behind his back, hastily scrawled graffiti on his dorm door : « Dad and mom’s murderer, » « luxury psychopath, » « what’s your next masterpiece? A parricide in three acts? »

He also came face to face with a photo of their parents, printed and crossed out in red marker, stuck on his locker. Some teachers pretended not to recognize him. Others stared at him like a strange specimen. One day, he even found a drawing slipped into his locker: a caricature of him, hands covered in blood, an empty cradle at his feet.

He tore up the paper, without telling anyone.

He didn’t tell Lyle everything. He said he was okay, that classes were tough, that people were « cold but bearable. » He kept quiet about the hateful looks, the whispered insults when he passed through the halls, the sharp murmurs in the lecture hall when his name was called. He even once caught a professor staring at him a bit too long, as if waiting for him to slip up.

But Lyle wasn’t naive; he eventually understood that his little brother’s new life wasn’t as rosy as he tried to make it seem.

But Erik held on. Slowly, almost painfully, he managed to fit in. A girl from his class once handed him her notes without judgment. A boy offered to study with him at the library. Little by little, the unhealthy curiosity gave way to a semblance of normality. He learned to breathe on campus. To smile sometimes.

He lived quietly, went out little, and fiercely protected his privacy. He learned to keep to the edges of the campus, avoid gatherings, spot students who were too curious or journalists disguised as students. Erik set up a whole routine, a silent defense system to keep the press at bay—or at least the illusion that he could.

So, in January 1998, when the photo of Lyle and Donovan exchanging a kiss at the airport leaked, he felt the ground slip beneath his feet.

Not because of the kiss. He knew, for weeks. He had seen the growing closeness, the longer looks, the meaningful silences from his brother. He knew. And he didn’t judge. He never judged. On the contrary, there was something right about that relationship, something tender. Something healing. Lyle, at last, was letting someone get close.

But the world didn’t want the Menendez brothers to find peace.

The press pounced on that photo like vultures on fresh carrion. Headlines exploded :

“Explosive romance: Lyle Menendez and Donovan Goodreau—from courtroom to bed!”
“New life, new scandal: Lyle Menendez at the heart of a shocking romance.”
“After the murder, the secret… Lyle Menendez dating the man who betrayed him!”

Some papers showed the photo in double-page spreads, dissected like a crime scene. Others combined it with archival images from the trial, as if to remind everyone that love didn’t make them innocent.

Erik found himself looking away at newsstands. Blushing in queues. Feeling ashamed, even though he didn’t want to. It wasn’t shame for having a brother in love with a man. It was shame at being seen through that prism once again. Like a freak show for the media. An embarrassing survivor of a tragedy no one wanted to let die.

He read some articles at first, trembling. And quickly stopped. Too many dripping with contempt. Too many insinuations.

Shady photo montages, hints about Lyle and Donovan, about Erik himself, about “the true nature” of the two brothers.

Some media suggested they were manipulating the public. That it was all staged. That Grace might not even be Lyle’s daughter.

Every headline, every paragraph reactivated an old wound. The wound of surviving the worst without ever really being believed. The wound of having rebuilt on ruins, while everyone kept insisting it was just a facade.

On campus, it started again. He was “the brother” once more. Not Erik. Not the quiet student working late in the studio.

Just : the Menendez brother, whose older sibling was now kissing a former university friend who had turned against him at the trial.

He overheard whispers in class, mockery behind his back. One day, he walked into a life drawing class, and a group burst out laughing, pretending to kiss with exaggerated faces. He left the room before the professor arrived, his heart in his throat.

And as always, he withdrew into himself. Missed a few classes, ate alone in his room for a week.

He didn’t want Lyle to know. Didn’t want to burden him. But the truth was, he felt dirty again. Watched. Judged.

But that weight had become too heavy to bear, and he finally confronted Lyle, without aggression or judgment, to tell him he had seen the photo and that he too was suffering the consequences of the past they thought they had left behind, without going into all the details so as not to overwhelm his brother further.

He didn’t blame Lyle. Far from it.

It was the world, the entire society, that had hurt him.

But that quiet, contained anger ate away at him from the inside, like a fire he could neither extinguish nor ignore.

But before all that, even before Donovan came back into their lives, there was that strange, silent day, a scorching, almost unreal summer afternoon in Lyle’s garden.

They were sitting on the outdoor couch on the terrace, two glasses of lukewarm water forgotten at their feet. The sun beat down hard on the pale paving stones, and the air smelled of freshly cut grass. The silence between them wasn’t heavy, but dense. As if they were waiting for something.

Lyle nervously fiddled with a corner of his shirt, his gaze lost somewhere between the trees and the sky. Erik noticed that he couldn’t look him in the eyes, which was never a good sign.

Then, suddenly, without any introduction, without even changing his tone, Lyle whispered :

“I’m going to have a baby.”

A simple murmur. A tremor in the air. Erik looked up, frozen. For a second, he thought he had misheard.

But no. Lyle kept his eyes down, his fingers now clenched on his knees. He wasn’t joking. He wasn’t looking for dramatic effect.

He was telling the truth. And Erik felt something turn inside him.

Lyle. A father.

The word refused to make sense. His brother. The silent, wary kid, with eyes haunted by memories they had both tried to forget.

Their childhood hit him all at once, like a slap: the screams through the walls, thrown objects, the fear of making too much noise, the stairs that had to be memorized to avoid creaking.

The memory of a teenage Lyle, blocking his bedroom door so Erik could sleep without fearing their father waking him. The memory of Lyle at sixteen, fists clenched, face closed off, repeating : “We won’t say anything. We’ll wait for him to leave. That’s how it is.”

And now, this same Lyle was going to have a baby.

Erik didn’t say anything right away. He was afraid to speak, afraid to say the wrong thing. Afraid of what it might awaken inside him.

A part of him wanted to shout: “Are you sure ? Do you realize what this means ? How are you going to manage ?”

Because he knew what it was like, growing up with parents who never wanted to be parents. Who never knew how to love. And he feared that his brother carried part of that inside him. But when he finally looked at him—really looked—he saw something else.

He saw determination. A sort of fierce calm. A look that said : I will do what it takes. Even if it kills me. And then, all the anger, all the fears, stopped screaming.

“You’ll do better than they did.”

“I know.”

At first, there was that almost palpable restraint, that shyness that made Lyle lower his eyes, as if he was afraid that this happiness, too fragile, would vanish if he faced it.

But little by little, as silence settled, Erik saw something else : a slight trembling in his older brother’s eyelids, a blink too quick, as if holding back tears.

Those tears were ones of joy he hadn’t dared to express for so long, a bittersweet mix of wonder and fear. Then, as if to confirm that feeling, a sincere, timid but real smile spread across his lips — the kind of smile Lyle had almost stopped showing, one that betrayed a rare and precious light.

That contained, almost inaudible emotion carved out a moment of truth between them, a suspended instant where Lyle finally showed, without a word, that he was capable of hope.

Erik felt his heart tighten before this vulnerability he hadn’t seen in years. Lyle’s joy, quiet and shy, nonetheless illuminated all they had been through, a fragile breath of hope amidst the ruins. It was the first time in a long while that he perceived that light in his brother’s eyes, a promise that life could still smile on them.

That day, something shifted.

Not with a loud crash.

But gently, like a door opening just a crack.

It was shortly after Grace’s birth.

A calm late afternoon in April, bathed in golden sunlight, almost unreal, as if the whole world wanted to fall silent around that house. The kind of light that softens edges, that gives the illusion of a world at peace.

Erik remembered it perfectly. The door had opened onto Lyle, visibly exhausted, drawn features, shoulders slumped, but smiling in a way he had never seen before. Not the automatic smile they’d been taught to wear for the cameras, nor the stiff one people use to pretend they’re okay.

No. This one was different. A little blurry, awkward, but real. A smile that came from far away. Very far away. From a place even Erik had never managed to reach in his brother.

He followed him inside, a little nervous. The house was peaceful, silent but alive. Not the empty, frozen silence of their childhood. No, this one was inhabited.

There was a faint irregular sound, almost imperceptible: a sleeping breath, fragile, coming from the living room.

And then he saw her.

Grace.

In a white cradle, topped with a fine knitted blanket. She was sleeping, her cheeks rosy, mouth slightly open. Her tiny fingers clutched the fabric of her pajamas as if she was already holding on to this new, too big world. Her black lashes rested on her skin like soft shadows.

“Do you want to hold her ?”

Lyle’s voice was low, almost broken by the held-back emotion.

Erik instinctively stepped back at first, a knot of apprehension tightening his chest. He had never held a baby, and this sacred silence almost scared him. His hands were clammy, his heart pounding. He was afraid of making a clumsy move, of breaking something irreparable.

Then, slowly, a breath of courage crossed him. His voice, shy but sincere, rose softly in the evening calm :

“Yeah… yeah, I’d like that.”

He stepped forward in small steps. His arms stretched out, trembling, as if carrying a sacred secret, a fragile treasure he had to protect at all costs.

Lyle placed the tiny body against his chest with infinite care. The touch of such soft, warm skin instantly took Erik’s breath away. He felt the regular, soothing rhythm of the little heart beating against his chest, a rhythm both fragile and tenacious, like a silent promise.

And there, in that sacred silence, something inside him cracked. All the walls he had built around his emotions, the defenses against pain and fear, wavered.

He felt a rare vulnerability, almost naked, as if every fiber of his being was exposed both to the world and to himself.

Holding Grace close, Erik felt an internal shift, as if this tiny being embodied much more than just a baby. She represented a break from their heavy past, a fragile hope balanced on the thread of time.

That weight in his arms was also the weight of all their wounds: the suffocating silence, the fear, the latent violence that had eaten away at their childhood. For the first time, he grasped what it could mean — that immense responsibility Lyle had taken on, not only to raise a new life, but to fight for her, against the whole world.

He felt urgency and fragility intertwined. A life to protect, to love without fail, to defend against judgment, against the ghosts of the past that had never really disappeared.

Every breath, every movement seemed charged with immense power, capable of tipping everything over.

He held in his arms what the world had most pure, a new life, fragile and perfect, like a fragile hope amid the rubble.

An overwhelming emotion flooded him, a sudden urge to cry without even knowing why. It was as if this small presence embodied everything he had lost, everything he wanted to protect at all costs. This little girl, so fragile and silent, carried within her the promise of a different future, a future his brother was trying to write despite everything.

“She’s… she’s perfect.”

His voice cracked for a moment before softening into a genuine smile, rare, that lit up his tired face.

“She’s got your chin.”

A flash of tenderness mixed with humor slipped into his voice, an awkward attempt to break the tension and share a moment of complicity.

“The same one as Dad’s, unfortunately.”

Lyle grimaced, laughing softly, and that laughter turned into a shared spark of tenderness.

But that memory was now always tainted by something else.

By her. Christy.

She had entered the room, arms crossed over her chest, her features drawn. Not wearing makeup — which wasn’t unusual — but something in her look made Erik uncomfortable without knowing why. She hadn’t smiled. Not even a little.

She looked at Erik holding Grace, and instead of the pride he expected, he thought he saw a form of annoyance. Withdrawal. As if she didn’t belong in that scene. As if she was watching it from the outside.

“She’s slept all day, she’s going to be terrible tonight,” she said flatly, almost irritated.

Lyle gave her a gentle look, not responding. He got up to go to her, placing a light hand on her arm. She slightly moved away. It was almost nothing. An infinitesimal movement. A detail.

But Erik saw it.

And in the following minutes, he noticed other things. That Christy didn’t approach Grace. That she avoided meeting Erik’s eyes. That she answered briefly, as if she were there only out of obligation. As if the house had become too tight for her.

Later, when Lyle went to change Grace’s diaper, Erik found himself alone with Christy in the kitchen. He felt compelled to say something, to fill the silence :

“She’s really beautiful. You’re lucky.”

Christy nodded without looking at him.

“Yeah. That’s what everyone says.”

And that was all. No more words.

She poured herself a coffee in silence, back turned, as if he didn’t exist.

Erik said nothing that day.

He didn’t dare. Maybe for fear of misunderstanding. Maybe because he wanted to preserve that moment, that image of Lyle, happy, a father, standing in a life that finally looked like something.

He told himself Christy was simply tired. That it was normal. That all new mothers went through that.

But now, looking back, he hated himself a little for not having said anything. Not that he could have prevented anything. But he could have prepared his brother. Or at least reached out before everything fell apart.

He often thought back to that scene, to the tense silence in the kitchen, to Christy’s absent gaze. And to that precise moment when she looked at her own daughter like one looks at a burden.

Erik sometimes found himself drifting back to those days before the chaos, those days when the relationship between Lyle and Christy was new, before the family home became a trap, before their lives were changed forever.
It was a time when, despite the underlying tensions between them, he could still catch fleeting glimpses of almost ordinary, almost normal moments, as if a fragile breath of peace passed through the heavy air of the house.

He remembered a particular time at the end of the 1980s that often haunted his thoughts.

Christy had disappeared without warning for several days, and when she finally returned, she was no longer the same. Her face, usually radiant, was pale, almost livid. Her eyes, which once shone with a mischievous light, stayed downcast, avoiding Lyle’s gaze as if hiding a secret too heavy to bear.

She spoke little, and when she did, it was in a muffled, distant voice, as if weighed down by an invisible burden.

Despite his curiosity, Erik had never dared to ask questions. But one night, he overheard a broken conversation between her and Lyle. Rare words, punctuated by heavy silences, fleeting glances, an almost palpable tension. There was pain in their exchange, a mixture of wounded love and resignation.

A few weeks later, the truth came out, as brutal as a punch to the stomach : Christy had been forced to have an abortion.

It had not been a free choice, nor a shared desire. It was a demand imposed by their father, an order dictated by the coldness of a tyrant for whom a child born against his will represented an intolerable shame.

Lyle, helpless, had been able to do nothing, say nothing.

Erik remembered his brother’s empty stare that day, that strange mix of painful powerlessness and restrained rage, like a storm ready to break but held back by an invisible hand.

He was also surprised, much later, to learn that Lyle and Christy had gotten back together right after the trial, at a time when everything seemed to be collapsing around them, as if, amidst the ruins of their broken lives, they had sought an anchor in each other.

Erik recalled Lyle’s voice, low and a bit hesitant, when he confessed this intimate episode to him, a secret he had never openly shared with anyone else. Lyle had told him how much he had insisted that Christy not terminate the pregnancy when she found out she was carrying Grace. It was a decision heavy with consequences, a painful choice in a life already marked by pain and mistrust.

But for Lyle, it became a promise : to protect this new life, not to let their past destroy what could still grow and flourish.

Erik felt a strange mixture of admiration and sadness at that moment. Admiration for his brother’s determination to make things right, to offer this child a future, but also a deep sadness knowing that this pregnancy, despite carrying hope, had been born into an atmosphere of fear, doubt, and uncertainty.

He often wondered how Christy had experienced all this on her side ; this return to Lyle, the pregnancy she initially refused, then accepted under invisible pressure. As if she hadn’t really been given a choice again. Erik questioned what must have gone through her mind, that complex mix of conflicting emotions, hope mingled with fear, joy tinged with anxiety.

And he wondered if it was perhaps this very story, this old burden, that had prevented Christy from fully embracing her role as a mother, that had carved a distance inside her, a silent pain she never managed to overcome.

For Erik, this revelation strengthened the conviction that their lives had never truly freed themselves from the chains of the past, but also that, despite everything, a fragile little light kept shining, embodied by Grace, that fragile but precious bond between two brothers trying to rewrite their story.

~~

Donovan was kneeling by the living room sideboard, focused on taping a multicolored garland to the wall.

It read « Happy Birthday Grace » in irregularly cut paper letters, handmade the night before, between bursts of laughter and a playlist of old 1980s hits. He would occasionally step back, tilt his head to the side, adjust the alignment, then mumble a silent note of satisfaction.

Three helium balloons floated lazily near the ceiling, tied to the TV stand handle: a rainbow, a golden star, and a red heart, slightly lopsided, as if they too had gotten up too early. In one corner of the room, a large blanket had been spread out on the floor, with a few stuffed animals, a music box, and a small elephant-shaped foam armchair. Everything radiated a clumsy tenderness, carefully put together.

The breakfast table had been moved to make room: a pale yellow tablecloth covered it, sprinkled with sweet crumbs and a few freshly picked flowers. Homemade cupcakes, each decorated differently, waited on a wooden tray, next to a small sugar-free cake with pale pink frosting and a single thin candle. Beside it, strawberries cut into flower shapes rested in a porcelain bowl, and carefully wrapped toys, tied with colorful strings, formed a neat little pile in a basket.

In the kitchen, Lyle stood at the counter, his fingers stained with powdered sugar, vanilla, and a bit of pink coloring at the base of his thumb. He tilted his head slightly as he smoothed the cream over Grace’s cake one last time, lips slightly parted, eyes half-focused, half lost in thought. His watch read 8:17. He paused for a moment, set down the spatula, then placed both hands flat on the counter.

One year.

Exactly one year ago, he had been standing in a different room, in a different world, holding for the first time that tiny being who had changed everything. He breathed in slowly. The memories came rushing in: sleepless nights, shy smiles, clumsy firsts, trembling hands around a bottle, the fear of doing it wrong, and that unique warmth, that silent bond between them, woven day after day. He could see his own face again ; tired, overwhelmed, then lit up, the first time he had heard her laugh. And today, she was going to blow out—or at least curiously observe—her very first candle.

A faint rustle from the baby monitor on the counter pulled him from his reverie. A soft gurgle. Then another, a little more inquisitive.

"She’s awake" Donovan murmured from the living room.

Lyle quickly wiped his hands on a tea towel, then straightened up, eyes shining with quiet emotion.

“I’ll go.”

He climbed the stairs slowly, as if wanting to savor each step. The landing was still bathed in the half-light of morning, and the slightly open door to Grace’s room let through a warm glow.

When he entered, she was there, in her little white crib, in a beige pajama with a giraffe pattern, eyes half-open, cheeks red with sleep. Her small arms moved slowly through the air, as if she were still floating between two worlds.

Lyle stepped closer on quiet feet, knelt at the edge of the crib and reached out a hand. She grabbed his finger with a clumsy but determined motion, her tiny fingers wrapping around it like an anchor.

"Good morning, sweetheart…"

His voice was soft, a trembling breath of tenderness. He lifted her gently, wrapped her in a cozy blanket, and held her close. She nestled instantly against his collarbone, her little face pressed into the fabric of his t-shirt, and sighed. That sigh, Lyle had heard it a thousand times, and yet it always felt like a declaration.

Like “I’m safe here.” Like “I know it’s you.”

He rocked her slowly, almost automatically, his chin resting on her tangled hair, breathing in its warm, sweet scent, a mix of milk, baby powder, and childhood.

“Do you know what day it is ?” he whispered, barely audible. “It’s your birthday.”

He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead gently against Grace’s warm temple.

“One year. One year today. I swear, I blinked, and you went from this tiny bundle to a whirlwind who laughs all the time and throws her toys on the floor the second I turn around.”

He felt her little body stir against his, still drowsy from sleep. She lifted her head clumsily, like a tiny bird emerging from its nest. Their eyes met, hers wide, brown, blurry with sleep, but already curious. Alive.

"You’ve taught me everything, you know. How to live differently. How to see the world in a new way. I thought I was broken, that all I was good for was surviving. And then… you came along. You showed me I could be someone… important."

A single tear rolled down Lyle’s cheek. He wiped it away awkwardly and smiled.

“Happy birthday, Grace Teresita Menendez. You are my everything... I love you more than you’ll ever know.”

He covered her forehead, cheeks, and nose with tiny kisses, a shower of tenderness. She let out a soft sound, a muffled giggle that almost sounded like a laugh, then turned her head and groaned in mock protest, as if to say: “That’s enough, Daddy.”

Downstairs, Donovan heard the footsteps on the stairs a few minutes later. He turned and smiled: Lyle was coming down slowly, Grace in his arms, his hair slightly messy, but his eyes shining with a light Donovan knew well.

“There you are,” Donovan said, walking over. “Miss Grace, I have star-shaped strawberries just for you. And a magic candle you’re allowed to eat.”

Lyle gave a small smile.

“She’s still a bit groggy… but she’s going to love it.”

He sat down on the couch, Grace still against his chest, while Donovan went into the kitchen to make two coffees.

The living room, bathed in soft spring light, felt suspended in a quiet, timeless moment, the calm before a day that would matter. For them. For her.

The room was filled with that fresh lightness of an April morning. On the coffee table stood a birthday cake decorated with tiny sugar flowers, surrounded by fluffy cupcakes, colorful fresh fruit, and a plate of homemade cookies.
Through the curtains, a clouded sky hinted at the possibility of rain.

Lyle sat on the couch, holding Grace against him. She was still asleep, wrapped in a soft blanket. Her quiet, steady breathing gave the space a fragile, precious peace. Donovan, standing by the kitchen, walked over with two steaming cups of coffee.

"Here you go," he said, handing one to Lyle with a gentle smile. "And mine, for surviving today."

Lyle smiled faintly, tired but happy. He took the mug, his gaze drifting back to his daughter, who was already beginning to stir, her little eyes fluttering open.

Suddenly, the doorbell rang. Lyle looked up, and Donovan exchanged a knowing glance with him.

"That’s probably Erik," Lyle said with a smile.

And indeed, when he opened the door, Erik was there, a university bag slung casually over one shoulder, arms full of colorful presents. His smile was wide, genuine, warm.

"Happy birthday, princess !" he called out as he stepped inside like it was the most natural thing in the world. "Had a bit of time between classes, figured I couldn’t miss this."

He never acted like a guest. Erik was a constant presence : a brother, an uncle, someone who gently wove himself into their lives, a reassuring shadow in their sometimes fragile routine. He belonged here, with Lyle and Grace. And seeing his brother here, on Grace’s first birthday, sparked a warm feeling in Lyle’s chest.

Donovan stood to shake Erik’s hand, while Lyle welcomed him with a warm, brotherly hug full of affection. More than a brother, a pillar, a safe harbor in the storm of their shared past.

"It’s really good to see you, E,” Lyle said. “We were almost expecting you."

Erik placed the gifts carefully on the table, making sure not to damage anything, then knelt beside Grace, who was already looking at him with wide, curious eyes.

“Look what I brought,” he said, holding out a soft plush toy, a little red fox, worn but clearly loved. “And this picture book… it’s going to teach you so much about animals…”

The little one grabbed the plush, her tiny face lighting up with an innocent smile. Lyle watched the scene, a lump forming in his throat.

“You always show up at the right time,” he murmured to Erik. “We’re planning to go to the zoo this afternoon. I think she’s going to love it.”

Erik nodded, eyes shining with sincere affection.

“That’s a great idea. These are the moments that matter. For you… and especially for her.”

Lyle nodded as well, slowly, but his gaze drifted almost immediately, slipping toward the glass doors that opened onto the garden. He fell silent a moment too long, his jaw slightly clenched, his hands clasped together for no clear reason. His fingers rubbed against each other absentmindedly, as if trying to wipe away some invisible tension.

It was just an afternoon at the zoo, and yet his mind was already spinning with scenarios. The lingering stares. The hushed whispers. A telephoto lens in a nondescript car. Tomorrow’s headline, dripping with cynicism.

He didn’t say a word, but his body betrayed the storm inside. The tightness in his neck, the stiffness in his shoulders under the fabric of his shirt, the way his eyes kept darting toward the windows—as if someone, or something, was about to appear at any moment.

He still remembered the day the photo came out. It was January, at the airport. A simple kiss, quick, awkward, almost shy. A stolen moment before Donovan flew back to New Jersey. He hadn’t even seen the photographer. Just a distant click, which he had mistaken for the sound of a suitcase being rolled.

But a few hours later, the tabloids exploded.

“Lyle Menendez caught kissing a man — at LAX!”
“Menendez and Goodreau: secret airport romance.”
“The killer dad… and his partner in crime ?”

And worst of all: “And what about the baby ?”

Blurry images, zoomed in to the point of absurdity, showing his own face, tense, but vulnerable, and Donovan’s, more open, caught mid-gesture, tender. A simple kiss, treated like a scandalous revelation.

The days that followed were a nightmare.

Unmarked cars parked at the end of the street. Anonymous calls. Reporters swarming his doorstep, microphones and cameras ready, or disguised as delivery drivers. And the comments. The letters. The slurs. The endless questions.

Some were outraged that a “gay criminal” was raising a little girl. Others accused him of using Grace to “fix his image.”

He had to cancel medical appointments, afraid they’d be waiting for them outside. Once, even at the drive-thru of a supermarket, an employee recognized him. Another time, a man snapped a photo of him walking through the neighborhood with Grace in her stroller.

He had been afraid. Truly afraid.

Not for himself.

For her.

And even though things had quieted down a little since—since Donovan came back, since they had reconciled—part of him remained on high alert. Always ready to retreat, to disappear if needed.

Even today, just thinking about the zoo, all he could picture were reversed cages: the eyes behind the bars, the cameras waiting to capture a flaw, and him—the animal on display.

Erik watched his brother in silence, then slowly stepped closer. He recognized that kind of emptiness in Lyle’s eyes—that look that didn’t quite avoid, but searched for something that couldn’t be escaped. The kind of silence that said more than words ever could.

Without saying anything at first, Erik placed a hand on Lyle’s shoulder.

“I could come with you guys,” he offered, gently. “It’ll be safer that way. And honestly… I’d love to spend time with you and Grace. We’ll be careful. We’ll take the precautions we need.”

Lyle slowly turned his head toward him, looking surprised. He tried to smile, but it was fragile, a little blurred around the edges. He knew Erik had understood, even without him having to say I’m scared to death.

“That would mean a lot. Thank you, Erik. I’m really glad you’re here.”

Erik smiled, warm and familiar.

"Don’t worry" he said gently. "We’ll take things as they come. You don’t have to be on guard all the time. Not today. We’ll look out for her… and for you too"

In that moment, Lyle felt it: despite everything, this day could still be a moment of peace : a bubble apart, where they could simply be a family.

They settled around the kitchen table, bathed in the pale light of a California morning, filtered through low-hanging clouds. The air was filled with the scent of coffee, warm pancakes, and maple syrup. The faint creak of wooden chairs, the gentle clinking of spoons against porcelain — everything felt soft, familiar, almost unreal in its simplicity.

Donovan let out a full, genuine laugh that bubbled through the room like fresh air. He was telling something ridiculous — a story about a poorly timed firework, a mailbox, and a very curious cat. Erik leaned forward, laughing hard, embellishing his own campus stories in his usual dramatic way.

Lyle, meanwhile, didn’t say much.

He smiled, of course, but it was a smile full of presence. Quiet, watchful. He was soaking in every second: the laughter, the knowing glances, the way Grace stirred gently in his arms. He observed it all like one watches a lucid dream — fully aware of its beauty, and of its fragility.

He felt how delicate this bubble was, as if a single word, a shift in mood, could burst it.

When Grace stirred softly against his chest, rubbing her tiny fist against her cheek, he rose without a word. She made a small sound, halfway between a yawn and a sleepy whimper. He rocked her gently, then walked toward the window, holding her like something precious, fragile.

He pulled back the curtain slightly. The soft, milky morning light slid across his daughter’s round face. Her lashes fluttered faintly, as if catching the glow even in her half-sleep.

"It’s already been a year since you arrived," he whispered, his voice breaking with the weight of too much feeling. "A year since you changed my life… my world."

The words were simple, but carried the weight of everything that came before. Of absence. Of loss.

She opened her wide brown eyes - the same as his - deep and vast, as if they understood without needing to ask. Her gaze met his : clear, unguarded.

Disarming innocence.

He closed his eyes briefly, inhaled. Held her a little tighter, as if to push away the invisible cold that still crept into the hollows of his bones, despite the warmth around him.

"Happy birthday, my baby," he breathed. "You are the brightest light that ever came into my life. And I promise... I promise I’ll do everything I can to make this world better for you. Even if I have to fight myself to do it."

Grace’s warm breath against his neck was a balm. A silent promise.

He closed his eyes again, resting his forehead against the top of her head. A single tear rolled down his cheek, but he didn’t wipe it away right away.

It wasn’t sadness. It was something deeper.

A trembling kind of gratitude. A fragile miracle. An anchor in a world still too uncertain.

The atmosphere in the house seemed to lighten.

Lyle felt as if a weight had been lifted ; Erik’s presence at their side gave him a new kind of strength. They had all agreed: this day would be for Grace, but also a day to try — just a little — to forget the fear, the prying eyes, and simply enjoy.

Donovan stood to help Lyle pack Grace’s things: diapers, bottles, small snacks, and a carefully folded change of clothes. Laughter echoed from the kitchen, mixing with the affectionate teasing between the two brothers. Even Donovan, usually more reserved, smiled gently as he watched Grace babbling on the rug.

“You know,” Erik said, handing a sandwich to Donovan, “we could even plan a little picnic in the park near the zoo. That’d be nice.”

“Yeah, I like that,” Lyle replied, gently ruffling Grace’s hair. She was already awake, alert, and curious about the constant coming and going.

Erik set about filling a cooler with sandwiches and drinks, while Lyle rummaged through a drawer, determined to find the camera, ready to capture every smile, every wide-eyed look of wonder from his daughter.

And yet, despite the warmth of the moment, Lyle couldn’t help but feel the weight of unseen eyes, fleeting, but present. Subtle reminders that their private life remained delicate, exposed. He tried to push those thoughts aside, focusing instead on the tiny hand that reached for his, on the bursts of laughter bouncing between Donovan and Erik.

“It’s going to be okay today,” he murmured almost to himself.

Then he placed the camera on the table, ready to capture the moments that mattered more than anything else.

A few moments later, bags packed and checked more than once, the trio began to prepare to leave the house, each of them feeling that familiar mix of excitement and apprehension that comes with small adventures when you carry so much hope on your shoulders.

The grey weather outside suddenly felt less heavy, almost protective. They moved with care, double-checking every detail.

Then they got ready to go.

Grace, now fully awake, was softly babbling in her father’s arms. Lyle wrapped her in a blanket, looking at her with infinite love.

“Ready for your first big adventure ?” he whispered, brushing her cheek.

Their little group left the house and climbed into the car.

The sky was heavy, filled with dark gray clouds promising rain, a typical California spring sky, when showers begin to quietly brew. The air was cool and damp, scented with wet grass and fresh earth.

Donovan had been reassuring, calming Lyle’s final hesitations, encouraging him to fully enjoy this day with their daughter, despite the ever-present undercurrent of fear — of being watched, of being exposed.

They arrived, Grace nestled in Lyle's arms, a little bundle of life wrapped in a soft blanket. The baby slowly opened her eyes, mesmerized by the rustling trees overhead. Her tiny fingers reached out toward the leaves dancing in the breeze.

Lyle looked down at her, breath caught in his throat. He adjusted her gently in his arms, bringing her closer. He brushed her cheek with his fingers, then held her against his chest, feeling her tiny heart beating in rhythm with his. Every breath she took felt like a miracle.

Time had passed, the heavy days of pain had given way to these fleeting, precious moments he now cherished above all else.

Donovan placed a steadying hand on Lyle’s shoulder, silent support. Together, they walked toward the first exhibit : the monkey enclosure, where small capuchins leapt through the branches with playful energy. Grace’s eyes widened, fascinated. She reached out with chubby hands toward the animals, giggling in delight.

Her laughter rang through the air, warming Lyle’s heart.

He leaned in, his smile gentle and full of wonder.

"See them, sweetheart ? Those are monkeys. They are just like you : curious about everything."

Erik took out his camera and captured the moment. Donovan, standing beside them, gently touched the back of Lyle’s head. Lyle laughed softly, caught off guard by how much emotion was rising inside him.

And yet, throughout the visit, Lyle couldn’t entirely shake the feeling of being watched ; the glances that lingered too long, the half-hidden whispers. The tension crept up his spine, pulling his shoulders in tight. He held Grace a little closer, pride and fear tangled in his chest.

Donovan understood without a word. Every so often, he laid a calm hand on Lyle’s arm, a quiet anchor in the storm.

Erik, more relaxed, walked a bit ahead or behind, always nearby. He had taken the day to be with them between university classes, fitting seamlessly into their world. His presence was grounding, familiar and dependable.

Over the course of the day, they explored the zoo’s winding paths : marveling at towering elephants, flamingos balanced on one leg, elegant giraffes. Grace, now in Donovan’s arms, squealed at every new animal she saw, her eyes bright with wonder. Lyle often knelt down to snap photos, aware that each image captured something fleeting and precious.

They stopped for a picnic beneath a large oak tree, sheltered from the light rain that had begun to fall. The drops drummed gently on the makeshift tent Donovan had set up. Grace grabbed at pieces of banana with fascination, while Erik told a funny story about a university lecture gone wrong. Lyle smiled, watching these two men who were slowly becoming a family, for him and for his daughter.

And yet, the shadows of the past lingered.

The stares were still there, more persistent at times, the curious... It stirred a familiar anxiety deep within. But today, thanks to Donovan’s steady presence, to Erik’s calm companionship, and to Grace’s pure, joyful energy, the fear didn’t feel as overwhelming.

By late afternoon, they reached the penguin pool. Grace clapped her hands and laughed loudly as the birds slid clumsily across the ice, their movements both awkward and swift. Lyle lowered his camera to simply watch, eyes damp with quiet joy and gratitude.

He looked at his daughter with infinite tenderness, her pure innocence seeming to wash away, for a moment, all that had come before.

"Look how fascinated she is," he whispered to Donovan. "It feels so good to see her this happy."

Donovan nodded, his gaze full of quiet understanding.

"She has this gift… she reminds us what really matters." He stepped closer and rested a hand on Lyle’s back. "See ? Everything went just fine."

Lyle nodded, holding Grace a little tighter. She nestled into his chest, softly babbling, her face glowing with the simple joy of this shared birthday.

Donovan lifted the camera and took another photo : Lyle and Grace, radiant. A perfect moment, sealed forever in memory.

The clouds began to part, letting timid rays of sun slip through. The zoo was closing, and the crowd had thinned.

They made their way to the exit, their little family more united than ever, even as the clouds still lingered faintly on the horizon.

The house had fallen quiet again after Erik left. Evening had settled gently, wrapping the walls in a soft, tranquil dusk.

In the bedroom, Grace slept soundly, her breathing slow and peaceful, one little arm raised as if she were still dancing in her dreams. Lyle stood leaning over her crib, unmoving for a moment, his face touched with a tender smile.

He pulled the blanket gently up over her belly, then, with infinite care, stepped out of the room, leaving the door slightly ajar. He held the baby monitor in one hand and placed it on the coffee table as he passed through the living room, before joining Donovan in the kitchen, where he was making two mugs of herbal tea.

Donovan handed him a cup with a soft smile. "She asleep ?"

Lyle nodded, wrapping both palms around the mug.

"Like a rock. I think today wiped her out… and me too."

They exchanged a knowing look, tired but content. Lyle set his mug down and stepped closer, slipping his arms around Donovan’s waist and resting his forehead on his shoulder.

"It’s wild..." he whispered."A year ago, I was alone… closed off, barely able to believe I even had the right to love my own daughter."

Donovan gently rubbed his back, holding him close.

"And look at you now. You showed up, Lyle. Every single day, even at your lowest. You fought for her. And you let people love you, too."

Lyle pulled back slightly to meet his gaze. His eyes shimmered with emotion.

"You came into my life like a quiet storm. I resented you at first, you know that… But now…Now I can’t imagine any of this without you."

Donovan kissed him softly, tenderly. It wasn’t a passionate kiss, it was one that said I’m here. I’m staying.

Lyle kissed him back with the same gentle intensity, his fingers in Donovan’s hair, his heart full of quiet gratitude.

When they pulled apart, Donovan smiled softly.

"Come on. I’ve got an idea."

"An idea ?" Lyle asked, wary but curious.

"The pool. The water’s still warm from the day. You need to breathe a little. Just the two of us."

Lyle hesitated for a second, then glanced at the baby monitor.

“Okay… but if she wakes up, I want to be there in thirty seconds.”

He grabbed the monitor and followed Donovan out into the garden, still damp from the rain. The air was soft, laced with the earthy scent of wet soil and flowers. The sky was overcast, but the dim light felt strangely comforting.

They placed the baby monitor in plain sight on the table near the loungers, then stripped down to their underwear. Lyle stepped into the water slowly, shivering slightly at the first touch, then eased in until it reached his neck. Donovan joined him without hesitation, diving in with a playful splash.

"You did that on purpose !" Lyle gasped, half-shocked, half-amused.

Donovan shrugged with a mischievous grin.

"I never said I’d behave."

Lyle shook his head, but soon retaliated, splashing a wave of water straight at Donovan’s chest. At first, Donovan froze, surprised by the sudden chill, then his eyes lit up. A deep, almost childlike laugh bubbled up from his chest. He tried to shield himself, waving his arms to block the next splash, but failed miserably. Lyle grinned and sent another wave flying his way, prompting an even louder burst of laughter from Donovan.

It was a silly, weightless game, almost surreal in its lightness.

The laughter echoed, bouncing off the pool walls, dissolving the tension that had built up over the past few days. Lyle could feel the stiffness in his shoulders start to melt away, the heaviness on his chest lifting with every laugh, every splash. It was a rare sensation: feeling light. Free. He hadn’t felt that in a long time, this simple, pure sense of ease.

Donovan seemed to feel it too. His eyes sparkled, his smile wide, his laughter ringing out like a familiar melody, warm and soothing. In that moment, anything seemed possible.

They eventually drifted toward each other, slowly sliding through the water until their chests touched.

Lyle rested his hands on Donovan’s shoulders, still half-laughing, his gaze locked with his. His fingers grazed Donovan’s skin—natural, comforting. Then, with a quiet tenderness, he leaned his forehead against Donovan’s, as if anchoring himself in the fragility and beauty of the moment.

There was no guilt, no fear, no regret. Just the warmth of the water, the closeness between them, and the feeling that—for once—things might actually be okay.

"You’re good for my soul", Lyle whispered.

"And you’re good for mine."

They stayed like that for a long moment, whispering simple things, letting silence speak when words weren’t needed. Night had fallen completely, and the garden was bathed in a soft, otherworldly glow. The baby monitor blinked quietly nearby—steady, reassuring.

In the water, wrapped in warmth and tenderness, Lyle and Donovan floated together. The world could wait. Tonight, they were exactly where they needed to be.

Night had fully settled around them, cloaking the yard in a surreal calm. The surface of the pool glimmered under the muted glow of a few outdoor lights, droplets trailing down their skin like warm beads. They floated close, breaths mingling, bodies reaching for each other in unspoken ways.

Their faces were so near their noses almost touched. Donovan raised a trembling hand and gently slid it behind Lyle’s neck, his wet fingers resting there with disarming tenderness.

"You know…" he murmured. "This is all I ever wanted. To see you… like this. Truly here."

Lyle didn’t answer right away. His eyes searched Donovan’s in the shadows, as if trying to hold on. Then he leaned in and kissed him.

This kiss was deeper than the others. Less careful. It carried a quiet urgency, a wordless need for something more. Their bodies brushed beneath the water, heat rising between them. Lyle felt Donovan’s hands glide along his sides, trailing upward to his waist, fingers tracing slow, deliberate lines across his skin.

He clung to Donovan’s shoulders, surrendering to the kiss, eyes closed, heartbeat matching each slow caress. Donovan gently guided him back until Lyle’s spine met the tiled wall. He didn’t push—everything in his touch was laced with patience, as if waiting for Lyle to decide what he wanted.

But Lyle didn’t want to retreat. Not anymore.

He ran his hands over Donovan’s chest, caressing his damp skin, feeling the ripple of goosebumps he left in his wake. He moved up to his neck, to the edge of his jaw, then pressed another kiss, lower, softer, trembling, at the corner of his mouth. His left leg slid beneath the water to curl around Donovan’s waist.

“I need you,” he whispered against his lips.

Donovan’s gaze deepened. There was no pressure, no expectation. Just that steady, intense look, as if he was trying to memorize every inch of Lyle.

They kissed again, slower now. Their hands searched, found each other again beneath the surface. Desire simmered quietly between them, not rushed, but wrapped in emotion. Every touch felt amplified. Every sigh meant something.

Donovan let his lips slide slowly down Lyle’s neck, brushing against the soft skin with infinite delicacy, as if each kiss were a tribute. His lips rested, warm and light, on Lyle’s quivering skin, placing kisses that were both tender and laden with desire. His fingers, meanwhile, wandered along Lyle’s hip, brushing the wet skin with calculated gentleness. At times, he applied gentle pressure, drawing invisible circles on his skin, sending waves of shivers throughout his body. Each movement was slow, measured, as if he wanted to imbue each moment with the warmth of their closeness.

Everything was soft. Everything was slow. The warm water embraced them, rocked them, united them in a space where no pain, no regret, had any place. Lyle felt his heart lighten, as if the last burdens weighing on his shoulders were dissolving into the humid air of the room, into the warmth of the bath.

With his eyes closed, Lyle sighed softly, his breath barely audible in the silence of the night. He tilted his head back slightly, revealing his neck a little more, offering his skin to Donovan like a silent invitation. This gesture, both vulnerable and trusting, was a release. Donovan’s lips grew a little more eager against the tender skin of Lyle’s neck, sending a gentle warmth down to his lower belly. He let himself be completely overwhelmed by the moment, forgetting everything around him. There was no past, no judgment, no fear, only the warm water enveloping them, covering them like a blanket, keeping them close to one another.

Feeling bold, Lyle slid his hands underwater, his fingers brushing against the waistband of Donovan’s boxers. He pulled them down slightly, enough so he could slide his hands inside and wrap them around Donovan’s firm buttocks, causing a new surge of heat to flow through their bodies.

In that warmth, there was no room for the ghosts of the past. All he felt was Donovan’s presence against him, the intimacy blossoming between them, each brush of skin a step further in their mutual rediscovery. Lyle let himself go completely, relaxing under the kisses, under the caresses. Everything around them seemed to dissolve in the warmth of the water, in the gentle pressure of the moment, in that bubble suspended in time where nothing else mattered. There was nothing left around: no fear, no judgment, no ghosts. Just the two of them, together, in the present moment.

The warm water enveloped them, nourished them, united them in a closeness greater than mere physical fusion. It was more than desire, more than attraction. It was a mutual surrender, an exchange of invisible forces, a communion of two souls reunited after being separated by pain and the past. The sound of their breaths mingled with the soft lap of water around them, and in this closed, intimate space, everything felt perfect. Outside, the night stretched on, but here, in this enclosed space, there was neither light nor darkness, just a feeling of suspended eternity.

They stayed there for a long time, not trying to rush anything, rediscovering each other slowly but intensely. Not in a carnal urgency, no, but in a gentle, almost sacred communion. Every gesture, every breath seemed like a silent prayer, a moment out of time where they could both shed all that had hurt them, and simply exist together.

There were no words to describe what was happening in that water, no need for words. Words were superfluous, unnecessary. What they felt didn’t need to be spoken; it was simply there, obvious—in the suspended kisses, in the hands searching for each other beneath the water, in the sighs escaping their lips.

Their gazes met, intense, burning. No rush in those looks. No haste. Just a pure mutual understanding, a desire to prolong this encounter, this magic suspended between them. Their eyes said everything their voices could not. And when their kisses paused, barely parting, it was even more powerful. Their lips barely brushed, searching, finding each other again, then separating once more, creating a subtle dance, a play of tension and release. Each kiss seemed to last an eternity, each breath stretching into the space around them, making the moment all the more precious.

The minutes stretched like invisible threads connecting them, making every movement, every breath even more intense. Lyle closed his eyes for a moment, letting himself be carried away by the feeling of Donovan against him, by the warmth of the water enveloping them. The outside world, with its noises, fears, and judgments, was as distant as the horizon. In this perfect intimacy, there was nothing but their bodies responding to each other, their hearts beating in echo.

Donovan’s hands slid slowly down his back, tracing invisible paths on his still-damp skin, as Lyle pressed against him, seeking to feel the slightest vibration of his body. A shiver ran down his spine with each of Donovan’s caresses, each touch becoming a gentle fire that lit something inside him, warming his soul.

They no longer spoke. They didn’t need to. Words would have broken the magic of the moment, because everything was already there—in the touch, in the halting breaths, in the stolen and suspended kisses. A subtle contact, like a silent promise, like a shared vow. And yet, there was always that little fragile something in the air, a shy sweetness, a vulnerability they didn’t try to hide. It was in the way they held each other, in the mutual surrender of all they had been before, all they carried within themselves.

Lyle had never known such a kind of peace. Not even with Grace, who brought him a completely different kind of love. He had never been able to let go like this, to be so vulnerable to another human being. But with Donovan, he felt safe, as if the entire universe could crumble beneath their feet without him suffering, as long as they were together.

There was nothing left around them: no fear, no judgment, no ghosts.

Just the two of them. The warm water. The night.

And love, almost tangible.

Donovan, for his part, seemed outside of time, almost impermeable to the outside world. His movements had become slower, more measured, as if savoring every moment of this bond, every second passing in the shared warmth of the water. He let his lips softly brush Lyle’s ear, whispering against his skin, a warm and reassuring breath.

“You know, I could stay like this all night…” he murmured, his voice broken by emotion. It was a confession as gentle as the water surrounding them. A wish whispered in the intimacy of the moment.

Lyle smiled faintly, a soft glow of satisfaction crossing his eyes as he slowly released the tension in his shoulders. He finally felt whole, as if a part of him long neglected had come back to life.

They stayed there a little longer, studying each other in silence, without pressure or expectation. There were no more judgments in the air, no unanswered questions. Lyle let himself be carried by the moment, by what he felt. Every second transformed into a small shard of eternity, every exchanged glance became a secret shared between them.

Then, slowly, their bodies pulled apart, just enough to let the air pass, but not the desire. Their hands remained intertwined, their breaths still tangled, and between them, the heat didn’t fade. It thickened, settled into every fiber, every restrained shiver. A low, almost unbearable tension still pulsed beneath their skin, vibrant and urgent. Even in that feigned distance, everything in them screamed that this was only a pause. A moment charged with electricity, with restrained hunger. They would very soon pick up where they had started in the pool.

In silence, Donovan stood up, careful not to completely break the connection between them. Lyle followed slowly, rising in turn, still immersed in the warmth of the moment. They left the water quietly, soaked but not deprived, and moved toward the edge of the pool, their gazes meeting at every step.

Lyle grabbed a towel, handing it to Donovan with a slight smile. Donovan took it, shivering slightly as he dried himself. They didn’t speak, but everything was said in the way they held each other, in how their bodies still sought each other out, even in the space of a simple movement. Lyle then glanced at the baby monitor nearby — all was calm.

Lyle watched Donovan, his gaze lingering for a moment on him, on the intensity in his eyes, and a weight lifted from his shoulders. There was no longer any fear, no doubt. He had found a home in the arms of this man, a place where the pain of the past slowly dissipated, where he could finally breathe without fear.

Once back inside, soaked, their hair still dripping with rain and pool water, Lyle gently closed the patio door behind him. The glass streamed with water, as if the house itself wanted to hold onto the moment. The baby monitor still blinked calmly : no disturbances. Grace was sleeping deeply, lulled by the peaceful silence after the party, as if the world had finally stopped turning.

Donovan carried two towels: one tied around his hips, the other draped over his shoulders like a cape, heavy with moisture. Silent, Lyle followed him down the hallway bathed in semi-darkness, their footsteps muffled on the polished wood floor, punctuated by faint wet creaks.

In their bedroom, the dim light cast a golden glow on the cream walls and white sheets, still warm from the day’s heat. The mirror opposite the bed barely reflected the blurred outlines of their figures, as if the moment belonged only to them, unreal, outside of time.

Lyle placed a hand on the light switch, hesitated. He didn’t turn it off. He wanted to see. He wanted to engrave every detail of this night, every shade of skin, every flicker of a glance. He wanted the whole memory, raw and intact.

Donovan approached from behind. His still damp arms wrapped around Lyle’s waist, warm despite the water, alive. He kissed him on the neck, just below the ear — a soft, almost shy kiss, heavy with promises and history. Lyle shivered, his breath stopped for a fraction of a second, then his head tilted back slightly, finding Donovan’s shoulder like a harbor.

"I still can’t quite believe it," he whispered, his voice hoarse, almost broken. "That I deserve this. That I deserve you."

Donovan gently turned him to face him. His palms, broad and reassuring, framed his face with infinite tenderness.

Lyle kissed him. Without restraint. Without fear. Without the past. He felt his heart beating strongly, but no longer with panic — with gratitude. He slowly slid Donovan’s towel down with a reverent gesture, discovering the warmth of his body, his bare strength, and pulled him close against him at the edge of the bed.

They lay down together, their still damp bodies seeking each other, adjusting, finding anchor points in each other’s skin. The fabric of the sheets clung lightly to their backs, warm, soft. The room seemed to breathe around them.

Their caresses were slow. Precise. No hurry. Just that almost sacred need to heal, to relearn how to touch without pain, without defense. Donovan’s fingers traced Lyle’s spine like one would trace a forgotten map, brushing over each vertebra, each invisible scar. Lyle responded with the same care, rediscovering tense muscles, familiar hollows, Donovan’s breath quickening slightly with every touch along his throat.

Despite what they had shared earlier in the pool, a deeper necessity persisted between them, an irrepressible, almost primal need : to feel each other, to recognize each other, to melt into one another. It was a visceral, silent, yet infinite need. Their bodies sought each other, awaited one another in an almost irrational surge, as if everything they had been through could only be erased by this closeness, this silent fusion.

When, finally, their bodies joined, it was in a slow, measured, almost ceremonial rhythm. Each movement was a silent offering, a nonverbal declaration of all they had given each other and all they had promised never to withhold again. There was no haste, no frenzy. Just infinite tenderness, a slow fusion of skin against skin, breath against breath. It was a silent, almost sacred exchange, where everything they had lived through together, all the ghosts of the past, were erased by the purity of the moment.

Lyle, his eyes wide open, stared at Donovan with an almost feral intensity, as if he were trying to etch every detail of this moment into his memory. His gaze didn't waver, caught by the face above him, by the slightest contraction of his muscles, the slightest shadow that passed over his features. Donovan moved with a fluid, rhythmic assurance, his hips grinding against Lyle's in a cadence that was both controlled and urgent. Each movement made Lyle gasp, his fingers tighten against the sheets, but he never looked away. He wanted to feel it all, hold it all in—the heat, the weight, the intimacy, the obviousness. This was more than a carnal act. It was a surrender. A promise, written in every collision of their bodies, in every look that refused to flee.

He didn’t want to let anything slip away, nothing forgotten. Not this peace, this serenity that had quietly settled between them. Not the burning tenderness unfolding in every caress, every brush of skin, not the soft light dancing in Donovan’s eyes. Lyle was drowning in that light, in that softness, absorbing every detail, every shared breath. He wanted to engrave this moment in his soul. He wanted to make sure that, never again, he would forget what was happening here, now, in the arms of the man he loved.

When, finally, their bodies lost themselves in mutual surrender, everything around them collapsed. No more words, no more thoughts. Just each other, still trembling, still gasping, wrapped in the warmth of the water and silence. Lyle nestled against Donovan’s chest, finding total comfort there. He closed his eyes, his ear pressed to that heart he knew so well, that steady, reassuring beat, like an anchor keeping him from drifting into the storms of his thoughts.

Donovan’s arms closed around him like a soft armor, a protective cocoon. Lyle felt completely held, loved, safe, as if he had never known pain, as if all that mattered was this moment, this shared silence. He relaxed fully, savoring the warmth, the softness, the intensity of the bond that united them.

"Thank you for waiting until I was ready," Lyle murmured, his voice broken by emotion, by the overflowing gratitude inside him. He held Donovan a little closer, letting himself be rocked by the tranquility of the moment. "…for all of this."

Donovan, his fingers slowly gliding along Lyle’s nape, placed a kiss on his still damp hair. He felt, deep within himself, every word spoken by Lyle, every shiver of emotion that ran through the body of the man he loved. He buried his face in Lyle’s hair, softly breathing in his scent, feeding on that closeness.

"I would have waited for you my whole life, if I had to", Donovan whispered, his voice rough but gentle, heavy with tenderness. His words were simple, yet carried the full weight of an eternal promise, an endless love, an unwavering patience.

In the hallway, the house rested. The baby monitor blinked softly, like a discreet nightlight. The night stretched out, calm, deep, and in that bed, for the first time in years, Lyle no longer needed to hide.

He was where he was meant to be.

Loved.

Heard.

And free.

« My darling, my light, my daughter,

Today, you are one year old. I held you in my arms for the first time exactly twelve months ago. You were tiny, warm, silent. You looked at me with eyes I had never seen before. I was the happiest man in the world—and at the same time, terrified. I thought I’d never be able to make you happy. Sometimes, I still think that.

You’re asleep now, just behind the door. You laughed all day, squealed with joy when you saw a giraffe, held my finger like you never wanted to let go. And I held yours as tight as I could. I wanted that moment to last forever. Just you and me. No world, no past, no newspapers.

You’re so small. So alive. So far from everything I’ve known.

I don’t know why I’m writing this letter. You’re too young to read it; you won’t understand anything for years. But I need these words to exist somewhere. I need you to know. To understand someday. That nothing in this life was ever hidden from you. That your father never wanted to lie to you.

Let me start with the simplest truth: I love you.

With a kind of love I didn’t know existed. A love that scared me at first, because it made me vulnerable. An absolute love. Inexplicable. Violent, sometimes. But real. More real than anything else.

And now, the rest.

You were born a few months after your uncle Erik and I were acquitted. Before you came into this world, I was convinced my life was over. I thought I’d die in prison—or at least end up there for good. We were condemned in the media before the trial even began. I had become a monster in the eyes of the world. No one wanted to hear the story behind the story. The beatings. The threats. The years of silence.

The day the verdict came, I didn’t feel relief. Just emptiness. A vast, consuming emptiness. As if I’d crawled out of a coffin only to find myself alone, with no light, no future. And then I was told Christy was pregnant.

Your mother.

It happened at a time when everything in my life was collapsing. The trial, the media, the hatred, the memories screaming in my head day and night.

I had nothing left, except my little brother. And then, suddenly, I found out I was going to be a father. And yet, despite the fear, despite the anger, despite all the chaos around me… I was overwhelmed with joy. Something lit up inside me.

The idea of having a child, of building a real family... not like the one I grew up in, not built of silence and violence, shook me to the core.

It was what I had always dreamed of, without ever daring to say it out loud. A home. A child. A reason to keep going.

You were already saving me before you were even born. I still remember the day of the ultrasound like it was yesterday. When they told me you were a girl, I smiled like a kid. No—I laughed, I think. I was completely giddy with joy.

I knew right away you’d be my princess. That I would be your very first hero. Not perfect, not invincible, but the kind of hero who tries, every day, to earn that role.

I had so many fears back then. Fear of failing. Fear of passing on my pain. But that day, love replaced fear. Raw, immense love—almost too big to fit in my chest.

And when I held you in my arms for the first time… my heart shattered and healed all at once. I cried. I don’t think I had ever cried like that before. Not out of pain, not out of anger. Just pure emotion.

You were so small. But you were breathing, you were moving, you were real. And in that moment, I knew my life would forever be divided into before you and after you. I knew I could never imagine a world without you again.

As for your mom, I don’t want to speak badly of her. She’s a part of you. And she gave me the most precious gift in the world: you. But I want to be honest. I was angry, confused, disoriented, exhausted. I didn’t expect to become a single father. That wasn’t the family life I had imagined.

But your mom carried her own pain, her own rage, her own unresolved traumas. We loved each other, at the beginning, I think. But we also hurt each other deeply. She couldn’t bear the idea of being a mother. She stayed a few weeks after you were born, then she left.

She wasn’t ready. Maybe she never will be. But she gave you life. And you gave me a reason to stay alive.

That’s all I can say, honestly.

I watched you sleep tonight. Your little fists on the pillow, the sleepy smiles you make in your dreams. You were so peaceful. And I was there, eyes full of tears. Not because I was hurting. But because I still don’t understand how something so beautiful came into my life.

Today, we went to the zoo. Your first real big day out. It was a challenge for me, a kind of vertigo, even.

Me, who avoids crowded streets, lingering stares, whispered gossip behind hedges. Me, who hesitates before answering the doorbell when it rings. Me, who lives in a big house but rarely steps beyond the garden.

Going out with you, showing you to the world, felt like stripping bare in front of it. Like handing people one more reason to judge, to talk, to invent.

I was afraid, Grace.

I was afraid people would stare at us, recognize my face, say your name like it was a scandal. I was afraid they’d associate you with me. That they’d steal something from your lightness. I even considered turning back when I was buckling you into your seat.

But I looked at you. And you had that look ; curious, eager. You wanted to see. You wanted to understand what a zoo was.

And I realized I couldn’t keep hiding forever. Not if I wanted you to live freely. Not if I wanted to teach you that you don’t have to be ashamed to exist.

So I walked, heart pounding, palms sweating, eyes darting everywhere. And you held my hand. You laughed. You pointed at the animals. You screamed when you saw a zebra. You petted a goat. You shrieked with joy. Erik carried you on his shoulders, and you laughed so hard I forgot, just for a moment, how afraid I am of the world. I forgot the people.

I watched you live. And I understood that this—this—is what it means to be a father. Not shielding you from the world by locking you away. But walking with you through it, even when I’m scared. Especially when I’m scared.

Your uncle and I survived something indescribable. And even though the justice system let us go, the world hasn’t forgiven us. It watches. It judges. It invents. That’s why I’m so afraid of showing you to it. But today, you were stronger than me. You are free. And I want you to stay that way.

Around us, it was often hard to tell who truly wished us well, and who hid behind kind words just to hurt us more. Erik and I learned that the hard way.

But if there’s one person you should never doubt, one person I want you to truly know—even though I know you’ll love him long before you understand why—it’s your uncle, Erik.

He and I went through hell together. And if we’re still standing today, if I’m still here to write you this letter, it’s largely because of him. We grew up in the same house, with the same fears, the same silence, the same wounds. There were days when it was unbearable. When the world made no sense. But even in that darkness, one thing never wavered: our bond. That invisible thread between us that never broke, even when everything else fell apart.

I know that one day, you’ll hear things. About what we did. About that night. About our parents. And I’ll never lie to you: what we did, we did out of fear. After years of surviving, of staying silent, of taking blow after blow, I was afraid Erik wouldn’t make it. I watched my little brother slowly fade away, and I couldn’t stand it anymore. I wanted to protect him. I wanted us to survive. And in our minds, back then, that was the only way out.

Erik… he’s my little brother. But sometimes, he’s the one who carried me. He gave me the strength to keep going when I had none left. He knows everything about me—the worst and the best—and he loves me anyway. That’s rare.

And you, my Grace, he loves you with a pure kind of love. From the very first day. I think that when he saw you, he felt the same thing I did: hope. A future. A chance to rewrite our story through you.

He’s gentle with you. Patient. He talks to you like you understand everything, even when you’re just babbling. And sometimes, when I’m tired, when the memories grip my throat too tightly, he takes over. He watches over you like he once watched over me.

You’ll never have to doubt Erik’s love. He will always be there. For you. For us.

And recently, someone else has become part of the picture.

Donovan.

Donovan was my best friend back in university. We did everything together. Two kids who shared the same wounds, even if we didn’t always have the words for them. He saw. He knew. And yet, he testified against me. He got scared. He believed what they told him to believe. He abandoned me at the darkest moment of my life. I resented him. I thought I’d never forgive him.

But he came back. He knocked on my door one day, and I almost didn’t open it. I don’t even know why I did.

We talked. It went badly at first. I screamed. I kicked him out. He touched a wound I wasn’t ready to feel—your mother. But then, I went to find him, because I needed to understand. And something shifted.

We found each other again. Not like before. Better. More real. More fragile, too. We said things we’d never dared say before. We let go of our weapons. And without meaning to, without trying, I started to feel something different. Something deep. Something soft. Something disarming.

I don’t yet know how to put words to what he’s become to me. You may not fully understand what I’m going to write now, and that’s okay.

What you need to remember is this: sometimes, people leave your life because they’re scared. Because they’re lost. And sometimes—rarely, but sometimes—they come back.

Not to erase the past. But to rebuild. Brick by brick. Even among the ruins.

And maybe one day it’ll seem strange to you. Maybe even hard to understand.

But love, Grace, doesn’t always look like it does in the movies. Sometimes it takes strange paths. Messy ones. Sometimes it’s beautiful because of its broken edges.

What I have with Donovan isn’t a lightning bolt. It’s a slow tenderness. A rediscovered trust. A way of holding each other upright. And most importantly, he loves you, unconditionally.

You may not see it yet, but Donovan loves you in a way that moves me deeply. He takes care of you like you were his own. He teaches you to kick a ball. He sings silly songs in the kitchen. He carries you on his shoulders like you’re the most precious treasure in the world.

He’s not pretending. He doesn’t love you for me. He loves you for you. He’s patient, kind, sometimes clumsy. But he’s there. Truly there. And for the first time in a long time, I think maybe Erik and I aren’t the only ones who love you that much. Maybe you’ll have another pillar to lean on.

I don’t know what tomorrow holds. I don’t know if Donovan will be part of our life forever, no one can promise that. But what I do know is this: he loves you. And right now, he loves both of us.

And that, Grace, is already a miracle.

You were born into a messy story. Not a neat, straight line. Not a fairy tale. You were born in chaos, in the smoking wreckage of a life I thought was ruined. You were born from a love that didn’t last, from an abandonment I never saw coming, into a world that still sees me as a monster.

But if you only remember one thing, one sentence from all of this, let it be this:

I will love you with all that I am.

Not because I have to. Not out of duty. Not just because you’re “my daughter” on paper.

I will love you as a certainty. As a breath. As a soft kind of urgency.

Because you are the purest thing I have.

Because you gave me a second life—and this time, I want to live it well.

Even on the days I’m afraid. And there will be those days. Because I’m still learning not to flinch when the phone rings, not to expect the worst at every moment. Even on the days I doubt myself : my choices, my ability to raise you right, not to repeat what was done to me. Even on the days I fall, because I will fall, it’s inevitable.

There will be moments when I’m tired. When I want to run away, just for a second. But I’ll always come back. I’ll stay. Even on my knees. Even broken.

I don’t promise to be perfect. But I promise to be here. Truly here.

At every step. Every fever. Every nightmare. Every burst of laughter.

I’ll hold your hand until you’re ready to walk on your own. And even then, I’ll walk just behind you.

I love you more than anything in this world.

Your dad,

Lyle

Chapter Text

April had flown by in a blur, carrying with it Grace’s first birthday in a whirlwind of memories, doubts, and tender clumsiness. It had been a month heavy with meaning ; raw wounds, silent joys, and the quiet ache of healing.

Now May had just begun, and with it came a subtle breath of calm, as if the air itself had softened. Lyle and Donovan were finally beginning to breathe again, slowly finding their rhythm without too much intrusion from prying eyes or the relentless flashes of cameras.

This peace, fragile as it was, belonged to them, for now.

The warm yellow glow of the kitchen light gently filled the room, casting dancing shadows along the walls. Grace was asleep upstairs, peaceful in her crib, and for once, the house was silent. Just for them. Lyle stood at the sink, hands plunged into hot water, washing dishes with slow, thoughtful movements when Donovan stepped into the room, quiet, a crooked smile on his lips.

"You almost done ?" he murmured, approaching slowly, his breath brushing against the back of Lyle’s neck.

Lyle shivered, his hands pausing in the water for a moment before he dipped them back in. Donovan slipped his arms around his waist, pressing his body close against Lyle’s back, their warmth blending instantly.

“You know you don’t have to finish this, right ?” he whispered, voice thick with promise.

Lyle turned slowly, their eyes meeting in the low light of the kitchen.

“Maybe I was just waiting for you to come get me,” he replied, a soft smile curving his lips.

Donovan placed his hands gently on Lyle’s hips, pulling him closer. Their lips met in a deep, slow kiss. The dishes were forgotten. The world outside faded.

Donovan’s hands slipped beneath the damp fabric of Lyle’s t-shirt, fingers tracing over warm skin as Lyle let out a quiet breath, giving in to the embrace.

“Right here, right now… it’s just us,” Donovan murmured, his voice low and warm against Lyle’s mouth.

A shiver ran through Lyle as he clung to Donovan’s shoulders, grounding himself in that moment. Their kiss deepened, laced with restrained passion and aching tenderness, their breaths mingling.

Slowly, Donovan guided Lyle backward until his lower back touched the edge of the counter, the cool surface contrasting with the heat of their bodies. Lyle’s hands roamed over Donovan’s back, tracing trembling lines as his shirt was tugged upward, then slid off, landing silently on the floor.

Lyle’s t-shirt slipped slowly off, falling to the floor and revealing skin still warm and slightly damp. Donovan ran his fingers gently across it, the tenderness of his touch contrasting with the intensity burning between them.

Lyle arched ever so slightly, his lips finding Donovan’s again, more urgent this time, as their hands wandered in a quiet dance of discovery.

Their bodies pressed closer, the heat between them rising with every breath, every touch. Donovan slid a hand beneath Lyle’s waistband, his fingers brushing against sensitive skin, sending shivers through him. Lyle exhaled deeply, his eyes meeting Donovan’s — eyes now lit with raw, undeniable desire.

Time seemed to stretch, each second drawing them deeper into the invisible pull that bound them. Donovan leaned close, murmuring against Lyle’s ear:

"I want you. Right here. Right now."

Lyle answered by pulling him closer, letting go of any hesitation. Their movements grew hungrier, more desperate, as if trying to imprint the moment into memory, as if nothing beyond it mattered.

The kitchen faded around them, leaving only their bodies, their breath, and the silent promise of something deep, something both fragile and untamed.

Desire burned in their eyes, a steady flame that quietly consumed their doubts. Donovan’s hands slipped lower, exploring with slow reverence every line, every muscle drawn taut by anticipation. Lyle surrendered completely, his breath mingling with Donovan’s in a shared whisper.

Their lips found each other again, eager, searching, as their bodies aligned with a softness that bordered on pain. Each caress, each graze of skin awakened something deep and unspoken between them. It wasn’t just desire, it was something raw, sincere, and achingly tender.

Heat rose in Lyle’s chest, pushing him forward with quiet determination. Their eyes never broke contact as Lyle slowly shifted their positions, guiding Donovan so that he was now the one pressed against the cool surface of the kitchen counter.

Before Donovan could react, Lyle placed his hands on either side of his face, holding him there with fierce, unshakable affection. Their breaths mingled, heavy and burning, before Lyle kissed him again, deep, slow, and full of everything he’d kept locked away.

Donovan melted into him instantly, his hands threading into Lyle’s hair, as if afraid the moment would vanish if he let go.

Their kisses grew more intense, breaths growing shorter, until Lyle’s hands found the waistband of Donovan’s pants. With a delicate touch, he undid the button, fingers brushing against heated skin. Donovan helped him, trembling slightly as they eased the fabric down to the floor, revealing warm skin bathed in the dim kitchen light.

Without pulling away, Lyle did the same, slipping out of his own jeans with slow purpose, revealing the tension that had been building in him all day, now simmering between them with nowhere left to hide.

With a gentle but confident touch, he took Donovan by the hips. Slowly and carefully, he turned him and leaned him forward, his chest softly brushing the cool surface as their eyes met, full of trust and quiet desire.

Lyle held Donovan close, firm yet tender, pressing him gently against the kitchen counter. Their bare bodies were so near they almost felt like one. Their breaths mingled softly, warm and steady in the stillness of the room. Donovan felt Lyle’s warmth pressing gently against him, sending a soft shiver down his spine. Slowly, Lyle’s hand moved down his back, tracing every curve with careful tenderness.

Unhurried, their bodies moved together, finding a gentle rhythm, a silent, intimate dance. Lyle’s hips shifted with slow, deliberate movements, almost soothing in their calmness. Each motion carried more than desire — it was a quiet way to show Donovan how much he meant to him.

Donovan relaxed into the rhythm, head bowed, hands resting lightly on the counter. His breath came in soft, uneven sighs, matching Lyle’s. A quiet moan escaped when Lyle’s hands slid down his sides, palms warm and steady against his skin.

“Can you feel this ?” Lyle whispered close to his ear, his voice soft and tender. “Everything here… it’s for you.”

Donovan nodded, eyes closed, his heart beating in time with Lyle’s.

“I feel it…” he whispered, his voice trembling. “I feel it in every touch.”

They moved together, deeply connected, carried by a rare blend of trust, love, and raw desire. It wasn’t a performance or an outlet—it was an offering. A way to say, "I am yours" without words. A moment of existence outside the world.

Lyle pressed a kiss between Donovan’s shoulder blades, his lips barely grazing the skin.

“You have no idea what you’ve made me become.”

Donovan turned his head just enough to meet his gaze, eyes shining, almost tender despite the sweat on his temples.

“You’ve become someone who accepts to love and be loved.”

A long shiver passed through them both like a silent wave, slowly rising up their spines to their necks, then falling back down, warm and dizzying. In the suspended tension between them, a shared vertigo took hold — made of desire, yes, but also that strange intensity that comes when two people know each other so well they no longer need words.

Every time they made love, it was more than just the touch of bodies; it was communion. A form of surrender, fierce and gentle at once, where every sigh, every muffled moan became its own language.

Donovan, palms still pressed against the countertop, felt his legs tremble slightly under the weight of mingled emotion and pleasure. He closed his eyes, focusing only on the sensations—the warmth of Lyle’s breath against his neck, the heat of his hands, the deliberate slowness of his movements, as if refusing to let the moment end.

“You’re going to drive me crazy…” Donovan whispered in a broken breath, his voice barely more than a sigh.

Lyle slowed even more, his hands reaching for Donovan’s to gently intertwine their fingers at the edge of the counter. Their fingers tightened.

“I hope so,” he replied, his tone more tender than teasing.

Donovan laughed, a low, shaky sound, almost a tremble, a laugh from someone surrendering but, above all, feeling safe.

Lyle pressed a little closer, feeling urgency rise, but still with that precious gentleness that made their union unique. In this sanctuary they shared, the outside world faded away, leaving only them, their breaths, their love.

Each moment stretched, suspended, vibrating with that intimate connection where their bodies and hearts finally found each other, free and united.

Lyle placed a light kiss on the skin of Donovan’s right shoulder, then slowly untangled their fingers. Without pulling away, he rose up slightly, staying close against him. Their bodies pressed together, Lyle’s hips brushing gently against his lover’s, sharing a deep warmth. His hands slid slowly down Donovan’s back, softly caressing every tense muscle, every curve traced beneath his warm skin.

Donovan’s breath quickened, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he lifted his head, his eyes searching Lyle’s with a wild tenderness and shared vulnerability.

“I never thought I’d feel this way…” he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion.

Lyle leaned in, placing a soft, lingering kiss on the hollow of Donovan’s neck, feeling his pulse quicken beneath his lips.

“Neither did I. But now that I have you, I never want to let you go.”

Their eyes met, speaking volumes, full of promises and deep love. Lyle’s hands traced slowly over Donovan’s back, sending shivers down his spine. A shiver ran through Donovan, followed by a soft, genuine sigh of surrender.

“I love you,” he breathed, each word filled with unwavering truth.

Lyle rested his cheek gently against Donovan’s temple as he continued to move within him, his fingers tenderly gripping Donovan’s tightening waist pressed against him.

“I love you too.”

Donovan turned his head slightly, and their lips met in a deep, passionate kiss, filled with all the tenderness and desire that had built between them over time. Around them, the world seemed to fade away, leaving only the warmth of their entwined bodies and the steady rhythm of their hearts beating as one.

Donovan’s breath quickened, his hands gripping the edge of the countertop firmly as Lyle gently deepened their rhythm. Their eyes met, filled with a quiet tension, a blend of vulnerability and restrained passion. Lyle felt his heart pounding fiercely, swept up in the rare intensity they shared. Donovan’s breaths were short, his fingers clutching the cool wood, but a playful smile shone in his eyes.

“Well,” Donovan murmured between soft moans, “it’s rare to see you take the lead like this. Usually, I’m the one guiding the dance.”

Lyle sighed softly, his lips brushing lightly against Donovan’s neck.

“Maybe tonight, I just wanted to surprise you a little,” he murmured, his voice warm and low.

Donovan chuckled softly, his eyes sparkling with a playful challenge.

“Oh, I see… I’m a little off balance. But you’ll see... I’ll take back control soon enough.”

Lyle’s hands tightened slightly on Donovan’s hips, gently stroking his damp skin, his thrusts slowing just enough to stretch the moment before everything would burst.

Then Lyle leaned over Donovan’s back, taking the chance to go even deeper inside him.

“I’m waiting to see that,” Lyle whispered, his warm breath brushing Donovan’s ear.

A soft moan slipped from Donovan as Lyle deepened their rhythm, their bodies moving together in a slow, passionate dance.

“You know what I love about you ?” Donovan said with a smile, his body rocking gently on the countertop with Lyle’s movements. “That mix of tenderness and fire. Even when you’re in charge.”

Lyle let out a light laugh, his hands slowly caressing Donovan’s shoulders.

“That suits me just fine. Because I don’t plan on letting go tonight.”

Donovan locked eyes with him, a playful and warm spark in his gaze.

“As long as you promise not to make me too dizzy… at least not before the end,” he murmured with a teasing wink.

Lyle leaned in softly, his lips brushing against Donovan’s, a kiss filled with silent promises.

“I’m not promising anything. I’d rather make you lose your mind… and your breath.”

Their breaths quickened, soft moans mingling with the warmth of their skin.

Around them, time seemed to fade away, leaving only their bodies, their desires, and the gentle madness they shared.

Their movements matched perfectly, in a slow and flowing rhythm.

Their gasps, sighs, and the soft sounds of their bodies brushing were the only noises breaking the peaceful silence of the house.Then, suddenly, a wave of warmth overwhelmed them, carrying away all their hesitations and fears.

They lost themselves in this union, their breaths mingling, their hearts beating as one in a crescendo vibrating with emotion and tenderness. They climaxed a few seconds apart, Lyle collapsing halfway against Donovan’s damp back, still lying face down on the countertop.

When the storm finally subsided, they stayed there, entwined, breathless, eyes shining, savoring the sweetness of this suspended moment, this precious bond they had forged together.

Lyle, still slightly trembling and still inside Donovan, stroked his lover’s back with the tips of his fingers. The feel of his skin, the warmth of his neck, his familiar scent — all of it made him feel exactly where he belonged. And yet, something stirred gently within him, a thought slowly creeping in, almost timidly.

Donovan had said earlier that it was rare for him to take the lead. And it was true.

In their moments together, Lyle often followed. Not out of lack of desire or will, but because he had always felt safe in the rhythm Donovan set. Because for the first time in his life, he didn’t feel the need to “prove” anything. He had nothing to play, nothing to conquer, nothing to hide.

With his exes, it had been different. There had always been some role to play, a dynamic to maintain, control to keep. Here, with Donovan, it was something else. It was free. It was fluid. It was real.

He found himself smiling softly against Donovan’s shoulder.

“What ?” whispered Donovan, still half-lost in the blurry calm of after.

Lyle took a moment to answer, his voice low, a little hoarse.

“I was just thinking about what you said… that usually, you’re the one leading the dance.”

Donovan barely moved, a soft laugh vibrating against his chest.

"I wasn’t lying." Donovan whispered with a still slightly breathless smile, his eyes shining with a knowing sparkle.

Lyle stayed still for a moment behind him, his forehead gently resting between his shoulder blades, his breath still short. He placed one last kiss, light, almost reverent, in the warm hollow of his back before slowly straightening up. Then he grabbed a piece of paper towel from the counter and handed it silently to Donovan.

They cleaned up, in that fragile afterglow bubble, still tousled, skin flushed from effort and heat, their clothes hastily put back on. Lyle buttoned his jeans with somewhat mechanical movements, his fingers distracted. His mind, however, was elsewhere, frozen on what Donovan had said earlier.

He finally broke the silence, his voice low, as if thinking out loud.

"You know… I think I’ve never liked following someone so much. And even less letting myself lead… without feeling obliged to do it."

Donovan slowly turned his head toward him, eyebrows slightly furrowed in surprise. He leaned against the counter, still shirtless, hair tousled. He said nothing right away, waiting for Lyle to continue.

The latter played with the hem of his t-shirt between his fingers.

"It’s strange. With you, none of this feels like anything I’ve known before. No games. No roles to play. No pressure to be ‘the man,’ you know? Like I always had to carry everything. Lead everything… And it feels good."

Donovan watched him for a long moment, without interrupting. Then he slowly approached and raised a hand to slide his fingers through Lyle’s hair, gently pushing it back.

"I get it. It’s true it’s different. Me neither, I’ve never had that. Something so… calm. Even when it’s intense. Even when we devour each other."

Lyle smiled a little, his eyes shining with a gentle fatigue. He leaned against Donovan, forehead against shoulder, seeking contact.

They stayed like that, close to each other, for long seconds during which neither the outside world nor the fridge’s noise could break the invisible thread between them.

"You know…" Donovan resumed, whispering, his breath brushing Lyle’s temple. I don’t care who leads. As long as it’s you. As long as it’s you, with me."

Lyle closed his eyes at those words. Not to escape, but to better keep them inside him. Like storing a treasure in a secret drawer. He took a deep breath, smelled the mingled scent of Donovan and soap on his skin, and gently wrapped his arms around his waist.

"I’m here" he whispered. Then, even softer, almost a vow : "And I fully intend to stay."

~~

The late afternoon bathed the house in a golden light, soft and deceptively calm. From the living room, muffled coos from a half-watched cartoon could be heard. On the carpet, scattered toys formed a miniature battlefield. And in the middle of it all, Grace.

She was sitting cross-legged, her cheeks red, fists clenched around a small plastic spoon she absolutely refused to let go. Lyle, crouching opposite her, reached out with a gentleness that already betrayed his exhaustion.

“Come on, sweetheart… give me the spoon. It’s bath time, and you know we don’t take utensils into the tub.”

The answer came back sharp and loud, like a thunderclap from a baby’s mouth:

“No !”

Lyle stepped back slightly, surprised. It wasn’t the first time she had said the word, but today it carried a different force. There was nothing cute about this refusal. Grace furrowed her brows, her lower lip trembled for a moment, then she let out a piercing cry, full of frustration, before throwing the spoon with all her might.

She aimed poorly. The spoon bounced on the carpet, then hit Lyle’s knee.

He said nothing at first. He just looked at her, frozen. His usually calm baby, so close to him… was there, arms flailing, red with anger, crying as if he, her own father, was the enemy of the day.

“Grace…” he whispered, more unsettled than angry.

Donovan, watching the scene from the doorway, leaning against the doorframe, had also frozen. He still held a warm cup of tea, forgotten. He exchanged a glance with Lyle, hesitating to intervene.

"Is she okay ?" he finally asked in a low voice.

"I don’t know." Lyle replied, running a hand over his face. “She’s been like this since this morning. Everything is a fight. Even putting on her socks… she screams like I’m torturing her.”

Grace was still crying, writhing on the spot, her arms flapping. Lyle approached gently, trying to pick her up. She struggled with unexpected strength for her small body.

"No ! NO !"

Lyle put her down, arms limp, brows furrowed. He looked as guilty as a man caught red-handed and as helpless as a punished child.

"She’s rejecting me…" he said more to himself than to Donovan. "She’s pushing me away, like I’m…" He stopped. His gaze drifted for a moment.

Donovan moved forward slowly, setting the cup on the coffee table before kneeling beside Lyle.

"She’s one year old, Lyle. It’s not against you. She’s just discovering she can say no. She’s testing. She’s expressing what she feels… she just doesn’t know how."

Lyle didn’t answer. He watched Grace, now lying on her tummy, face in the carpet, her crying calmed but still broken by little grumpy sobs. His eyes were wet.

"And if I can’t even understand my own daughter, Donovan… what am I doing ?"

"You’re doing what you can, Lyle. You’re doing everything a father does."

A silence. Just breathing, and the faint sounds of the cartoon continuing, oblivious to their intimate chaos.

Then Grace slowly lifted her head. Her cheeks were still wet, but her eyes fixed on Donovan, curious. A moment later, she stretched out an arm toward him, as if to say “come here.”

Donovan smiled shyly. "Permission to enter the arena ?"

Lyle nodded silently. Donovan took Grace in his arms. She didn’t cry. She even sighed a little, resting her head against his chest, as if the storm had passed. As if she just needed to explode.

Lyle watched them, torn between relief and a bitter pang of jealousy he dared not name.

"She chose you."

"No, Lyle… she just wore you out. She knows you’re always there. She only allows herself to say no to you because she knows you’ll stay even after."

Donovan handed the calm little girl back to Lyle. This time, Lyle took her. And she didn’t cry.

Lyle pulled Grace close to him. She had stopped crying, but her tiny fists remained clenched, gripping his shirt like a lifeline. He sat down slowly on the couch, his daughter nestled against his chest, his hand resting on her tiny spine, feeling her breath slowly return to calm.

Donovan sat beside him, but slightly turned toward them, elbows on knees, silent. He watched Lyle—the mix of tension in his shoulders and awkward tenderness in his movements.

"It’s like I’m walking on glass, all the time..."Lyle murmured, eyes fixed on an invisible spot in the room. "I’m scared to say the wrong word, to hold her wrong, to make… a mistake I could never fix."

Donovan was silent for a moment. He knew it wasn’t really a question.

"You’re not doing this alone, you know."

Lyle slowly turned his head toward him. Donovan didn’t look directly at him, but his words hung solid and honest between them.

"I know you think you have to be perfect for her, because you come from a place that took everything from you if you weren’t perfect. But she… she just needs you to stay. Like you do. Even when she screams. Especially when she screams."

A silence. Lyle opened his mouth, hesitated, then spoke in a low, hoarse voice.

"I was that baby. The one who cried for reasons he didn’t even understand. I would have given anything to be heard without being hit or locked in my room."

Donovan looked at him then, really looked. There was something fragile and admiring in his eyes at once.

"You are a good father." he said softly.

Lyle shrugged, gaze still fixed on the small body asleep against him.

"I try. But I’m so scared of becoming like them, without even realizing it."

Donovan straightened slightly, more upright, firmer, and turned fully toward him. This time his voice was calm, but impossible to ignore.

"No. You will never be like them. Never. I forbid you to even think that."

Lyle raised his eyes, surprised by the strength in his voice.

"What you’re feeling, that fear of hurting her, it’s already proof you’re nothing like them. They didn’t care. You torture yourself at the thought of messing up a little slipper. You want proof you’re not your father ? Look at yourself. Look at how you look at her."

He gestured slowly, almost tenderly, toward Grace. "And if you need me to repeat that a thousand times, I will. Ten thousand. Every day. Until you imprint it. Until that fear no longer stands against everything you’ve already built."

Lyle blinked slowly, as if the words had crossed many layers inside him before settling somewhere.

Grace stirred gently in his arms, then let out a small satisfied sigh. Lyle looked down at her. She had fallen asleep, cheeks still wet but forehead calm.

"You know…" he whispered without looking "sometimes I feel like I’m just… an anomaly. A survivor who shouldn’t get a second chance."

Donovan answered without hesitation:

"Anomalies change the rules."

They stayed there for a while, sitting side by side, with a child between them like a fragile bridge.

The dim light in the bathroom came only from a small nightlight plugged in near the cabinet. Warm water gently lapped against the ceramic of the bathtub, sending a slight mist across the mirror. The silence, almost total, was a relief in itself after the day.

Grace was sleeping in her room. Calm had finally returned.

Finally.

Lyle was settled in the water, back against Donovan’s chest, Donovan’s arms resting on his ribs, palms open and relaxed. They hadn’t said a word for several minutes, and the silence wasn’t awkward: it was necessary. Restful. One of the rare moments when Lyle didn’t have to watch, comfort, or anticipate.

Donovan lowered his head a little, his wet lips brushing the base of Lyle’s neck. He murmured:

“You’re breathing better now.”

Lyle nodded softly, but his shoulders remained tense, as if part of him was still waiting for a scream, a sob, or a kick from the bed next door.

“She drained me,” he whispered, unable to forget his daughter’s meltdown. “I felt like I was getting everything wrong today. Nothing could calm her down. No matter what I tried… it was like she was mad at me.”

He closed his eyes. His face was hollowed, his features drawn.

“She’s not usually like this. She’s gentle. Curious. Always laughing at nothing… but today… she spent the whole day whining, squirming, refusing everything I offered her. Even her favorite toys… you saw, she threw them on the floor like they were insults. I think I heard her say ‘no’ at least a hundred times. A one-year-old baby saying no with that much conviction… it’s almost terrifying.”

Donovan gave a small, silent smile. Lyle continued, his voice even more tired:

“I know it’s normal. That it’s the age when they start testing, asserting themselves. But when she arches her back in my arms, when she screams and I don’t understand why, when she looks at me with those eyes full of tears and anger… I just want to collapse. Because I wonder if I did something wrong. If it’s my fault. If she’s already trying to push me away like I pushed mine away at her age.”

A long silence. Then :

“I hate seeing her cry like that. Scream, struggle… I know it’s normal. That she’s tired, that her gums hurt, or I don’t know… But sometimes… sometimes I feel like an impostor. Like I stole this place. Like I’m going to ruin everything.”

Donovan slowly tightened his arms around him, just enough for Lyle to feel him there, without trapping him. He pressed a kiss behind Lyle’s ear.

“You’re doing everything you can. You’ve been raising her alone for a year, you don’t go a single day without loving her, even when you’re at your limit. Isn’t that what being a good father is?”

Lyle shook his head slightly, a bitter smile at the corner of his lips.

Silence settled. Then, Donovan softly murmured against his temple:

“And she got you. Not a perfect role model. But a guy who gets up at five to heat her bottle, who rocks her until his arms feel dead, who watches her sleep like she’s the only thing still worth it. She doesn’t know you’re scared. She just knows you’re here. And that you’re gentle with her, even when you’re at your limit. Want me to keep listing all the reasons that make you a good father?”

Lyle took a breath, his eyes stinging—steam or something else. He turned halfway, enough to meet Donovan’s gaze over his shoulder.

“You don’t know how much I need you to be here.”

Donovan simply responds with a tired smile, sincere nonetheless. He kisses him there, gently, as if to say, “I know,” and Lyle finally closes his eyes, his forehead resting against Donovan’s jaw.

The silence returns, warm and calm, and this time, Lyle truly lets himself relax against him.

But after a moment, he opens his eyes again, his gaze lost somewhere between the surface of the water and the ceiling.

“You… when she cries… when she’s like that… what do you feel ?”

Donovan takes his time to answer. His voice is soft, steady.

“Sadness. And helplessness. Sometimes a bit of exhaustion too, I won’t lie. But mostly… love. Even when she throws a tantrum to avoid putting on her diaper. Even when she stomps her foot because she wants to hold her spoon by herself. I look at her and tell myself: she’s becoming a little person. She’s taking her place. And I feel… honored to witness that. Even when it’s hard.”

He pauses, then adds quietly:

“And I feel lucky. Because when I see her, I see her as my daughter too. Even if I don’t share her blood. Even if I wasn’t there from the very start. She’s becoming someone, and I want to be there to help her build herself. With you.”

Lyle says nothing for several seconds. But his fingers slide under the water until they find Donovan’s, and he gently squeezes them.

“I hope she’ll know what you did for her. What you do for both of us.”

Donovan squeezes his fingers back.

“She will. Because we’ll show her. Every day.”

The silence returned, calm and warm, and Lyle truly let himself go against his lover.

Donovan lets his hand slowly glide beneath the warm surface, where the water hugs Lyle’s hips. He doesn’t rush anything, just wants to feel him. To relax him. His fingers brush the skin of Lyle’s belly, travel up, then down again, barely pressing. Lyle says nothing at first, but his breath lengthens.

Donovan lets his lips slide down to Lyle’s ear, brushing it with a warm breath before placing a kiss there. He savors the earlobe slowly, barely nibbling, just enough to make the skin shiver beneath him.

Lyle lets out a deeper sigh, his hand resting on Donovan’s thigh as if to anchor himself. He closes his eyes, forehead pressed against the jaw of the man he loves, as the caresses move lower, between his thighs, more confident now but still slow, precise.

“You’re tense all the way down here,” Donovan whispers in his ear, his lips brushing the skin between each word. “You need to let it out, baby. Let me help…”

His voice was low, husky, filled with a burning patience. Under the water, his fingers wrapped around Lyle’s shaft with controlled gentleness, stroking him with an almost exaggerated slowness, as if refusing to rush anything. As if this moment wasn’t about pleasure itself, but about the peace he wanted to offer Lyle. A space of calm, of letting go. Just for him.

Lyle moaned softly, almost reluctantly, as if still fighting the idea that he deserved this. That he had the right to this. To someone who touched him with so much love, expecting nothing but his surrender.

“You do this every time as if I were something sacred,” he murmured, his voice broken more by emotion than by desire.

Donovan held him a little tighter against himself, his mouth still against Lyle’s ear, his breath now more uneven too.

“Because you are, Lyle.”

A silence followed, broken only by the gentle movement of the water around them, the muffled sounds of the night behind the closed door, and their mingled breaths.

Lyle’s breathing quickened and he let his head fall back against Donovan. Under the water, Donovan’s movements became more deliberate, but kept that controlled, almost protective slowness. His hand caressed him with special care, as if redrawing him, as if wanting to erase from his skin the weight of the day — and the years before.

Lyle moaned softly, low, as if hesitant to fully let go, but Donovan surrounded him with his arms, holding him close, guiding him, inviting him to let go of everything. His lips hadn’t left his ear. Between two sighs, he whispered:

“I feel like this tired dad needs to relax, don’t you ? Let yourself go, baby… I’m here, I’ve got you.”

Lyle turned his head slightly, seeking Donovan’s mouth, and kissed him with a new intensity, a deep kiss full of gratitude and need. Donovan responded with as much tenderness as contained hunger, his other hand slowly moving up Lyle’s chest, tracing the lines of his scars, physical or not.

“You’re mine,” Donovan whispered against his mouth. “Mine.”

The water around them splashed to the rhythm of Donovan’s hand along Lyle’s length, becoming secondary, almost forgotten. Lyle arched slightly against Donovan, seeking more contact, his body finally responding to the warmth, the touch, the love he received unconditionally.

The warmth of the bath wrapped around them like a hush. Steam curled softly into the air, blurring the edges of the room. The water, gently rippling with each breath, cradled their bodies. Lyle rested fully against Donovan’s chest, his head tipped back just slightly, eyes closed. Donovan held him—not with force, but with presence. Steady. Grounding.

Their breathing moved in sync, slow and quiet, as if the world outside no longer mattered.

“Don…” Lyle’s voice trembled against the silence, barely louder than the ripple of water. “I’m gonna…”

Donovan didn’t rush him. One hand continued its slow, patient motion between Lyle’s thighs, the other resting calmly along his ribs, fingers spread like an anchor.

“I know,” he whispered, his voice low and warm, like a blanket being pulled over them both. “Let go, baby. Just let go.”

Donovan brushed his lips against Lyle’s shoulder, leaving a warm, damp kiss that sent a shiver across his skin. Lyle closed his eyes, letting himself sink into this rare moment where he could finally let go.

A strangled breath escaped his throat—a low, muffled moan, buried against Donovan’s neck—as he released into the water.

The tension that had pulled at every muscle in his body melted away all at once, deep and soothing. He trembled slightly—not from cold, but from relief, as if the heavy weight pressing down on his chest had just dissolved into the warmth surrounding them.

Donovan doesn’t rush, doesn’t move. He stays there—steady, grounded—like a calm island in the middle of a storm. His hands gently trace Lyle’s skin beneath the water, slow and tender, then gradually come to rest on his stomach.

The outside world fades away. There’s only their breath, their bodies entwined, the warmth of the water, and the quiet depth of a love that asks for nothing, that simply is.

Donovan keeps holding him, even after. He doesn’t move, doesn’t push. He just presses a soft kiss to the damp skin of Lyle’s shoulder, gentle and reverent, as if to close the moment with care. The hand that had been caressing him slowly slips away, gliding down along his thigh beneath the water, only to return and rest flat against his stomach—warm, steady, reassuring.

Lyle breathes heavily, but more calmly now. His body is relaxed against Donovan’s, almost limp. His eyes are closed, his head resting back on Donovan’s shoulder, still shaking slightly, though the tremors are no longer out of fear.

Donovan murmurs against his temple : "Breathe, baby. It’s okay. I’m here."

Lyle doesn’t answer immediately. He stays there, listening to the beating of Donovan’s heart against his back, feeling his chest rise and fall in time with his own. The warmth of the water is lukewarm, but Donovan’s warmth is deeper, more anchored.

Then Lyle turns his head slightly, his eyes still clouded with exhaustion and emotion, searching for Donovan’s gaze, before his rough voice rises softly:

"You know… before you came back into my life, I’d almost forgotten what it felt like… to be touched like this. Not for sex. Not to empty myself, or to pretend everything was fine. But… to feel alive. To feel like I could truly exist, without having to hide every part of myself."

Donovan tightens his arms around him a little more, a warm breath brushing the sensitive skin of his neck. His fingers, light, draw slow circles on Lyle’s ribs, as if to imprint that tenderness into every fiber of his being.

"That’s what I want for you" Donovan murmurs, his voice soft and reassuring. "That every time you’re with me, you feel like you have the right to exist fully. That you can let go, surrender without fear. That you don’t have to carry everything alone. That you can rest."

Lyle closes his eyes, his forehead resting against Donovan’s jaw, letting the words, the touch, and the warmth envelop him. For the first time in a long while, he feels like this promise isn’t just a dream. It’s real. And he can finally surrender to it. Lyle turns his face slightly, looking up at him. His cheeks are flushed, his lashes damp, maybe from the steam, maybe not.

"You’re staying, right ?"

"Until you tell me to leave." Donovan answers, his eyes locked with his.

Silence. Then Lyle gives a small, tired smile—tiny, but real.

"Well, then you’re not going anywhere."

Donovan laughs softly, almost silently, and kisses his forehead, then once more at the back of his ear. His hand slides gently over Lyle’s skin, with no intention but to soothe him further.

"Come on..." he whispers. "Let’s get out. I’ll dry you off, put you under the covers, and have you close to me all night."

Lyle closes his eyes again, fighting against the weight of the fatigue suddenly crashing over him, eager to curl up against Donovan’s warm and reassuring body after a day spent managing his daughter’s tantrums.

Donovan helps him rise slowly from the tub, water flowing gently along their naked bodies. He grabs a towel, wraps it around Lyle without a word, then another for himself. He dries him with slow, gentle, almost silent movements.

And when they reach the bedroom, when they lie down side by side in the warm sheets, the small lamp left on casts a soft light over the folds of the blanket and the curves of their tired bodies. Lyle naturally curls up against Donovan, his head tucked under his chin, their legs entwined.

He says nothing more. He doesn’t need to.

The day was just beginning to break, and in the room lit by filtered light, Lyle opened his eyes. The first thing he felt was the warmth on his left. The second was Donovan’s calm, steady breathing, still deeply asleep beside him.

He lay there, motionless, arms by his sides, staring at the ceiling as if it held answers to questions he’d never really asked.

Then, slowly, he turned his head.

Donovan was sleeping on his side, facing him, one hand half-folded under his cheek, the other lazily resting on the duvet. A lock of hair fell across his forehead, and his face, relaxed, seemed much younger than the night before.

Lyle stayed there, watching him. It had become a habit. He always woke up a little before Donovan—and every time, he allowed himself those few minutes of silence, between them, just to watch. Not with desire, not yet. But with that strange feeling of gentle disbelief, of having recovered something he thought was forever lost.

He still remembered the year before, and that cold feeling in his chest every time Donovan’s name came to the surface.

Back then, Donovan was nothing more than a painful memory, blurry and burning at once. A figure glimpsed in newspaper articles he read in secret, a tense face on the images from the trial, a name he no longer dared to say.

A distant, foreign voice that he swore he’d never hear again.

A look he had thought was lost forever, extinguished under the weight of fear and betrayal. Their friendship seemed dead—not suddenly, but slowly suffocated. Strangled by fear, distance, unspoken words. Most of all, the silences. Those silences that accumulate until they’re louder than everything else.

Neither of them had dared to break the wall. And Lyle had convinced himself that wall would remain. Definitive.

And now…

Donovan was sleeping in his house. In his room. On the left side of the bed, the one Lyle had always left empty without really knowing why.

Just a few centimeters away from him. Peaceful. Present. As though he had always belonged there.

Donovan, who shared his days without anyone needing to ask him. Who helped feed Grace, changed her, rocked her when she screamed for no apparent reason, who stepped in without a word, just with that gaze full of silent attention.

Donovan, who did the laundry without thinking about it, who went grocery shopping when Lyle no longer had the strength to face the world. Who sometimes brushed past him in the kitchen and kissed him lightly on the shoulder as if it were natural.

Who made love to him with a tenderness he had never known elsewhere, a patient, almost silent tenderness, as if he knew his body better than he did himself. He knew exactly where to place his hands, always with a precision that felt less like discovery and more like remembrance. He slowed down when he needed to, sometimes stopped entirely just to hold him, skin against skin, without a word, until even the night seemed to hold its breath. Donovan, who, even in sex, preferred to give rather than receive, as if his own desire was rooted in awakening the other’s.

Who protected him, in his own way. Not with grand gestures, or promises. But through his constancy. His solidity. His presence, above all.

And Lyle watched him as one watches a landscape one never thought to cross—and now discovers, moved, in the early morning light. There was something dizzying in this thought. Not fear. Not panic. More of a soft vertigo. A breath at the edge of the void, but not a void that scares.

A void that calls.

As though time had suddenly folded in on itself, closing the gap between the past and the present. As if someone had softly whispered in his ear: look. Despite everything… you’ve made it here.

Lyle lowered his gaze. His eyes lingered on the barely perceptible movement of Donovan’s chest, rising slowly beneath the duvet. He could almost hear his breath, soft, almost childlike in the muted silence of the morning.

A long, silent sigh escaped his lips.

He propped himself up slightly on the pillow, gently, without waking him. He felt the morning coolness on his neck, the warm fabric of the sheet against his bare arms, the quiet weight of this situation that, just a few months ago, would have seemed impossible.

He ran a hand over his face, as if trying to sort his thoughts. But nothing really fit into place.

He had never imagined building a life with a man. Out of fear, rejection, and also because he had never allowed himself to imagine so much, so far. And especially not under these circumstances. Not after a trial. Not after being dragged through the mud by public opinion. Not with a daughter to care for, born in the ashes of an almost criminal story. Not after almost facing a life sentence.

If his parents were still alive, if he didn’t have their blood on his hands, they would probably have spat in his face. He was certain of it. Not just his father. His mother, too.

With that sharp, measured contempt she knew how to wield like a razor: a disgusted look, a sharp word, a comment thrown in the air to hurt just enough.

He would have been one more shame. A reason for punishment. Another excuse to break him. So he had never opened that door. He had never even approached it.

He had never sought to explore what it could have been, with a man. Instead, he had always dated beautiful women, stringing along relationships as if playing a role. Little by little, he had built a reputation as a playboy, proudly displaying what society expected from him. Affairs that confirmed the image he worked hard to create: that of a “normal” man, stable, virile, capable of seducing, committing, keeping a couple steady and flawless.

And yet, despite all his efforts…

It was in this bed, today, that his heart felt the least alone. In this bright but silent room, with a man he had once loved like a brother, then hated, then cried over, and was now learning to love again, while his daughter slept peacefully nearby.

As a teenager, he had that naive fantasy of the simple, upright, solid couple. A house, one or more kids, maybe a dog. Something calm, something stable, something that looked nothing like the chaos he had grown up in.

He thought of Stacey.

The first.

The only one, perhaps, to whom he had really offered everything he was at the time.

She wasn’t perfect, but she had that straightforward look, that way of speaking to him as an equal, never condescending. She had loved what he thought he had to hide: his clumsiness, his moments of silence, even his stuffed animals that he still kept on his bed at sixteen. While others mocked him, she had once taken his favorite—Cookie Monster—and told him: “He looks like a survivor. Like you.”

He had loved her for that. For her relentless softness.

And he had cried like a child the day she left. Not angry. Not betrayed. Just… decided. She needed a future that he, back then, couldn’t offer her. She wanted to focus on her studies, her dreams, and he was no longer part of them.

He still remembered it clearly. It was the first time his heart had broken. Not from violence, not from humiliation, but from the truth that sometimes, love isn’t enough. And yet, now, years later, it was beside a man that he woke up. A man he had not seen coming. A man he had learned to forgive, to relearn. Who had seen the worst of him and had still stayed.

He hadn’t planned for this. He had never dreamed of it.

But this calm… it was not nothing.

He glanced at Donovan again, still asleep. He stayed there for a moment, watching him, detailing the peaceful curve of his face, the softness of his features that sleep softened even more, the rebellious lock falling over his forehead, the way his lips gently shaped.

Without hesitation, Lyle leaned toward him and began placing small, light kisses across his face—on his temple, the corner of his lips, his cheek, the tip of his nose.

Each contact was a silent caress, a quiet message of love, secure and soothing. In his sleep, Donovan slightly grimaced, scrunching his nose, letting out a faint grunt that made Lyle smile. He continued, gently, until he brushed his forehead with one final kiss. Then, satisfied, he straightened up silently, gave him one last look, and slipped out of bed, barefoot on the cold floor.

He headed to the kitchen. He needed coffee.

And maybe, some courage to face his daughter’s growing and strong personality.

~~

In the laundry room bathed in the golden morning light, Lyle was crouched in front of the washing machine, a small pile of baby clothes beside him. He was carefully folding a tiny pale yellow t-shirt decorated with giraffes — the one Grace had worn two days ago, just before spilling an entire jar of carrot puree on the collar.

The machine hummed softly behind him, the still-damp laundry releasing a warm scent of detergent and clean cotton. Lyle felt a deep sense of relief as he saw his daughter finally return to her calm, after several days of testing him with bursts of tantrums that had left him exhausted. Today, Grace seemed to have become the joyful, giggling baby he loved so much.

On the floor, just a few steps away, Grace played with two rolled-up socks, seemingly trying to make them talk to each other in a mysterious language of gurgles and tongue clicks. Lyle watched her, a serene smile on his lips, touched by the innocence of this moment. It was as if all the tension from the past days had dissipated, replaced by this reassuring calm. He felt just a little lighter.

He forced himself to refocus on his task and grabbed another onesie, this time blue and white striped, with a stubborn stain on the belly.

“Miss Grace,” he said with a mock serious tone, showing her the stained onesie. “Honestly, do you know you give me more laundry than three adults combined ? Are you doing this just to keep me busy, huh ?”

Grace lifted her head, her eyes wide and sparkling with mischief. She burst into a giggle, that crystal-clear laugh that melted Lyle every time, and raised her arms, waving the socks like victorious puppets. Then, with a hesitant move, she pushed herself up on her little chubby hands, leaned forward, placed one knee on the floor…

And stood up.

First half-way, wobbling, her legs still unsure. She let out a small “oooh” of surprise, as if wondering what she was doing. Lyle, frozen, watched her, hands suspended in the air, still holding one sock between his fingers. His breath caught in his chest.

Grace raised her arms in front of her — the balance of a tightrope walker — and took a step. Then another. Toward him.

“Oh my god… Grace !” he gasped, eyes wide, heart racing. He knelt down and reached out his arms. “Baby, you’re walking ! You’re walking all by yourself !”

She stumbled for a moment, steadied herself with a small laugh, and with all the pride in the world in her twelve months of existence, she took the last two steps and threw herself against her father’s chest.

Lyle caught her and hugged her tightly, laughing with joy, tears welling up in his eyes without quite knowing why. Maybe because he hadn’t imagined experiencing this, not really. Not like this. Not with such pure happiness.

“Donovan !” he shouted without even getting up, his voice torn with pride. “Don ! Come see ! She’s walking ! She walked all by herself !”

From the garden, they heard the sound of a metal chair being hurriedly pushed away, and a few seconds later, Donovan appeared in the doorway, breathless, a jasmine branch still hanging from his sleeve.

“What ? She...?”

Lyle, still kneeling, held Grace against him like a fragile treasure. He laughed again, then gently pushed his daughter back a little with a small movement.

“Go on, do it again for Daddy and Donovan…”

Grace, as if she perfectly understood that she had just done something huge, stood up again, her body trembling with effort and excitement. Then, slowly, under the amazed gazes of her two dads, she took a few steps. Three steps. Four. And a little high-pitched laugh at the end, arms raised as though she had just conquered the world.

Donovan crouched down beside them, eyes shining. He reached out his hand to Lyle, who gripped it tightly, their fingers naturally intertwining.

“She’s incredible,” Donovan whispered.

“She’s perfect,” Lyle answered, his voice trembling.

In the laundry room, surrounded by damp socks and half-folded t-shirts, time seemed to stand still. And in that tiny moment of eternity, Lyle knew that no matter the scars of the past — what mattered was this miracle. These shaky steps. This laughter. And this love, so vast, that he didn’t even know how he had lived without it.

The sun had gently declined, casting orange bands through the living room blinds that danced slowly on the walls, like the moving shadows of a happy memory. The golden light bathed the furniture and caressed familiar objects with a peaceful glow. In the adjoining room, the baby monitor, resting on a shelf, emitted a soft nightlight.

Grace, after her great feat of the afternoon, her very first wobbly steps, was fast asleep in her crib. Her rosy cheek rested against her well-worn comforter. She was exhausted but peaceful, as if she had conquered an entire world with just a few awkward gestures.

Lyle was slumped on the couch, his legs curled up, loose socks on his feet, and a cup of lukewarm tea in his hands. His fingers, a little shaky from fatigue, played absentmindedly with the handle. Donovan, sitting next to him, watched him out of the corner of his eye — his profile turned toward the window, lashes gilded by the sun, his face marked by quiet tenderness. He said nothing, made no sound. He was simply… there.

The house itself seemed to hold its breath. No TV, no music. Just the soft rustling of leaves outside, a bird still singing despite the late hour, and the gentle clink of the cup when Lyle set it down on his knee.

Then, like a sigh that escapes the lips unexpectedly, Lyle broke the silence.

"You know…" he murmured. He turned his head slightly toward Donovan, a smile almost shy at the corner of his lips, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was about to say."... I think I have rarely been as happy as I am today. This little one impresses me... It’s such a blessing to watch her grow."

Donovan didn’t respond right away. He simply tilted his head slightly, a barely discernible smile forming at the corners of his mouth. He could tell from the tone of Lyle’s voice that this wasn’t a casual comment. It was a confession. A fragile shard of truth.

Lyle continued, lower this time, as if speaking to himself or to the light filtering through the blinds.

"Being a father… I wanted it, but I didn’t know what it would involve." He inhaled gently. "At first, it was just vertigo. A bottomless fall. I was overjoyed when I found out I was going to be a dad, but terrified when I found myself alone. I thought: I can’t do this on my own. I’ll mess it up."

His fingers slid slowly and nervously along the enamel edge of the cup.

"Because my only example of a father was…"

He stopped short. The air seemed to hang for a moment. His jaw clenched slightly, his eyelids flickering. His fingers tightened around the cup.

" … it was him. "

He said no more.

Donovan turned toward him, calmly. Not surprised. Just… attentive. His gaze grew more serious, more tender. He knew. He knew what that word carried. What that silence, so dense, could not say.

Lyle stared at some abstract point in front of him, his throat tight, his lips pressed together. For a moment, his eyes shimmered, but he let no tear fall. He didn’t continue. He didn’t need to. Donovan knew.

Then, gently, without a word, Donovan placed his hand on Lyle’s knee. A calm pressure. Not intrusive. A presence. A silent « I’m here, » whole but quiet.

Lyle inhaled slowly, as if to ground himself in the present moment. Then he spoke again, his voice soft but more assured:

"I was afraid of becoming like him. Without even realizing it. Afraid that one day I’d shout too loudly. React too quickly. Be… hard. And that it would be too late. That it would be done. The cycle complete."

A shiver passed through his shoulders, as if the memories stirred beneath his skin. He briefly saw the shouting in the house, the anger rising too quickly, the violent gestures that left invisible but burning marks. The nights when he woke trembling, trying to erase the images with a shaky hand. The heavy silences filled with fear and threat.

"And damn, it’s sometimes so hard to… to raise a child." His voice almost broke on the words, heavy with the weight of the ghosts he still carried. "But I swore I’d never become my father."

He slowly raised his eyes to Donovan, his gaze holding back but also carrying open wounds, invisible scars pulsing in the soft light.

"Grace…" His face softened. He gave a small smile, gently breaking through the fatigue around his mouth. "She taught me the opposite. She taught me that you don’t need to shout to be heard. That you can comfort instead of correct. That sometimes… just a hand on the forehead, or a kind word… that’s enough to heal."

Donovan felt a shiver pass through him. What Lyle was saying, he felt it in his bones, in his own flesh. He had seen it grow in him too, that slow, powerful bond between their awkward gestures and the tenderness they were learning to give without immediate return.

"I had prepared myself to be alone." Lyle continued. "I thought it was my burden and my miracle. That no one would understand."

He finally looked at him. Fully. "Then you came back. You crossed that door. And everything opened up again. I saw Grace searching for you with her eyes. Reaching for you. Pulling your hair like she does with me. And I understood I didn’t want her to grow up without that. Without you."

Donovan’s lips parted, his pupils wet, touched to the core. He wanted to say something, but Lyle preempted him, slowly rising from the couch, his fingers brushing Donovan’s as he passed.

"Wait. I want to show you something."

He disappeared into the adjacent room. Donovan heard drawers sliding, papers rustling, a slight creak of furniture. When Lyle returned, he was holding a thick photo album, bound in beige fabric, slightly worn at the edges. Grace’s name was embroidered in golden cursive letters, some nearly faded.

He sat back down close, their legs brushing, and placed the album on their shared laps.

The first page opened to a hospital photo. An almost unreal image. Grace, so tiny, reddish, wrapped in a white blanket. A too-large bonnet on her head. And Lyle, in a wrinkled gown, hair disheveled, dark circles under his eyes, holding her against him with a mix of disbelief and raw adoration in his eyes.

Then more pictures. Grace asleep on Lyle’s chest, her strawberry print pajamas pulled up on one leg. A blurry photo where she’s crying, covered in foam in a tiny bathtub. Another, so sharp it seemed you were there, where she grabs Lyle’s finger, her eyes wide open, focused as if she were touching the sky. There were no photos showing Christy with Grace, however. Donovan chose not to point that out.

Donovan turned the pages slowly, reverently. He felt something open in him. A space. An echo. It wasn’t just tenderness. It was a quiet love, perhaps old, as if it had always existed in him without knowing how to be born.

They turned the pages slowly until they came to a series of photos taken during the day at the zoo, for Grace’s first birthday. Each image captured a moment of simple, fragile happiness, a luminous counterpoint to the torments of the past.

In the first photo, Grace, in her little denim overalls, was sitting on Lyle’s lap, held firmly but tenderly. Her face smeared with banana, she was laughing wildly, eyes squinted with joy.

The next photo showed Donovan, crouched beside Grace, handing her a little ice cream stick that she looked at with curiosity, her chubby hand reaching toward him. You could see Donovan’s soft, attentive smile, his eyes on the little one as if she were the only thing that mattered.

Further on, one photo captured Erik playing hide-and-seek with Grace behind an animal enclosure. His laugh burst through the photo, while Grace, still too young to really understand the game, simply enjoyed trying to catch him awkwardly.

Another image showed Grace, wide-eyed, in front of a small group of penguins, her eyes fixed on the creatures gliding across the ice, while Lyle held her hand, his face marked by a protective tenderness.

Finally, a close-up photo showed the three men gathered around Grace, all smiling. The sky had been overcast that day, with gray clouds filtering the light softly, but that hadn’t stopped the warmth of a day full of joy and camaraderie from shining on their tired but happy faces. This last image seemed to capture all the tenderness, all the fragile promise of a family rebuilt in its own way.

Donovan stopped, a sharp pang in his heart so vivid that he had to breathe a little harder. Lyle then placed his hand on his.

"She loves you, you know. She recognizes you. She listens to you. She looks for you when you’re not here."

Donovan lowered his eyes. His throat tightened.

"And I can see that you love her." Lyle continued, his voice soft but firm. "You look at her like she’s made of glass and fire at the same time. Like you can protect her from everything."

Donovan slowly nodded, jaw clenched.

"You may not be her biological father. But you’re her second father, even if it sounds… strange, put that way. But for me, there’s no doubt. You’re the one who loves her. Who laughs with her. Who carries her when she’s tired. Who reads her those books at bedtime. That’s everything."

Donovan blinked, trying to hold back what was rising, but not really succeeding. A silent tear rolled down his cheek. He let it fall.

"Do you think she’ll understand ?" he asked in a broken, almost childlike voice.

Lyle nodded gently, his gaze tender.

"She’ll understand that you were there. That you loved her. And that we raised her together. That’s what it means to be a father. Not just blood. It’s being there. Day after day. Like you. Kids understand more than we think. She’ll know she was loved. Completely. By two men who chose her. And who chose to never let her be alone."

Donovan leaned in without a word and hugged him tightly. Wholeheartedly. Lyle let his head fall against his shoulder, arms around his waist, eyes closed.

And in that living room, bathed in slow, golden light, in the muffled silence of memories turned by hand, two men embraced — gently, deeply — as if they had just repaired something inside them they thought was broken forever.

Upstairs, in her crib, Grace stirred slightly. A tiny, radiant smile formed in her sleep, as if she sensed that this world, right here, was hers.

And that she was loved in it.

~~

The afternoon sun bathed the garden in a soft warmth, filtered through the tall branches of a fig tree. The grass was still a little damp from the morning watering, and the scent of lavender rose gently from the flower beds, mingling with the distant song of cicadas. Donovan sat in the grass, legs crossed, arms stretched behind him to support his back, a smile stretching from ear to ear. He had rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, the white fabric of his shirt gradually tinged green from brushing against the grass.

Lyle lay on his back a few steps away, arms folded behind his head, eyes half-closed. He wasn’t really asleep. He was savoring the moment. Every sound, every scent, every little laugh from his daughter — all of it seemed almost too beautiful to be true. He had learned to be wary of happiness, but today, he didn’t want to fight it.

In the middle of this peaceful little world, Grace proudly toddled on her chubby legs, arms raised in the air as if to keep her balance. Her diaper made a soft, cushioned noise with every step, and her pale blue cotton dress fluttered with her awkward movements. She stopped, turned around, then set off again, driven by excitement.

She had taken her first steps a week earlier, and since then, each day seemed like a new miracle. Lyle watched her with a mix of disbelief and adoration, as if he had never imagined he’d get this far—alive, and happy.

Donovan reached out his arms to her, speaking in a soft, joyful voice : “Come on, big girl… say a little word for us, huh ? You can do it. I know you’re dying to.”

Grace stopped, blinked at him, then slowly turned her head toward Lyle, as if something inside her naturally aligned.

Lyle sat up a little, one eyebrow raised, a playful sparkle in his eyes:

"You know who I am, right ? It’s not complicated… da…ddy…"

He pronounced the word slowly, his lips clearly visible.

"Listen, sweetheart. Da…ddy…"

Grace frowned, her mouth opening and closing as if chewing on an invisible word. She wobbled on the spot, leaned on her hands, then stood upright, her gaze fixed on him. Then, in a barely audible little breath, she awkwardly pointed a finger at him.

“Da…ddy.”

The word floated in the warm garden air, fragile like a butterfly hesitating before landing.

Lyle blinked several times, frozen, breath caught, as if he had just heard a melody he thought was lost forever. His heart was pounding wildly, a knot of conflicting emotions tightening in his chest. Then, suddenly, as if struck by a flash of light, he sprang to his feet, mouth slightly open, eyes shining with astonishment and pure joy.

“What ? Did you say it ? You said Daddy ?!”

His laugh burst out, clear, spontaneous, and disarmingly sincere, a sound he hadn’t allowed himself to make for a long time. He rushed to her, then gently bent down to lift her up against him. He held her tight, as if to anchor this moment in his memory, in his soul.

In a surge of uncontrollable excitement, he spun around laughing heartily, carried away by a simple, profound joy.

“Daddy ! You said Daddy !”

He lifted her high into the air, like a precious trophy, then gently settled back into the cool grass, Grace snuggled against his chest, her breath short, her heart pounding with emotion.

The little girl laughed, a clear, crystalline laugh, free and innocent, a laugh that seemed to spring from deep within her tiny belly. She clapped her hands, rubbing her soft cheeks against her father’s stubbled chin, amazed by the reaction of the man she loved so much.

Donovan, standing still for a moment, felt his throat tighten. He brought a hand to his mouth, then to the nape of his neck, as if he needed to hold something back. He said nothing. He didn’t need to. Everything was there, right in front of him. This moment, these laughs, this little voice… It was more than he thought he deserved.

Lyle, lying in the grass, closed his eyes, arms still wrapped around his daughter. He spoke almost in a whisper : “You called me Daddy…” He slowly sat up and looked at Donovan : “She called me Daddy.”

Donovan nodded slowly. His voice was low, a little hoarse.

“She knows exactly who you are.”

A brief silence settled, rocked by the wind in the leaves and Grace’s still light laughter, now sucking on her fingers, clearly proud of herself. Donovan slowly rose from the grass, patting his knees, and approached.

Lyle looked up, grinning.

“Want to give it a try ?” he asked.

Donovan raised his eyebrows.

“Me ? I think my name is more complicated.”

“You’d be surprised.”

He turned toward Grace, who was now straddling his stomach, chewing on a lock of hair.

“Look, sweetheart, do you recognize him ? It’s Donovan. Say Do-no-van. Come on, baby.”

Donovan chuckled lightly.

“You’re going to make her say my full name ? Don’t you want to start with ‘Dono’ or ‘Nono’ ? I don’t even get a nickname ?”

“You’re being cheeky, but you have no idea what you’re about to experience.”

Lyle propped himself up on one elbow, still lying down. He stared at his daughter with a theatrically focused look.

“Come on, big girl… Do-no-van. It’s easy. Dono…”

Grace stared at Donovan, eyes sparkling. She tilted her head a little, smiled, then opened her mouth.

“…Da…da.”

One breath. Two syllables. Neither quite his name, nor a coincidence.

Donovan froze. He stopped laughing. He opened his mouth to say something, but no sound came out.

“She just said Dada…” Lyle murmured, a little stunned.

Grace reached out a small hand toward Donovan, as if to confirm that she knew. That she saw him.

“Dada !” she repeated, louder.

Donovan lowered his eyes. He stayed still for a few seconds, mouth half-open, before slowly dropping to his knees before them. He placed a hand on his chest.

“She called me Dada…” He laughed softly, but his laugh trembled. He quickly wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “I… I didn’t know I needed to hear that. Not that much.”

“Me neither,” said Lyle, his voice strangely calm. “But it’s like… like all this mess was worth it, just for that. Just for that.”

They stayed there, all three of them, as the sun slowly set behind the hedge. Grace babbled on, switching between “Daddy” and “Dada,” laughing at her own words, as if she sensed the emotion in the air and wanted to kiss it in her own way.

Donovan finally approached, placing a hand on Lyle’s back, the other on Grace’s head.

“She’s our miracle, you know ? She saves you. And me too, a little.”

Lyle didn’t answer right away. His gaze drifted away for a moment, as if to swallow a lump of emotion he didn’t want to let out. Then he slowly turned his head toward Donovan, his eyes misty, reflecting all the tenderness and vulnerability he usually hid behind a hardened mask.

“Yeah. She’s the most beautiful thing I have. But… now, you’re part of it.”

Donovan gave a sincere, deep smile.

“So that makes two of us.”

~~

The afternoon sun filtered through the half-drawn curtains of the living room, and the air smelled of fresh laundry and freshly brewed coffee. Grace was trotting joyfully between the furniture, arms raised for balance, still a bit unsteady but already much more confident than the previous week. She laughed out loud, chasing after a small foam ball that Donovan had thrown a few moments earlier.

Erik, slouched on the couch, watched her with his mouth slightly open, genuinely impressed.

“Am I dreaming, or is she really walking now ?!” he exclaimed, sitting up a little. “A week ago she was falling on her butt every three steps.”

Lyle, leaning against the doorframe with a cup of tea in hand, smiled proudly.

“She’s walking. She’s running. And climbing too. Yesterday I found her standing on the couch, banging on the window like she was trying to signal the mailman.”

Erik laughed, shaking his head. “She’s amazing, seriously.”

Donovan, sitting on the rug with Grace, helped her get up gently after a fall. He handed her the ball, which she grabbed clumsily before dropping it immediately.

“You haven’t seen anything yet. Last night she said ‘Daddy’ right in the middle of her bath, like she was calling me to the rescue. I almost melted.”

Erik raised an eyebrow, suddenly very interested.

“Wait a minute. She talks now ?”

“A few words,” Lyle replied proudly. “‘Daddy,’ ‘Dada,’ ‘ball,’ ‘more’… and ‘no,’ of course. Lots of ‘no.’”

“Okay, I want to try something,” said Erik, leaning forward a bit. “Come here, champ, give uncle Erik a try, huh ? E-rik. Can you say that? Eee-rik…”

Grace stopped, intrigued by her uncle’s cheerful tone. She slowly turned toward him, stared for a few seconds… then opened her mouth.

“Aaa… aaa…”

A suspended silence.

“…gaa !”

A burst of laughter filled the room.

“Well, at least it’s original,” Erik chuckled. “I guess I’ll be called Gaga until she’s three.”

Lyle shook his head laughing, then went to sit on the couch, setting his cup down on the coffee table. Donovan, still seated on the floor, watched Grace crawl over to him to climb on like a little koala.

“You know what ? I’ll take that as a compliment. She’s experimenting.”

Erik stretched back, crossing his arms behind his head.

“Alright, guys. I’ve got an idea. It’s beautiful outside, we’re all dying in this house, and the kid looks like she needs to burn some energy. Why don’t we go to the beach this afternoon? Just the three of us… and her, of course. A towel, some shade, some snacks, and done.”

Lyle frowned, like stung in his cocoon.

“To the beach…? Erik, you know very well…”

“Yes, I know very well,” his brother interrupted. “You’re going to talk to me about the looks, the people recognizing us, the panic you feel whenever someone pulls out a camera. I know… But have you seen the weather ? It’s the perfect day. And it’s not like we’re going to Venice Beach on a Saturday night. There are plenty of quiet little coves. I know a spot, no crowds.”

Lyle crossed his arms over his chest, visibly torn.

Donovan had straightened up, picking up Grace as she started to fuss a little.

“And remember the zoo. It was packed that day, yet… no sneaky photos in the papers, no incident. We handled everything well.”

Erik nodded vigorously.

"It was for Grace’s birthday, Ly. You were freaking out like crazy, and yet, we had a great time. She saw giraffes, monkeys, she screamed at a peacock, and at the end of the day you told me you hadn’t been that relaxed since… I don’t even remember when."

Donovan added softly, almost like a promise :

"Nobody tried to steal that from you, Lyle. Not a single paparazzi shot in the tabloids. We took precautions. We can do it again. And besides… you deserve it. Grace too."

Lyle looked from his brother to Donovan. He lowered his gaze to his daughter, who was now sucking gently on the edge of Donovan’s sleeve, making a small soothing sound.

He massaged his neck, exhaled deeply.

"I still have trouble believing things can… stay calm. That people can just leave us alone."

Erik shrugged, gently.

"Maybe they’ll never forget us. But what matters is what we don’t let them steal from us. Those moments… they’re stronger than any rotten tabloid article."

A long silence followed. Then Lyle raised his head.

"What beach did you say again ?"

Erik smiled, bursting with enthusiasm.

"A little cove near El Matador. Hidden, beautiful, not too crowded. And I’ll bring the ice cream, promise."

Lyle sighed… then cracked a smile himself.

"Then we better get the sunscreen out. She’s gonna want to run everywhere."

Donovan lifted Grace above his head with a knowing smile.

"You hear that, Gracie ? We’re going to the beach !"

Grace babbled back, not understanding but thrilled by the excitement around her.

Lyle watched the scene, his heart pounding, but already feeling a little lighter.

El Matador, late in the afternoon, had that quiet charm of places that don’t try to show off. The golden cliffs cast their shadows over the blonde sand, and the gentle ebb and flow of the waves covered the silence of the outside world. No crowds. No shouting. Just the sea, the foam, the warm wind heavy with salt, and that strange feeling of having found a refuge.

Lyle held Grace in his arms, one arm under her chubby legs, the other around her back. She wore a little white hat that was too big for her, slipping over her eyes with every movement. Her bare feet wiggled with impatience.

Donovan followed them with a large towel rolled under his arm, a picnic bag in his other hand, while Erik walked ahead as a scout, carrying a cooler, sunglasses on his nose, shirtless and clearly delighted to have stolen this timeless moment for them.

“This is perfect,” announced Erik, setting the cooler down in a shady spot near a big rock. “I said it’d be quiet.”

Lyle scanned the surroundings, automatically checking the heights. No zoom lenses, no flashes. Just an elderly couple strolling far away, and two children playing in the foam with their mother.

“You were right,” he murmured.

He looked at Donovan, who was spreading the large towel on the warm sand. He said nothing, but his smile said it all.

Grace started to wiggle more vigorously.

“Okay, okay,” sighed Lyle, gently placing her on the towel. “Go ahead, explore your kingdom, little mermaid.”

She fell onto her bottom with a giggle, then clapped her hands. The sand fascinated her. She grabbed handfuls of it and tried to eat it, until Donovan handed her a small red bucket to divert her attention.

“Here you go, princess. Sand, yes. Sand sandwich, no.”

Lyle flopped down next to her, legs stretched out, hands digging in the sand. He closed his eyes for a moment. The wind caressed his face. No cameras pointed at him. No intrusive stares. Just the sound of the sea. Erik opened a can, handed one to Donovan, then glanced at Lyle.

“We should do this more often.”

Donovan sat beside him, their knees almost touching. He looked at Grace with a gentle expression, his eyes filled with that calm light he only had when fully present.

“You know it’s the first time I’ve seen her play in the sand ?” he murmured.

“It’s the first time she’s touched it,” admitted Lyle.

A silence. Grace babbled beside them, focused on filling the bucket only to spill it every time she got close.

Donovan lowered his voice, still watching her.

“She seems… free. Crazy, isn’t it ? All it takes is a bit of sand and a quiet spot.”

“It’s not the sand,” replied Lyle half-looking at him. “It’s you two.”

Donovan turned his head toward him.

“You think so ?”

“I’m sure. She senses when I’m okay. And right now, I’m okay.”

Their gazes met, and for a moment, nothing else existed. Not the waves, not the wind. Just that invisible thread slowly stretching between them for weeks, vibrating a little stronger with every heartbeat.

Erik, eyes hidden behind sunglasses, watched the scene silently. He smiled softly, then stood up, stretching.

“I’m going to get the ice cream from the cooler. Before it melts into soup.”

As he walked away, Donovan and Lyle remained silent for a moment.

Then Donovan sighed :

“You know, I could get used to this.”

“To what ? Sand in your shoes ?”

“To you. To these moments. No running away, no second thoughts. Just… this.”

Lyle swallowed, eyes fixed on Grace who was holding up a seashell with a triumphant look.

He took the shell, looked at it, then placed it on the sand.

“I could get used to it too,” he murmured.

A smile slowly crossed his lips, and this time, there was no shadow behind it. The sand still stuck a little under their feet as Lyle, Donovan, Erik, and Grace gently approached the water. The murmur of the waves seemed to invite them, and the sun, high in the sky, warmed their shoulders.

Grace, in a light blue swimsuit, wiggled in Lyle’s arms, her eyes wide open before the sparkling expanse of water.

“Are you ready, princess ?” asked Lyle, touching her nose with a finger, a game she loved.

She laughed, babbling an enthusiastic “Da !”

Erik, a big smile on his face, took off his cap and watched the scene with tenderness.

“Wow, she’s growing fast, huh ? I can’t believe she’s already walking !”

Donovan nodded, smiling.

“Yeah, it’s crazy. She discovers everything with incredible energy.”

Donovan took off his sunglasses, a broad sincere smile lighting up his face.

“Come on, let’s all go together,” he suggested, holding out a hand to Lyle.

Lyle gently took Donovan’s hand, exchanging a knowing look, while Erik was already moving toward the water, ready to join them. Their feet sank into the wet sand, the waves brushing their ankles. Lyle knelt down a little so Grace could touch the water with her chubby fingertips. She burst out laughing when a small wave tickled her hands, then turned away, fascinated by the shimmering liquid movement.

“Come here, my little mermaid,” called Donovan, kneeling as well, ready to catch her if she lost balance.

Grace, with the confidence of a baby discovering a new world, slipped from Lyle to Donovan, who caught her with a soft laugh.

“She’s starting to wrap us around her little finger,” murmured Lyle with a smile.

“Yeah, and she’s really good at it,” replied Donovan, gently swinging her in his arms, causing Grace to burst out in a clear laugh.

Erik knelt down beside them.

“Let me try !” he said with a mischievous grin.

Lyle handed him Grace, who laughed again.

“Hey, little one, do you recognize your uncle ?” said Erik, gently placing his hands under her arms.

Grace looked at Erik with wide curious eyes, then let out a small “Eh !” that made everyone laugh.

“Not bad at all,” said Erik laughing, “but you still need to work on my name.”

They then decided to go a little deeper into the water. Lyle took Grace’s hand, while Donovan grabbed one of hers, and Erik the other. The four of them walked until the water reached their knees.

The wind blew gently, mixing coolness and warmth, while Grace let out little joyful cries at every wavelet that caressed them.

“Look at this!” exclaimed Donovan, gently splashing Lyle, who immediately retaliated, triggering a water fight during which Grace laughed heartily.

Erik, laughing too, joined the battle, splashing everyone without restraint.

Lyle knelt down, holding Grace above the water, and gently encouraged her:

“Come on, show them what you can do !”

With a gleam of mischief in her eyes, Grace stretched out her little hands and splashed the water around her, soaking the arms of Lyle, Donovan, and Erik.

“She’s a little tornado,” commented Donovan, wiping water dripping down his face.

“The most adorable tornado I’ve ever seen,” replied Lyle, smiling tenderly.

After their long swim, their bodies still wet and salty, they slowly returned to their towel set a bit apart from the coming and going of the bathers. The sand, heated by the sun for hours, was still warm under their feet, soft and slightly grainy, slipping between their toes.

Erik stretched out fully, a satisfied sigh escaping his lips, as if every muscle in his body finally relaxed after the effort. Donovan rummaged through his weathered canvas bag, pulled out a bottle of cold water that was sweating under the heat, and handed it to Lyle with an encouraging smile.

“Want some water ?” he asked softly.

Lyle took the bottle, his fingers brushing against Donovan’s for a moment. His voice was hoarse, as if the wind and emotion had marked his breath.

“Thank you,” he replied, his eyes still fixed on the horizon where the sun was beginning to set, casting golden reflections on the rippling surface of the ocean.

They sat side by side on the blanket, savoring the soft, fragile silence. Around them, the distant cries of seagulls, the steady lapping of waves breaking on the shore, and the gentle rustling of sand dunes in the light breeze formed a soothing, almost meditative melody.

Suddenly, a burst of childish laughter broke the suspended moment. Erik, his face lit up with a broad smile, grabbed Grace’s little chubby hand as she played nearby, her fingers still wet from the sea, shining under the sun.

“Come on, princess, it’s not over, we’re going back in the water !”

He carefully lifted her, his strong arms wrapping the little one like a promise of protection. They walked toward the shore, where the waves gently kissed the sand, coming to play at the feet of the bathers.

Lyle and Donovan watched them walk away. Grace’s bursts of laughter mingled with the lapping waves, a crystalline sound as radiant as the sun. A few minutes passed like this, then Donovan gently and hesitantly placed his hand on Lyle’s shoulder.

“Hey… you okay ? You look a little sad.”

Lyle slowly turned his gaze away, his eyes shining with a contained, almost painful emotion.

“It’s just… I’m trying to enjoy this, to live this moment with you, with her, but… you know, sometimes that guilt comes back, stubborn.”

Donovan nodded slowly, encouraging him to go on with a simple look.

“I involved Erik in all this. That tragedy… that night when we… shot our parents… I always believed I was protecting him, that it was for his own good. But in truth, he paid the highest price, more than I think I did. During those years of trial, I saw him collapse, lose his footing, unable to get back up. And that’s my fault.”

He lowered his head, his shoulders hunched under the weight of shame, his voice trembling and hoarse.

“And despite all that… despite always being close, despite him being my little brother… I hurt him. Things, when we were kids, that I thought were right. I believed I was protecting him, but in reality, I hurt him.”

Donovan felt a lump tighten in his throat. He knew very well what Lyle was talking about.

The toothbrush incident.

He immediately recalled the images from the trial: Lyle in court, cameras trained on him, his broken voice, his body trembling under the weight of that revealed past. His public apologies to his little brother. And Erik’s tears.

Lyle suddenly felt his body tense up, as if an icy storm had just crashed down on him. His heavy, trembling hands sought support, an anchor in the reality that threatened to fade before his eyes. His breathing sped up, irregular, almost panicked, as memories buried for years resurfaced without warning, harsh and merciless.

A painful knot formed in his chest, squeezing his heart with a dull pressure, a weight impossible to ignore. He could feel his whole body vibrate under the tension, his muscles tighten, his face contract as if holding back a silent scream. Then, without really being able to stop it, tears began to roll, hot and bitter, down his wet cheeks. They traced the path of pain he had repressed for too long, the pain of a past that never ceased to haunt him.

His mind, clouded, searched for a refuge, a safe space. He leaned toward Donovan, his hands gripping his arms gently but firmly, seeking in that contact a solid anchor. His body, so long rigid and defensive, nearly collapsed under the weight of his despair. He was vulnerable, like a lost child caught in a storm.

“I… I don’t know how to live with this anymore,” he whispered in a broken voice, every word a struggle. “How… how can I be anything other than this weight of guilt? How can I not feel crushed by what I did, what I let happen ?”

He lowered his eyes for a moment, his voice nearly breaking:

“Sometimes, I see myself as a criminal, you know… Sometimes I regret what I did to our parents. But back then, I was a ticking time bomb, a danger to myself, to Erik. I feared for our lives… And now, I’m scared. Scared of what Grace will think one day. When she knows everything. What I did to our parents, what I did to Erik… How could she love me, if she knows? Even if she understands the reasons behind it all—will that be enough ?”

His eyelids closed for a moment, as if trying to contain the flood of emotions, but the trembling didn’t subside. Donovan answered without hesitation. He pulled Lyle into his arms, holding him gently, firm yet protective, as if trying to stop the fall, to hold back the pain. His hand slowly stroked Lyle’s hair, a simple gesture, almost instinctive, carrying infinite tenderness.

“Lyle… you have to listen to me. This isn’t your fault. You were just a kid, a kid who had to face the impossible, in a world that left no room for softness. Like you said—you were a ticking bomb. No one, ever, deserves to carry that kind of weight alone. You did what you believed was right, even if it was hard, even if it was terrible. Even when it broke you. You tried to save yourself and Erik when no one else could.”

He paused, his voice softening, filled with hope.

“Look at you now. Look at the path you’ve walked, despite everything. Look around you. Grace, over there, laughing, full of life, with Erik by her side. These moments of happiness, this life you’re building together—they’re victories. Not chains.”

Lyle took a deep breath, feeling the air fill his lungs—stronger, freer. His shoulders slowly relaxed, the tension holding them unraveling little by little. A sob rose, a ragged breath—but this time, it wasn’t the collapse. It was the beginning of release.

“This fear… it comes back a lot. This fear that everything will fall apart, that I don’t deserve this happiness, that everything we’ve built… it could all vanish in an instant.”

Donovan lifted his face toward Lyle, diving into his tear-filled eyes. He saw the struggle, the fragility—but also the strength hidden behind that wounded façade.

“You deserve so much more than that fear. You deserve peace, light, joy. And every day, even with your doubts, you move toward that. Let me say it again: you are not alone, Lyle. I’m here. Erik is here. Grace is here. We are your family, your harbor, your strength. And we will never let you fall.”

Donovan’s words, spoken with such gentleness and conviction, wrapped around Lyle like a warm blanket in the cold. He was used to those words now—to that calm, unwavering presence. Every time, they came to soothe his fears, to quiet his doubts, like a soft breeze calming a restless soul. Lyle never knew how he would manage without him. Without the certainty of that constant support, that outstretched hand he could always reach for, even in his darkest moments. It was a kind of tenderness he had never known before, a silent, indestructible constancy.

A gentle silence settled then, hanging in the warm air. Lyle could hear Grace and Erik laughing in the distance, their innocent joy floating in the atmosphere like bubbles of lightness. Their laughter, bright and sincere, was a precious reminder that love and joy were still possible, even after everything he had been through. In that moment, everything felt like it belonged, like a puzzle where each piece finally fit just right.

Lyle closed his eyes for a moment, feeling a warm tear slide down his cheek. It wasn’t a tear of pain, but one of release. A tear that carried the letting go of old ghosts, of regrets and fears. It was a tear of hope, of forgiveness, a fragile hope, but more real than anything he had believed possible until now.

Maybe everything really was okay. Maybe what he had been searching for all his life was finally within reach.

The sky had begun to blush softly as they left the beach. The sun was dipping below the horizon, stretching orange streaks across the Californian hills. The salty air, still clinging to their hair and clothes, mixed with the scent of sunscreen and warm sand, made the car feel peaceful—almost suspended in time.

Lyle held the steering wheel, his fingers relaxed, his eyes focused on the winding road that led them home. The hum of the engine blended with the steady whisper of the nearby sea, and everything about the end of the day breathed a simple, untouched serenity.

In the passenger seat, Donovan had his head leaned against the slightly open window. His eyelids half closed, he was dozing, his features calm, still bathed in golden light. A few damp strands clung to his forehead, and his lips, slightly parted, seemed to hold a faint smile.

Lyle glanced at him from the corner of his eye. Neither of them had spoken since they left the beach. There was no need. The silence wasn’t heavy or distant—it was calm, intimate. And Lyle felt perfectly at home in that kind of silence.

Then, checking the rearview mirror, his gaze settled on the backseat. Grace was sound asleep in her car seat, her mouth slightly open, a curl stuck to her cheek. Her little arms hung limply at her sides, and a half-wet stuffed animal rested on her belly. Right next to her, Erik had also fallen asleep, his head gently resting on his niece’s lap, as if it were the safest place in the world. A sleepy smile still clung to his lips, and his hand lay across the car seat, protective, almost instinctively so.

Lyle felt his heart tighten, but this time, it wasn’t guilt or fear. It was something deeper, something lighter. A silent, profound gratitude. The kind of moment you don’t plan for, don’t see coming, but that overwhelms you all at once.

A breath escaped him, quiet but full. He tightened his grip on the wheel slightly, as if to stay grounded, stable, while something inside him quietly melted.

He thought about the day. The laughter in the waves, the games in the sand, Grace squealing with joy in Erik’s arms, the way Donovan had looked at him, so tenderly, when he’d broken down earlier. He thought of all of it, and of what he might have lost if he’d kept running, kept hiding.

A slight shiver ran up the back of his neck. Lyle glanced briefly at Donovan. The man had half-awakened and turned slightly toward him, his eyes half-open.

“Everything okay ?” he murmured, his voice still sleepy, hoarse but soft.

Lyle gave a quiet smile. “Yeah… I’m okay. Just… thanks for being here.”

Donovan slowly closed his eyes again with a faint smile, not answering. That silence, too, said everything. And Lyle turned back to the road, throat a little tight. There was nothing to change. Nothing to run from, for once. Not tonight.

He had his daughter, his brother, and the man who had brought his heart back to life. A peace so rare it felt sacred.

And as he drove into the golden light of dusk, with the steady breath of the people he loved filling the quiet, Lyle told himself that maybe, just maybe, he was finally on the right path.

The car rolled on for a few more miles in the calm of early evening, rocked by the last golden reflections of the sun on the hills. When they finally reached the familiar driveway of the house, bathed in soft, amber light, Lyle turned off the engine.

No one moved right away.

Donovan had fallen back asleep in silence, his head slightly tilted toward the door. In the back, Erik didn’t stir, deeply asleep against the car seat. Grace gave little rhythmic breaths, her lips parted, peaceful in her sleep. Her stuffed toy dangled limply to the side, her chubby hand still resting on Erik’s head.

Lyle sat there a moment longer, hands still on the wheel. The sound of the engine faded, replaced by the distant song of cicadas and the buzz of an old streetlamp. It was one of those suspended moments, frozen in time, where everything felt strangely perfect.

He closed his eyes briefly, breathed deeply, then turned to Donovan, gently laying a hand on his arm.

“Hey, Don… wake up, babe. We’re home.”

Donovan stirred slightly, blinked as if waking from far away, then sat up with a sleepy grimace.

“Mmm… Already ? Feels like we only drove five minutes.”

“You were out cold.”

Lyle gave a tired but genuine smile. Donovan returned a soft look, then turned to see Erik and Grace.

“Should we let them sleep or attempt the extraction ?” he whispered playfully.

“I’ll take Grace. You wake Erik, he’s easier to manage when he’s not snoring on a child,” Lyle replied, a quiet laugh in his voice.

They stepped out of the car carefully. The evening air was cooler now, but still carried that smell of salt and sand that clings after a day at the beach. Lyle opened the back door and crouched beside Grace’s car seat. He paused a second, just looking at her. Her cheeks flushed from the sun, her slightly damp curls, her little hand still resting on Erik’s head.

He slid his arms under her with infinite tenderness.

“Come on, sweetheart… time to go inside.”

She gave a small groan, not fully waking, her head naturally nestling against his shoulder. Lyle closed the car door with his elbow and held her close, inhaling her scent—a mix of sand, sunscreen, and that familiar, comforting baby smell.

Donovan had managed to wake Erik without much trouble. He mumbled as he shuffled toward the front door, hair tousled, but with a sleepy smile on his face.

“I think I passed out before she did,” he whispered, looking at his niece fondly.

“You definitely did,” Lyle replied with a smile.

The three of them entered the dim house, lit only by the warm orange glow from the street. Donovan softly turned on a lamp in the living room, bathing the space in gentle light.

Lyle went upstairs with Grace still in his arms and laid her down in her bed with great care. She barely stirred, mumbling in her sleep before curling onto her side and settling back into peaceful breaths. He pulled the little blanket over her, then lingered a moment, hand resting on her back.

Then he quietly descended the stairs, each step light, as if not to disturb the calm. Downstairs, Donovan had brought out towels, clean clothes, and placed water bottles on the table. Erik was slouched on the couch, eyes half closed.

“Feels like we ran a marathon,” he muttered.

“You mostly built a giant sandcastle and declared yourself king of the waves while screaming at your niece,” Donovan teased with a laugh.

“I stand by it.”

Lyle stepped closer, drying his hands with a towel.

“Thanks, you two. For today.”

He looked at them both, heart swelling with a gratitude he couldn’t quite express any other way.

“It was… one of those days that really matter,” he added after a pause.

Erik gave a thumbs-up without even opening his eyes. Donovan, meanwhile, stood up, walked over to Lyle, and gently slid a hand around the back of his neck, tilting his head slightly.

"We’ll have more days like this. Plenty more."

Lyle closed his eyes, a peaceful smile on his lips.

The word echoed softly in the room, like a promise. Then, one by one, they turned off the lights and headed to bed, their hearts light, cradled by the memories of a summer day they would never forget.

The house was bathed in the quiet of early morning, disturbed only by the faint chirping of birds through the open windows. The sky was a pale blue, washed clean by the rising light, and a gentle breeze made a loose shutter clap softly upstairs.

Lyle opened his eyes slowly, lying on his side, the sheet pulled up to his waist. Donovan was still asleep beside him, one hand resting lazily on his stomach, his calm, steady breath brushing against Lyle’s collarbone. For a moment, Lyle didn’t move. He just lay there, listening, feeling. The warmth of the body beside him, the faintly salty scent left in the air from the day before, the deep calm of a house where everyone was still asleep, it was rare. Too rare.

No sound came from the baby monitor, a sign Grace was still sleeping soundly.

Eventually, he sat up carefully, making sure not to wake Donovan, and slipped out of bed. Barefoot, he padded quietly down the hallway and stopped in front of the guest bedroom door.

He opened it slowly. Inside, Erik was sprawled across the bed like a teenager in the middle of summer, arms stretched out, one foot sticking out from under the blanket. His curly hair was a mess, sticking out in all directions. He was snoring lightly, face completely relaxed, mouth slightly open.

On the nightstand: an empty water bottle, a towel rolled into a ball, and an old paperback Erik had probably grabbed at random from the bookshelf.

Lyle leaned against the doorframe for a moment. He looked at him. And his heart tightened.

It was crazy, he thought. That this face, his little brother’s face, was still here, in his home, in his life, whole, alive. That after everything, he hadn’t run away, hadn’t disappeared for good. They had been so close to the edge once. So close to losing everything. And yet, Erik was there, asleep in his house, as if the years of pain had only been a detour. As if he’d come home.

A lump rose in Lyle’s throat. He blinked several times and took a breath.

He closed the door quietly and headed downstairs. In the kitchen, he turned on the coffee maker. The smell of fresh coffee began to fill the space, blending with faint hints of laundry and warm wood.

A few minutes later, as the sun filtered through the blinds and lit up the kitchen tiles with a golden glow, he heard heavy footsteps on the stairs.

“God, I feel like I ran a marathon with dumbbells,” Erik groaned, appearing in the doorway, his slightly curly hair still messy.

“You say that every time since you turned 25,” Lyle replied, handing him a steaming mug.

"Yeah, but yesterday I had a valid excuse. I got promoted to competitive babysitter" Erik said with a grin before taking a long sip. "Hmm… okay, I forgive you for everything now. Did you put sugar in this ?"

“Two. Like always.”

They sat down at the table, the wood still cool beneath their bare forearms. In the background, the radio played an old 1994 song — something soft and nostalgic.

“She still asleep ?” Erik asked.

“Mmm. She woke up once around six, a little grumpy, but she went back to sleep quickly.”

“You’ve got this down. I don’t even know how you stay so calm with her all the time. I panic every time she sneezes.”

Lyle chuckled softly, setting his cup down.

"You’ll get used to it. She adores you, you know. She was curled up right next to you in the car last night... it was so sweet."

Erik nodded, his smile growing softer.

"I could feel her little hand on my head… it’s crazy, man. I still can’t believe she’s your daughter. After everything we’ve been through… you did it, Lyle. You built a life, despite everything."

Lyle was quiet for a moment, lost in thought. He looked up at his brother, eyes suddenly damp with emotion.

"It’s thanks to you, too. You never gave up on me. Even when I hit rock bottom. Even when I probably deserved you walking away."

He paused, then added in a lower, more intimate voice :

"Erik… I don’t know if I say it enough. But I love you. And I know it might sound weird to just say it out of the blue like this, but… you’re the part of me I managed to save. You were my only anchor all these years. Without you, I wouldn’t have made it. I don’t know how I managed to hurt you and love you so much at the same time… but you were always my little brother. Even when I was lost, even when I was angry at the world… you were there. And that kept me alive."

Erik looked at him, caught off guard, his brows slightly furrowed but his eyes shining.

"Well shit… looks like you’re the one who’s gonna make me cry, after all."

He looked down for a second, shook his head, then met Lyle’s gaze again. This time, his eyes were clearly misty.

"You have no idea how much I needed to hear that."

He leaned forward slightly, placing a warm hand on his brother’s arm. His thumb brushed lightly over Lyle’s shirt, almost absent-mindedly, but his eyes stayed locked, steady.

"You know, there were times when I was angry. I was lost, completely falling apart. But… I never stopped loving you. Not once. Because despite everything… you were my brother. And you were the one protecting me. Even when you were mad at the whole world. Even when you were falling apart. You were there."

He took a deep breath, his voice dropping, vibrating with emotion.

"There were days, during those endless trial years, when it felt like the world was crumbling beneath us. I wondered if we’d even make it out alive. But I held on. You know why? Because I told myself: If Lyle’s still here, then I can hang on a little longer. Because even through everything, you were my role model. You were the first person to tell me I had worth, even when everything else screamed the opposite. You were my protector — the one who pulled me out of that hell."

He smiled gently, with that familiar blend of humor and sadness only he could pull off. "So yeah… maybe you messed up sometimes, Lyle. And so did I. We grew up in hell. But we made it out. And now look around. Look at this house, look at Grace… look at what we’ve built. We didn’t become the men we thought we’d be. But we became the ones we needed to be. And that… that’s already huge."

A silence settled over them, soft this time, almost sacred.

Lyle looked at him, eyes glistening, unable to speak. He leaned forward slightly and rested his forehead against his brother’s shoulder, wordless, just needing to be close. Erik didn’t move. He placed a hand on the back of Lyle’s neck, holding him like he used to when they were kids. Solid. Together.

Light footsteps echoed on the stairs. Donovan, hair messy and wearing an oversized old t-shirt, appeared in the doorway, still half-asleep.

"Hmm… coffee ?" he groaned like a zombie.

Erik raised his eyebrows in amusement.

"And here comes the other hero of the day."

Lyle stood up to hand him a fresh cup, kissing him on the cheek as he did.

"Sleep okay ?" he whispered.

Donovan nodded, taking a sip before replying :

"We should go to the beach every day. I haven’t slept that well in years."

The three of them found themselves gathered at the table, in the quiet of the morning, drinking their coffee as the house slowly woke around them.

Upstairs, a soft cry echoed, the kind of sleepy, stretched-out sound of a baby waking up.

Lyle sat up immediately, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

"My little star is awake."

Erik watched him head up the stairs, coffee mug in hand.

"You know, Lyle… you’re one hell of a dad. She’s lucky to have you."

Lyle turned his head toward him, his gaze soft.

A companionable silence followed. Upstairs, the sound of Lyle’s footsteps and Grace’s joyful babbling mingled with the morning light.

Lyle stepped quietly into his daughter’s room, bathed in pale golden light filtering through the curtains. She was already standing in her crib, cheeks still flushed from sleep, her pajamas slightly rumpled, and her messy hair forming a blurry halo around her face.

When she saw him, she let out a little cry of delight, reaching her chubby arms toward him.

"Da…dy !"

Lyle’s heart tightened instantly, just like it always did. He thought to himself—this was something he’d never get used to. You don’t get used to this kind of love.

He walked over, lifted her into his arms, and hugged her close. Her small, warm body, still heavy with sleep, curled against his as if she wanted to become tiny again, to melt right into him.

"Good morning, sweetheart… Did you sleep well ?"

Grace tapped her hand against his chest with a little laugh, then rested her head on his shoulder. They stayed like that for a while, standing in the middle of the room, rocked gently by Lyle’s slow sway.

He closed his eyes, breathed in her scent—soap and sleep—and let his cheek rest against her temple.

"You know," he whispered, "some days I wonder if I deserve all of this. You. Your smile. Your love."

She didn’t answer, of course. She simply placed her small hand against his cheek, as if she could sense he needed the touch. And that single gesture was enough to tighten his throat.

He sat down in the chair by the window, holding her close, his legs curled up to cradle her more comfortably. She clung to Cookie Monster, the one he’d placed in her crib the night before. Her lower lip was tucked slightly in her mouth, her body completely relaxed against his.

"You’re going to grow up, my baby. You’re going to ask questions. One day, you’ll want to know where you come from. Where I come from. What I did. And I’m scared… I’m so scared you’ll look at me differently when you know. That you won’t be able to forgive me."

He felt his voice tremble slightly, but Grace’s calm, peaceful presence kept him grounded. She breathed against him, as if the world was no more complicated than a warm hug and her father’s voice whispering in her ear.

Lyle wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, trying to smile through the emotion.

"But I promise you one thing, my love. I’ll always be here. No matter what you learn. No matter what stories people tell you. What you need to know… is that I love you more than anything in the world. More than my life."

She lifted her head a little, placed both hands on his cheeks, and gave him a kind of sloppy, awkward kiss on the chin. Lyle burst into a soft laugh, tears still in his eyes.

"Well, that’s it, officially, you know exactly when to hit me right in the heart."

He straightened a little, held her the way one holds a precious secret, and whispered:

"I’m not sure I ever really did something with my life. But you… you’re the proof I did something right."

A soft voice called from the staircase:

"Lyle, the coffee’s still hot if you want a second cup."

It was Donovan.

Lyle stood, still holding Grace in his arms.

"Come on, let’s go find your Dada and Uncle Gaga. I bet they’ve already stolen all the cookies."

Grace laughed, clapping her hands together, already ready for the day ahead.

But for Lyle, that small moment, stolen from the rush of life, had been so much more than a quiet morning.

It was grace, made real.

Chapter Text

Grace was still asleep, a rare silence hanging in the air, delicate, almost fragile. Lyle was slumped in a corner of the couch, an old mug of lukewarm coffee in his hands. He wore a wrinkled t-shirt, his features drawn with fatigue—but in his eyes, something calmer. Almost gentle. His shoulders, usually tight like wires ready to snap, seemed lighter today.

Donovan had been up early. He’d tidied a few things from the night before, folded a blanket left on the armchair, picked up one of Grace’s toys left near the coffee table.
His eyes landed on a pile of mail: envelopes hastily stacked, some half-opened, others crumpled, untouched.

He frowned slightly.

"Have you seen all this ?" he asked, sitting down on the edge of the couch with a bundle of letters in hand.

Lyle slowly turned his head, glanced at the mail, and instantly tensed. He set his mug down, reached out for the envelopes… but let his hand fall back onto his thigh, gaze avoiding Donovan’s.

"Leave it," he said simply. "It’s never anything good."

Donovan stared at him. "You mean…?"

Lyle shrugged, a dry smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Insults. Threats. People who think I should die, or go back to prison. Or that someone like me doesn’t deserve to raise a child. And ever since you showed up… some of them include you in their bullshit, too."

A heavy silence settled. Donovan ran his fingers along the edge of a torn envelope, still watching Lyle.

"And you opened all of that by yourself these past months?"

Lyle nodded slowly, not meeting his gaze.

"Then I stopped. I couldn’t take it anymore. It poisons the good days. So now… I just leave it there. Try to forget."

Donovan was quiet for a moment, eyes shifting from Lyle’s closed-off expression to the scattered letters in front of them. Then, calmly, he picked up the first envelope.

"Then I’ll read them for you."

"Donovan…"

"You’ve protected me before, Lyle. Let me do this for you."

Lyle hesitated, jaw clenched… then gave the faintest nod, resigned.

Donovan opened the first letter. He read a few lines out loud. An insult, vicious. A thinly veiled threat. He folded the paper without a flicker of reaction and set it aside.

"That one’s what you expected. A coward with too much time."

He opened another. Same thing.

But the third made Donovan pause. His eyebrows lifted slightly. He skimmed the letter, expression slowly changing.

"What ?" Lyle asked, tense.

Donovan looked up, something strange in his eyes.

"Listen to this."

He unfolded the letter more carefully this time and read :

"My name is Cameron. I don’t know you personally, but I wanted to say thank you. I’m gay. I grew up in a family that probably would’ve left me on the doorstep if I ever told them who I was. And then… I saw that photo of the two of you, kissing at the airport. You weren’t saying anything. You weren’t making a statement. You were just there. Together. Real. I showed that photo to my sister, and that’s how I came out. Because I thought—if they can face the world, maybe I can, too. Thank you."

Donovan looked back up slowly. Lyle had gone still.

"You want me to keep going?"

Lyle didn’t answer. He was staring at the letter like it might vanish in Donovan’s hands. Donovan reached for another envelope, opened it, read in silence… then another.

"There’s more, Lyle."

He began reading them aloud, one by one, gently, like revealing something precious.

"I’m 17. I grew up in a tiny town where no one dares to say what they are. When I read an article calling you monsters, I clicked. And I saw your faces. I didn’t see monsters. I saw two men looking at each other like no one’s ever looked at me. And it made me want to believe."

"My name is Louis. I lost my brother after he came out. My family rejected him. He left. I never saw him again. When I saw those pictures of you… I thought of him. Of what he could’ve had. And now, I’m trying to find him again. Thank you for reminding me that love can still exist, even for us."

"Dear Lyle,
I don’t know you, but I felt the need to write to you. Your courage in testifying about the abuse you and your brother endured during the trial deeply moved me. This difficult act broke a silence that weighs heavily on many of us. I have also been through similar experiences, and hearing your testimony gave me a new strength. Your truth and determination to make your voice heard resonate as a hope for those who are still suffering in silence. Thank you for not letting fear stop you. Because of you, I feel less alone and a little more ready to imagine a future where pain no longer defines us. With all my gratitude and silent support,
David H."

Lyle ran a hand down his face, his eyes shimmering. He shook his head slowly.

"Why didn’t I open them…"

Donovan gently set the letters down, then knelt in front of him.

"Because you thought there was nothing in there for you. Nothing but hate. Because you were taught to expect the worst."

He placed a hand on Lyle’s knee.

"But you’re doing good, Lyle. Even without trying. Just by being here. Living."

Lyle drew in a shaky breath, throat tight.

"I spent my whole life feeling like poison. And now… you’re reading me letters like I’m some kind of anchor for these people. It doesn’t feel real."

Donovan looked at him, eyes wet.

"It is real. And you deserve it."

He held out one of the letters.

"Here. This one… you should read it yourself."

Lyle took it, hands trembling, and unfolded it. It took him a moment to read the first few lines. Then he froze. His lips moved silently. His eyes filled with tears.

He slowly pressed the paper to his chest, holding it there like something too precious to risk losing. Lyle stayed like that, motionless, his heart beating too fast. The crumpled paper against his chest felt suddenly heavier, but in that weight, there was also something fragile. Something real.

He looked up at Donovan, dazed.

"This… It’s more than I ever imagined. I didn’t know… I had no idea it could be like this."

Donovan nodded softly.

"I know. This world is still quiet. Still hostile. For guys like us, for those people, every word of support counts double."

Lyle turned his face away, fighting a deep wave of emotion.

"I spent so many years hiding. Expecting the worst. Thinking no one could ever understand. Thinking if they saw me, really saw me… I’d be condemned."

"And yet, here they are. These voices. Thanking you for existing. Finding in you a strength they didn’t know they had." He placed a hand gently over Lyle’s. "You’re not just surviving, Lyle. You’re giving people hope. Without even knowing it."

Lyle took a slow breath. "It scares me, you know. What that means. That I’m not just a man trying to protect his daughter. That I’m… this too. Some kind of role model, whether I want to be or not."

Donovan gave him a quiet smile. No pride. Just warmth. A silence settled between them—comforting. Full of promise. Lyle placed the letter on the coffee table, then stood and walked to the window. He looked out at the city, slowly waking under the pale grey morning light.

"Maybe I can try. Not for them. Not for the press. But for me. For Grace. So that one day, she’ll know her father wasn’t afraid to love or to speak up. Even when the world told him to stay silent."

Donovan stepped in behind him, wrapping an arm around his waist.

"It won’t be easy," he murmured. "But I’ll be there. Always."

Lyle turned his head slightly, brushing his cheek against Donovan’s in silent reply. He felt the warmth of the other man, his anchor. And for a moment, the weight of the world seemed lighter.

"I know," he whispered. "That’s why I’m going to try."

~~

Grace was running barefoot, her tiny feet slipping through the damp grass, her laughter bursting like soap bubbles too light to stay grounded. She held Cookie Monster in one hand, twirling him like a superhero’s cape, inventing a world where nothing was scary.

Lyle sat on the garden couch under the shade of a parasol. He watched her with a tired smile, but one filled with tenderness, almost surprised that something so pure could have come from a life like his. His elbows rested on his knees, hands clasped together, as if he were praying without realizing it. His gaze never left his daughter, but he felt Donovan beside him—solid, familiar.

Donovan had turned slightly toward Lyle, arms crossed, one leg folded on the bench. He watched Grace play with amusement, but also with a quieter kind of softness. From time to time, his gaze drifted to Lyle, as if checking that he was okay. That he was holding on.

Between them, the silence wasn’t heavy. It was full—filled with the gentle rustle of leaves, the distant song of a bird, and Grace’s laughter slicing through the air like flashes of light. A silence made of complicity. Almost intimacy.

Lyle eventually broke it, his voice a little rough, hesitant:

"You know… those letters. I can’t get them out of my head. That people see themselves in us, even though we never asked for it. It’s… strange."

Donovan raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Maybe we’re becoming California’s new gay icons, don’t you think?"

Lyle let out a small laugh, shaking his head.

"Hold on, hold on… I’m not gay."

He said it with a defensive edge to his voice, almost automatic. Like a reflex he hadn’t unlearned yet.

Donovan burst out laughing, a real one, echoing softly through the garden.

"Oh, I know that. But who said you have to be one thing or the other? You can love a woman and a man. Or love differently."

Lyle frowned slightly. He picked a blade of grass from his knee and rolled it between his fingers, nervously.

"It’s just that sometimes… it messes with me. Because deep down, I know I also love women. That’s always how I’ve seen myself. As a guy who loved a woman. Not as someone who could be… 'gay.' Even with you, you know I haven’t been feeling this for very long."

His voice had dropped lower, more intimate, like he was afraid the trees themselves might judge him. Donovan, without a word, placed his hand on Lyle’s. Not to reassure him. Not to make a statement. Just… to be there. To offer grounding.

"Sometimes I still have trouble believing it too… And it’s okay that it’s complicated. We didn’t grow up in a world where you could explore this without judgment. You’re just doing what everyone does, in your own way: trying to understand who you really are."

He smiled. One of those smiles that doesn’t expect anything, that doesn’t push. A smile that says: you can go at your own pace.

"You know, what I see in you, it’s not a label. It’s a man learning to give himself permission to be whole. To stop shrinking into what others decided for him. And that alone is huge."

Lyle looked up at him. A mix of gratitude, confusion, and a certain unnamed tenderness flickered in his eyes.

"I know I’ve already asked you this, but… do you really think it’s possible? To be yourself without all that weight? Without the guilt, the shame… the feeling that you don’t belong?"

Donovan nodded slowly, without hesitation.

"Yes. With time. With patience. And with courage. And you already have all three. Even if you don’t realize it yet."

A soft laugh escaped Lyle, like a sigh that felt lighter than usual.

"We’re going to end up writing a book : How to Become a Gay Icon by Accident, you and me."

Donovan smiled, mischievous, a spark of gentle teasing in his eyes.

"We should. With a special chapter: How to Handle the Cutest Kid in the World While Figuring It All Out."

Lyle turned his head toward Grace, who was now running toward them, arms outstretched, cheeks flushed from the effort. She stumbled, laughed, got back up without missing a beat.

His smile widened. "She’s the one who’ll keep our feet on the ground."

Donovan looked at the child with something almost paternal in his gaze, then turned his eyes back to Lyle.

And maybe one day, she’ll know."

Lyle didn’t answer right away. He watched Grace throw herself onto the grass, lying on her back, arms wide open toward the sky as if trying to catch the sunbeams.

Lyle stood up slowly, his heart full of tenderness, and joined his daughter. He lay down beside her in the grass, feeling the softness of the earth beneath his skin. Then, with a conspiratorial smile, he scooped her up in his arms, lifting her into the air. Grace burst into laughter, her little eyes shining with joy.

Donovan watched them, his face softened by genuine tenderness. That simple moment, full of love and lightness, seemed suspended outside of time, in a world fragile, but real.

~~

A few days later

That evening, on the terrace, the June sun was slowly sinking behind the hills. The light drew long orange streaks across the weathered wood. The air was warm, heavy with the scent of blooming jasmine. Cicadas sang in the foliage, a sound almost unreal, as if it didn’t belong to California.

Lyle was slumped on the garden couch, sheltered under a big parasol from the heavy sun, his face scowling. The baby monitor was nearby, just in case Grace woke up. Donovan, seated a few paces away in a wicker chair, watched him. Discreetly. It had been a few days since Lyle had begun showing signs of wear again: insomnia, mood swings, muffled panic attacks. Even his smile seemed mechanical now, just a defense.

And the journalists had returned, gradually, before leaving them once more to a — false? — semblance of peace. They’d prowled around the house, taken photos from their cars. One of them had even tried to speak to Erik as he left Lyle’s house.

Donovan sighed softly, then shifted a little. He knew what he was about to propose would probably be rejected at first, but he no longer had the luxury of waiting.

“I had an idea,” he said quietly, almost as though speaking to himself.

Lyle slowly turned toward him, eyebrows furrowed.

“Oh no,” he whispered, a joyless smile creeping at the corner of his lips. “I know that tone. It’s your ‘I’ve-got-a-crazy-plan-but-trust-me-it’s-great’ tone.”

Donovan gave a half-smile, but his expression remained serious.

“Listen to me. Just listen, okay? I was thinking… maybe we could get away for a weekend.”

Lyle sat up a little, muscles taut.

“Go where?”

“The south of France. Aix-en-Provence. Quiet. No one to recognize you. No journalists. Just… silence. Sunshine. And maybe a glass of wine without hiding behind a curtain.”

Lyle snorted, a bitter sound.

“You wanna exile me like some disgraced old noble?”

“If that’s what you need to breathe… then yeah. And then I thought we could push on to Monaco. Not as tourists. Just a walk. A dinner. Nothing flashy.”

Lyle shook his head immediately.

“No. Out of the question. I can’t leave Grace. Not even for one night.”

Donovan didn’t respond right away. He’d expected this.

“You’re doing an amazing job with her, Lyle. No one is questioning that. But you need a break, especially since those damn journalists resurfaced. I can see how much it’s affected you.”

A heavy silence fell between them.

Lyle looked away. His hands had tightened around the water bottle. He was rocking slightly, almost imperceptibly. He looked like a man cornered in his own home.

“She needs me,” he murmured. “I am her father. I am all she has.”

Donovan moistened his lips. He hesitated, then spoke more quietly, more gently.

“And you… do you have no one?”

The question dropped like a stone in water. Simple. Harsh. Unfair. True.

Lyle closed his eyes for a moment. He let a slow hand slide over his tired, unshaven face. He exhaled sharply, as if his lungs were struggling.

“I’m not ready,” he said. “Leaving like that… what if something happens? If she has a nightmare? If she gets sick? If she calls for me, and I’m not there?”

Donovan leaned a little forward, not touching him, but closer. His voice became almost a whisper.

“Erik will be there. He adores her. He knows how to be with her. You know that.”

Lyle smiled softly, a tired smile. Then it vanished just as fast.

“It’s not rational,” he murmured. “It’s visceral. I can’t. I’m scared that… I don’t know. Of not coming back the same. Or that something might break.”

Donovan stood slowly and sat down facing him, on the edge of the terrace. The two men were now eye to eye.

“Maybe what you risk losing, Lyle… isn’t Grace. It’s your pain. It’s your cage. And yes, I know it’s scary, but this isn’t running away. It’s breathing out. Allowing yourself two days to breathe. To become a little human again. And you could come back lighter. For her. And for you.”

Lyle looked at him. For a long time.

Silence stretched, disturbed only by the cry of a distant bird and the soft hum of insects in the warm air.

“Two days ?” he said finally, his voice rough. “No more.”

Donovan smiled. A relieved smile, almost tender.

“Two days. Promise.”

“If Erik agrees…”

“He already said yes.”

Lyle raised his eyebrows, half surprised, half irritated.

“You called him already?”

“Let’s say I had good hopes,” Donovan answered with a half-smile.

Lyle shook his head, looking tired, but just a little amused.

“You’re unbearable.”

“And you, you’re a bit stubborn. But hey… you just said yes. So I win.”

They stayed there a while, side by side, without speaking. A silent bond, almost fragile. The sky reddened slowly, staining itself with copper hues.

From inside, a small cry broke the calm. Grace.

A light whimper. Lyle stood up immediately, shoulders stiff. Donovan watched him, not moving.

“Two days, huh?” Lyle murmured as he stepped into the house.

He wasn’t yet sure he’d made the right choice. But for the first time in a long while, the idea of somewhere else… didn’t only scare him. It made him want to go.

The house was silent.

The kind of fragile, suspended silence that follows a long day: a silence almost alive, where the walls seem to hold their breath, and where even the objects themselves appear tired — the toys abandoned at the foot of the couch, the books left half-open on the armrest, the still-warm bottle forgotten on the counter. Even the ticking of the clock in the hallway seemed slower than usual.

In Grace's room, the air was soft, filled with the scent of laundry and talcum powder. A nightlight in the shape of a star cast golden light against the walls, creating moving shadows that gently slid along the dresser and over the polka-dot curtains. The ceiling was dotted with pale constellations, outlined by the glow.

Lyle sat on the edge of the small crib, leaning toward her. Grace was half-asleep. Her eyelids fluttered faintly, and her small hand clung firmly to two of his fingers. She wasn’t holding on tight, but she wouldn’t let go either — as if even in her half-sleep, her body refused to let him leave. An instinctive loyalty. Unintentional. And infinitely heartbreaking.

He watched her, motionless, elbows on his knees, hands on the sheets. Her brown curls, fine and silky, stuck to her slightly damp forehead. Some strands drifted onto her temple, and Lyle gently pushed them away with the tip of his fingernail. Her breathing was calm, steady, like a quiet sea after the storm. It barely lifted the embroidered blanket.

Every detail of this face — so small, so perfect — pierced him. The roundness of her rosy cheeks. Her lashes, impossibly long, as though painted with a brush. The tiny tremble of her lower lip. And that slightly parted mouth, always seeming on the verge of saying a word… a secret… or maybe her name.

His throat tightened.

He had been waiting for this moment of peace. He wanted to speak to her when everything was still, without Erik in the hallway, without Donovan in the living room. Just the two of them. Like it used to be. Before the world started rumbling around them again.

"Baby..." His voice barely emerged. A broken breath. "Daddy's going away for just a little while. Only two days. Just two. And you'll stay with Uncle Erik. You like him, don't you? He makes those silly faces and sings like a stuffy duck. You laugh every time."

She made a soft noise in her throat, a little sigh mixed with an exhale, and moved her hand in his. He slowly closed his fingers around hers, like he was afraid of scaring her.

"I’ve never left you. Not for a night. Even when you had a fever and I slept sitting there, in that chair, watching you breathe because I was afraid you’d stop. I’m afraid you’ll be mad at me… or think I’m doing like she did. That I’m leaving you. That I’m not choosing you."

A shiver ran up his neck.

He breathed slowly, eyes closed. Then he leaned down and placed a light kiss on the top of her head, against her still-warm hair.

"But I’ll be back. I swear. And I’ll think of you every second. Even over there, across the ocean, when I see the sea, I’ll think of you. Of the way you say ‘oooh!’ with your eyes wide when you see the waves on TV. Of your laugh when I put your little spoon on my head like a crown, and you clap your hands. Of how you reach out to me, swaying, as if the whole world doesn’t exist until you find me with your eyes. Of your toys scattered in the living room, of Cookie Monster you drag everywhere, of your scent that stays on my t-shirt. Everything will remind me of you. And I’ll come back. Always."

He smiled, but it was a trembling smile, full of love and pain. He sat up just slightly, slowly brushing the back of his fingers over her soft, silky cheek, warm like a ripe peach.

"You’re all I have that’s good, Grace. All I’ve succeeded at. You fixed me. And sometimes, I’m so afraid... that if I leave, even just a little, what we have... will fade. That you won’t wait for me."

And that’s when she made that little noise, that sleepy laugh, a fragile, blurry voice, but so pure. She slowly opened her eyes, still hazy, and clumsily raised an arm toward him. He didn’t hesitate. He pulled her against him, gently, and she laid her head on his shoulder as she always had, her forehead nestled against his neck, her warm, uneven breath sliding across his skin.

He rocked her in silence. Slowly. His heart tight. His hands like wings around her.

"I love you, my little star. More than you’ll ever understand. And I’ll be back soon. For you. Always for you."

She had fallen back asleep there, against him, trusting, peaceful. And Lyle stayed like that, holding her, eyes shining, unable to put her back in her crib. As if this hug, this tiny body against his, could be enough to carry her with him onto the plane. As if he could take this moment with him. Anchor it in his flesh.

Just two days.

But for him, it was already an eternity.

~~

D Day

The morning woke gently, but inside the house, the weight of silence felt heavier than ever. Every sound—the creak of the floorboards, the sigh of the wind against the windows—seemed amplified, almost solemn. Lyle moved with slow, almost uncertain steps, a carefully packed bag in hand, every item meticulously arranged after being checked three, four times during the night.

Yet, what held all his attention was Grace’s small room, that sanctuary where his entire existence seemed focused. A pale, golden, and peaceful light filtered through pastel curtains, casting soft, trembling shadows on the walls like fading memories.

He opened the door quietly, almost expecting to see her bright brown eyes welcoming him, fixed on him with that gurgling laugh he loved so much. But the little one was still asleep, peaceful and fragile, curled under the blanket with the calmness of an angel. Her slow, steady breathing formed a reassuring melody.

Lyle knelt at the edge of the bed, his breath nearly caught in this suspended moment. He placed a trembling hand on Grace’s soft cheek, feeling the comforting warmth of her skin against his palm. She barely stirred, letting out a small sigh in her sleep.

A thousand words filled his mind—advice, promises, silent apologies. But none wanted to come out. Just that whisper from deep within his heart:

"I’ll be back soon… just two days…"

Two days. It sounded trivial. Yet it felt like an eternity. He watched his daughter, her eyes closed, lashes fluttering as if still dreaming. He wanted to imprint every detail: the delicate shape of her nose, the curve of her parted lips, the slight furrow of her brow that sometimes appeared in dreams, and the steady rhythm of her breathing that seemed to say: I am safe.

His heart clenched suddenly, a sharp, visceral pain he had never felt so intensely. Fear overwhelmed him: fear that in those two days, he would miss a first word, a small step, a unique and fleeting moment that could never be reclaimed. Worse, the absurd, irrational but visceral fear that something might happen to her in his absence.

A shiver ran up his spine as his throat tightened. His fingers gripped the blanket as if clinging to something tangible, real—a thread between her and him.

He placed a kiss on her forehead, at first light, almost hesitant, then firmer, charged with all the tenderness, all the promise contained in that gesture. A little movement in the bed startled him. Grace’s hand, still numb, stretched weakly and found his. That fragile contact shattered his defenses: his eyes filled with tears, his throat tightened.

He could no longer resist and gently slid his hands under her to lift her, even though she was still asleep. She naturally nestled against his chest, head on his shoulder, and let out a contented little sigh. He savored her scent, that unique blend of milk, warm skin, and baby detergent, and felt the weight of her tiny precious body, the warmth of her skin, the life pulsing so strongly in this little being.

"I love you more than anything..." he whispered, voice broken.

The door opened quietly, revealing Erik. He entered softly, a gentle smile on his lips.

"Hey, Lyle. It’ll be okay, you know. Grace is in good hands. I’ll take care of her."

Lyle slowly straightened, eyes red and shining. He looked at him for a moment, then turned away, jaw clenched.

"I want you to know… I trust you, Erik. She means everything to me. So please… be careful. No rough play, no loud noises. Change her diaper when she cries, even in the middle of the night. And give her favorite puree, the one with carrots. Not broccoli, she makes that face…"

He mimed a funny grimace, and a faint smile flickered on his lips, fleeting.

Donovan, leaning in the doorway, watched silently. He smiled gently, respecting the moment.

"You’re giving him a whole list of instructions, Lyle. I think your brother knows what he’s doing; he’s been Grace’s babysitter since she was born."

Erik rolled his eyes, amused.

"Don’t worry, I’m going to spoil her. We’ll watch The Lion King on repeat, and I’ll teach her to break smiling records."

But Lyle felt that knot of anxiety growing in his belly. The fear of absence, the fear of emptiness.

He bent down to Grace, placed one last kiss on her forehead, whispered her name, before carefully and reluctantly laying her back in her crib. He stayed still for a moment, hand still resting on her pajamas, as if to make sure she was still breathing well. Then, slowly, he stepped back, letting his fingers slip away with regret.

Throat tight, heart in a thousand pieces, he turned away. Donovan placed a firm hand on his shoulder.

"It’ll be okay, Lyle. A weekend is nothing. You’ll come back stronger, lighter. For her."

Lyle nodded, breathing deeply.

"I know… but I feel like I’m leaving a part of me behind."

Donovan offered a reassuring smile.

"You’re not leaving her. You’re giving her the strength to grow. And you, the chance to breathe a little."

Silence settled. Lyle cast one last glance toward the room, fixed on the calm shadow of his daughter. A tear slid down his cheek. Then he wiped it discreetly, tightened the strap of his bag, and crossed the threshold.

He was leaving the house, but not his love. He left it there, between the walls, in the stuffed animals, in the crib—and above all, in the arms of a brother to whom he entrusted, for the first time, what he had most precious.

~~

The early summer sun bathed Aix-en-Provence in a soft, golden light, like a warm veil wrapping every stone, every balcony, every cobbled alleyway. The ochre facades of the houses seemed to come alive under the shy afternoon rays, their shutters in pastel hues—faded greens, washed-out blues—opening onto flower-filled windows. The air was scented with a subtle blend of lavender, wild thyme, and fresh bread from nearby bakeries.

Lyle and Donovan walked slowly on foot, their eyes captivated by the charming simplicity of the town, a quiet beauty that seemed suspended in time. The narrow alleys, lined with small artisan shops and colorful terraces, gave off an atmosphere both peaceful and lively, far from the oppressive hustle of Los Angeles.

Lyle, eyes wide open, jaw a little relaxed, repeated softly as if to soak in every detail:

“It's incredible… look at these details… these wrought iron balconies, these red tiles… it’s so different from back there. And here, it’s like no one recognizes me.”

His gaze slid from one wall to another, lingering on shutters gently banging in the wind, on the weathered facades, on the wrought iron signs of cafés and small shops. It was so different from the United States. There was something soft, almost comforting, in this simplicity. Here, no one was trying to scrutinize his face, no one was questioning him, no one was approaching with a camera.

That thought brought him an almost physical relief, a breath of fresh air he hadn’t felt in months. He could finally allow himself to breathe, to let go without feeling like he was constantly on edge. Yet, despite this slight liberation, a constant thought weighed on his heart: Grace. His daughter. She was far away, thousands of kilometers off, and that distance hurt him—a dull, persistent pain no enchanting scenery could dispel.

Lyle walked slowly through the cobbled alleys, his eyes drawn to the colorful facades of houses, the blue shutters and small flowered balconies that looked straight out of a postcard. The warm air carried scents of lavender and fresh bread, and in the distance, the soothing murmur of the sea mingled with the song of cicadas.

Beside him, Donovan followed with a calm smile on his lips, enjoying the softness of this timeless stroll.

After a moment of silence, Lyle stopped in front of a small square where cafés overflowed with people, and looking around, he asked in a low voice, tinged with curiosity :

“Do you think Europeans know who I am? That what Erik and I went through...they’ve heard about it here?”

Donovan thought for a moment, watching passersby sitting down sipping their espresso.

“I think so. Your story has circulated, but it made less noise than in the States. Over there, it was a real media circus, an uproar. Here, it’s quieter, less sensational.”

Lyle nodded, his gaze a little lost. “Less noise… does that mean less judgment?”

Donovan shrugged, a wry smile on his lips. “Less noise doesn’t mean we’re invisible. But there’s more perspective, less aggression. Maybe because here, we’re just one story among many, not a scandal to exploit.”

Lyle breathed deeply, the weight of the label and heavy stares seeming to lighten a bit.

“It’s strange, but it feels good to think that.”

Donovan placed a light hand on his shoulder.

“We’re far from all that for a few days. It gives us some air. A chance to breathe.”

Lyle met Donovan’s gaze, a shy but sincere smile appearing on his lips.

“Then let’s make the most of it. Together.”

They resumed their walk, their steps matching the calm rhythm of the town. They stopped in front of a café with a shaded terrace, a stall of fresh fruits—peaches, apricots, strawberries—shining under the fading sun. The scent of Provence herbs floated in the air: rosemary, basil, a breath of jasmine. The soft voices of passersby, light bursts of laughter in French, formed a reassuring, soothing cocoon.

Lyle allowed himself a genuine smile, wide and sincere, one that touched not only his lips but also settled in his eyes. He turned his head toward Donovan, his voice low, almost a whisper :

“ You know, it’s been a long time since I felt like I could really breathe.”

Donovan nodded softly, a warm smile lighting up his face. He was happy to see his friend finally let go, even if just for a few moments.

Later, as the sun slowly dipped toward the horizon, they rented a car and took the road to Monaco. The winding road followed the contour of the Mediterranean, a deep blue expanse sparkling under the last pink rays of the day. Lyle kept his eyes fixed on the horizon, listening to the distant song of waves crashing against the cliffs. The air was heavy with a salty scent, mixed with the aroma of pine and warm sand.

Arriving in Monaco, they chose a discreet and elegant bar with a terrace, nestled in an alley lined with pastel facades. Paper lanterns hung above the tables, casting a soft, warm, almost golden light that danced gently with the light breeze. This light wrapped every face, every object in an almost magical aura, mixing shifting shadows and subtle glimmers.

Night had spread its veil over the city, covering the red-tiled roofs and cobbled streets with a starry mantle. The air carried a delicate freshness. In the distance, the soft lapping of waves against the jetty added a soothing note to the atmosphere.

Around them, the muted murmur of conversations created a comforting background, punctuated by the crystalline clink of glasses gently touching. Occasionally, the distant sound of a car sliding on the asphalt passed by like a fleeting breath in this suspended bubble.

Lyle sipped his drink slowly, a slight bitterness caressing his palate. His fingers absentmindedly played with the cold rim of the glass, his mind elsewhere, tense despite the apparent softness of the moment. He felt the shadow of absence weigh heavily on him, that absence of Grace that carved an intimate void, tightening his chest with a dull ache.

In the reflection of his glass, he saw again his daughter’s face, her little eyes shining with curiosity, her crystalline laughter still echoing in his memories. He found himself imagining her little hands, her innocent gestures, that childhood world he had momentarily left behind.

Having fun here, in such a charming setting, felt almost guilty to him, as if lightness were a forbidden luxury. Yet, he kept telling himself these moments were necessary, serving as a respite, a vital breath to come back to her stronger, with more love.

Donovan, sitting opposite him, noticed his silence and gently placed his hand on Lyle’s, offering a reassuring touch, a discreet reminder that, despite the absences and doubts, they were not alone on this journey.

“Are you okay?” he asked softly, not pressing.

Lyle nodded, a faint smile forming on his lips.

“Yeah… It’s just… complicated, you know.”

Donovan seemed to ponder, his eyes sparkling with an idea he’d been mulling over for a while.

Then, suddenly, he leaned toward Lyle, a mischievous smile at the corner of his lips, almost a friendly challenge:

“ Listen, Lyle… You know what I’m thinking? That it might do us good to break out of this restraint, this constant caution. I know a place, a gay nightclub, not far from here. It’s open, free, authentic. A place where we could just be ourselves, without masks, without fear.”

Lyle froze, surprised, his heart beating faster. His fingers, nervous, spun the glass, hesitating between desire and fear.

“A GAY nightclub? Here? Really?” he asked, his voice tinged with disbelief.

Donovan nodded confidently.

“Yeah. Just for one night. To breathe. To reconnect with who we are, without judgment. Are you up for it?”

A gentle warmth rose in Lyle’s chest. He felt his anxiety entwine with a new, fragile excitement. Maybe this little escape, this sweet madness, was exactly what he needed. After a moment of hesitation, a timid smile appeared on his lips.

“Okay,” he murmured. “Let’s do it.”

~~

They stepped through the nightclub door, and everything changed instantly. The air was warmer, vibrant, charged with a palpable energy. Electro music, rhythmic and pulsing, vibrated through the walls, making the floor tremble beneath their feet. Light shows danced across faces, creating colorful flashes that transformed the room into a kind of moving constellation.

Lyle blinked, surprised by this flood of sensations. He was used to reserve, heavy silence, oppressive looks, but here, everything seemed free. Around him, he saw groups of smiling friends, couples tenderly brushing against each other, strangers losing themselves in the music. No one to judge him or point fingers. Here, he was just a stranger among many.

Donovan gently grabbed his hand to lead him toward the bar, where neon lights cast pink and blue halos over lined-up bottles. They ordered two drinks, then made their way to the dance floor.

At first, Lyle moved timidly, his steps hesitant as if rediscovering a forgotten language. Donovan danced with ease, smiling, free, encouraging his friend to let go.

“Come on,” Donovan whispered, moving close to his ear.

Lyle felt his heart beat a little faster, the music coursing through his veins, gradually erasing the tension that had gripped him for months. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then launched into a smoother movement, finding a rhythm that suited him.

Around them, people laughed, danced, exchanged knowing glances. For the first time in a long time, Lyle felt simply himself, without a mask, without fear.

A group of men approached, inviting them to join the circle, and they accepted, Lyle surprised at how easily he let himself be carried away. Laughter flew, bodies moved in harmony with the music, and Lyle felt a pure, light burst of happiness.

The deep, enveloping electro music vibrated beneath their feet, and the crowd around them seemed to fade away. Lyle and Donovan were close, so close their bodies almost touched, like two irresistibly attracted magnets. The warmth radiating from Donovan wrapped around Lyle, soothing an inner fire he no longer wanted to deny.

Their eyes met for a moment, heavy with silence and promises, before Lyle gently placed his hands on Donovan’s hips. The latter reacted immediately, slipping his arms around Lyle’s waist, pressing him gently against himself.

They began to move slowly, to the music’s rhythm, their bodies instinctively finding harmony. Each movement brought their lips closer until they sought each other, found each other, and joined in a tender kiss, hesitant at first.

Lyle felt his heart pounding, a wave of emotions overwhelming him: fear, excitement, but above all an incredible freedom. Here, no one could judge them, no accusatory glance or intrusive question would come. In this club, they were just two men, two souls who loved each other.

The kiss deepened, tongues intertwining with passionate softness. Their bodies pressed even closer, movements becoming more syncopated, more confident. Donovan’s hands slid into Lyle’s brown curls, while Lyle wrapped his arms around Donovan’s neck.

The world around them completely disappeared, giving way to an intimate bubble where only their mingled breaths and synchronized heartbeats mattered. Donovan’s warmth spread through Lyle like a soothing balm, slowly dissolving the walls of mistrust and pain he had built for so long.

Their lips parted just enough to breathe, and their eyes met again, deeper, charged with a silent truth no words could express. Lyle felt a furtive tear slide down his cheek, mingled with a shy smile, while Donovan lightly brushed his fingers as if to engrave this moment into their memory.

“I didn’t know I needed this so much,” Lyle murmured, his voice broken by emotion.

Donovan nodded gently, his warm breath caressing Lyle’s skin.

“Sometimes, you just have to allow yourself to be vulnerable to start healing.”

They held each other a little tighter, their bodies still swaying to the music’s rhythm as the colored lights played across their faces. Lyle felt that, for the first time in a long time, he could exist without a mask, without fear, just fully himself.

The kiss resumed, more sure, more passionate, and in this embrace was the promise of a new beginning, a light at the end of a tunnel long shrouded in darkness.

But at one point, thirsty, Lyle briefly pulled away to get a drink. He made his way to the bar, his chest still burning from Donovan’s touch, temples buzzing. The electro music pulsed against his ribs like a second heartbeat, vibrant and continuous. He ordered a glass without really paying attention, his thoughts muddled, half already turned toward Donovan.

When he turned back, his gaze naturally searched for him in the crowd... and froze.

A man had approached Donovan. Tall, elegant, with the arrogant confidence of those used to hearing yes. He was speaking into Donovan’s ear, too close, far too close. He laughed knowingly, his fingers brushing Donovan’s arm with unwarranted familiarity, then slowly sliding down to the small of his back. Donovan didn’t seem to push him away, probably caught off guard, too polite... or simply too lenient.

A chilling shiver ran down Lyle’s neck like a blade brushing his skin. His shoulders stiffened immediately, his jaws clenched. It wasn’t ordinary jealousy — it wasn’t rational or reasoned. It was a visceral reaction, a brutal jolt born somewhere between his gut and his chest. Something primal, instinctive. A dull, almost animal anger wrapped tightly around his throat, squeezing hard enough to momentarily cut off his breathing.

He hated this image.

Donovan standing there, slightly leaning toward the other man, as if caught in a too-intimate conversation. The other laughing, touching his arm, his waist, his space.

This contact should never have existed.

His fingers clenched so hard on his glass that the liquid trembled inside. He slammed it down on the counter, half full, untouched, without even realizing it. His hand shook slightly. Not from fear. From tension.

He cut through the crowd with icy precision, almost inhuman, his gaze locked on them, muscles tense, each step like a dull beat syncing with his pulse. He no longer saw anything around him — neither the flashing lights, nor the dancing bodies, nor the screaming music. Just the two of them. Donovan. And that damn guy.

Reaching their side, he stepped in without a word. No look, no excuse. Just his body placing itself between them like a wall. He put a firm hand, heavy with meaning, on the small of Donovan’s back, pulling him gently toward himself. That gesture was a declaration. A warning. A boundary.

His eyes drilled into the stranger’s. They didn’t waver, cold and sharp, a blade contained in a sheath of deceptive calm. He didn’t need to raise his voice. His presence spoke for itself.

“He’s mine,” he finally said, in a low, controlled voice, sharp as a velvet-covered razor.

The other froze for a second, eyebrows raised, clearly not used to resistance. He looked at Lyle, then Donovan, at length, trying to gauge if there was an opening, a doubt, a hesitation. But everything in Lyle’s body screamed no.

The guy shrugged, put on a sneering, almost mocking smile, but he knew he had lost.

“Relax, man. I get it,” he said dryly, tinged with an unidentifiable accent, before disappearing into the crowd without asking for more.

Lyle stayed still for a moment, like a watchdog returned to his master. Only then did he realize his hand was still on Donovan’s back, his fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt, almost possessive.

He finally turned his head toward him.

Donovan was staring. His eyes shone with a strange light, between tender amusement and silent surprise, as if rediscovering Lyle under a light he had never seen. His lips were parted, a slow smile forming.

“I’m yours?” he asked, his voice teasing, soft, low, like a silk thread brushing away tension.

Lyle didn’t answer.

He grabbed Donovan by the nape and kissed him without delay, with an intensity that left no room for doubt. It wasn’t a question; it was a statement. A brutal and sincere need to tell him without words that he wouldn’t let anyone take him away. Donovan stiffened for a second, then responded to the kiss with an equally raw warmth, pressing his body against Lyle’s.

Still kissing, Lyle slowly opened one eye—almost distractedly—but it was a precise, instinctive intention. His gaze scanned the crowd saturated with stroboscopic lights, moving silhouettes, and faces blurred by sweat and alcohol. Then he saw him.

The guy was still there. Leaning nonchalantly against a metal pillar, a drink in hand, eyes fixed on them with an expression between desire, frustration, and poorly digested challenge. His features were tense, jaw clenched, as if he was still waiting—still hoping—that Donovan would turn back to him.

A slow, predatory smile stretched Lyle’s lips against Donovan’s. He didn’t step back. He said nothing. He intensified.

Without breaking the kiss, he grabbed Donovan’s hips more firmly, holding on like one asserts a right, and pressed him roughly against himself. Their hips joined in a fluid movement, heavy with tension and desire. The music vibrated through them, and Lyle let his body speak—not to seduce Donovan, but to provoke the other. To send him a clear, physical, indisputable message.

He accentuated the movement of their hips, guiding Donovan into a slower, more sensual, almost indecent dance. Their torsos slid against each other with sweat, their breaths mingled in a warm humidity. Donovan, slightly surprised, let himself go, surrendering to the rhythm imposed by Lyle without a hint of resistance—in fact, his hands came to rest on the small of Lyle’s back, pulling him even closer.

The kiss became more voracious, more assertive. Their tongues met in a fierce and sensual cadence, like two storms colliding. Lyle wanted to feel him, to possess him, to carve him under his fingers, under his lips, deep into his memory.

His gaze slipped again toward the man : still there, frozen, unable to look away.

Lyle felt a wave of triumph rise inside him. Not an empty arrogance, but a need to claim what he had spent his life running from. Tonight, there would be no doubt, no half-measures. He kissed Donovan harder, rolled their hips in a slower, more suggestive rhythm, until he felt Donovan pant softly against his mouth. He knew the guy was watching. He knew he had won.

And he wanted him to see everything.

Their bodies no longer formed anything but a single movement, fluid, magnetic, raw. Sweat glued their clothes to their skin, the music crossed them like a unique pulse. Around them, the world could explode—the only thing that existed for Lyle was Donovan. His lips. His hands. His warmth.

He danced with him as if he had waited his whole life for him. As if every broken moment, every silent night, had been a step toward this precise instant. And at this precise moment, Lyle knew: he would never again let anyone come between them.

Around them, the night continued. Bodies swayed. Lights turned. The bass pounded. But nothing could reach them anymore.

The electro music kept vibrating in the room, its bass resonating in Lyle’s chest like an echo of his own new excitement. Around them, bodies danced, brushed, lost themselves in a flow of collective energy, but Lyle and Donovan were now a suspended island, far from all past and fear.

They stayed entwined for several songs, lost in movement and the warmth of their gestures. Lyle felt every contact, every brush of Donovan’s skin against his like a powerful reminder that he was no longer alone. The fear of public opinion, the insistent whispers, the weight of accusing glances—all seemed to move away, dissolve in this vibrant night.

After a while, Donovan took Lyle’s hand, gently guiding him toward the bar. The simple contact of their fingers intertwined awakened a subtle shiver in Lyle, not unpleasant—just unexpected. He let himself go, without resistance, almost too naturally.

There, under the dim light that caressed their faces with golden reflections, they ordered two glasses of water, trying to catch their breath after that burning dance. The air around them still seemed charged with the electricity they had generated a few moments earlier.

Lyle smiled. A sincere smile, shining, lighter than those he usually allowed himself. He didn’t try to hide what he felt. He no longer had the strength. Nor the desire.

“I didn’t realize how much I missed this,” he admitted, eyes immersed in Donovan’s.

His gaze was clear, direct. He was talking as much about the dancing as about everything it represented: contact, surrender, emotion.

Donovan smiled in return, a soft, almost proud smile.

"That’s what it means to be alive", he said. "Not just to survive, but to truly live."

They shared a long, silent look, full of everything left unsaid. Then Donovan leaned in slightly, as if to gently break the new tension.

“You know… you were beautiful out there on the dance floor. Burning. Alive. But also…” he raised an eyebrow, playful, “… dangerously possessive.”

Lyle pressed his lips together, his eyes staring straight ahead, locked onto the invisible horizon between two alleyways.

"I felt like he was going to swallow you whole, right in front of me, he murmured. And you… you were just there, smiling… I know it was nothing, that you didn’t even see it that way. But me… it felt like something vital was being ripped out of me.

Donovan stopped in his tracks. So did Lyle, one step behind, heart pounding a little faster.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Donovan asked gently.

Lyle let out a long sigh. He crossed his arms, as if to shield himself, wrapping around his own tension.

"I don’t even know what came over me. It wasn’t just jealousy. Not that kind you can hide behind a polite smile. It was… almost violent. Primal. A “no” that screamed through every inch of my body. Like an animal protecting its territory."

He shook his head with a small, joyless laugh.

"It’s stupid, isn’t it? I’ve never been possessive. At least, not that I know of. Not consciously. But this time… it felt like you were mine. Like that guy, just by touching you, was stealing something. And I couldn’t take it.

Donovan looked at him attentively, openly, without a trace of judgment. He wasn’t smiling. He was really listening.

"And were you scared of what that said about you?" he asked after a short pause.

Lyle slowly nodded, eyes still averted.

"I’ve spent my whole life locking down what I feel. Holding it in. Even with Erik… we never said anything. We just took the hits. We survived. And tonight, in front of strangers, in that damn club, I said out loud “he’s mine” — like it was obvious. Like it was normal. Like I was ready to fight for you.

Donovan gave a soft smile, almost tender.

"You know", he murmured, "It reminded me of something. A party, back at Princeton, years ago. I saw you dancing with a girl, and I stepped in — like it was the most natural thing. I didn’t even understand why it bothered me at the time. I wasn’t sure how I felt about you… I just knew I couldn’t stand seeing you with someone else."

Lyle looked up at him, surprised, as if that long-forgotten memory suddenly echoed the present. Donovan continued, his voice lower now :

"Maybe we were already like that, the two of us. But we just didn’t know what it was yet."

He brushed Lyle’s forearm lightly with his fingertips, a barely-there touch, but enough to make Lyle look at him, despite himself.

"Maybe it’s not a bad thing, he went on. Maybe you just never had the space to be that guy. The one who feels. Who reacts. Who says what he wants. And protects it.

Lyle frowned slightly.

"You think it’s a good sign? Wanting to keep someone all to yourself?

Donovan shrugged.

"I think it’s human. And it depends on how you do it. You didn’t try to control me. You just said what you felt. It was honest. Raw. And yeah… I thought it was sexy."

Lyle let out a nervous little laugh, almost embarrassed.

"You’re serious?"

“Completely.” Donovan’s voice was firm. “It wasn’t a meltdown. It was clear. Direct. You protected me, kind of like you were protecting yourself too. I didn’t feel chained. Just… a real fear of losing something that matters. And you know what?” He looked him straight in the eye. “It made me feel chosen.”

Lyle stayed still for a moment. That word — chosen — echoed somewhere deep in his gut. It hurt, and it soothed him all at once.

"I’ve never really been ‘someone’s," Donovan murmured, quieter now. "Not truly. But tonight, when you said that… I didn’t feel like running." He stepped closer, until their arms brushed. "I wanted to stay."

Lyle lowered his head, his features drawn, as if he were still fighting something inside him that resisted.

"You have no idea what it means to hear you say that", he whispered. He slowly looked up at Donovan. "You have no idea what you just unlocked."

Donovan didn’t say a word. He simply held out his hand, palm open. Lyle looked at it for a second… then slipped his own into it, letting their fingers intertwine, this time, without trembling.

"If you let me...", Donovan murmured, "I’ll find out soon enough."

A silence fell between them, thick, over the beat of the club’s music, but not uncomfortable. Lyle could feel his heart beating again, faster than he thought possible after everything he’d been through.
He nodded slowly, a shy smile forming on his lips. His fingers squeezed Donovan’s a little tighter, as if to say stay a little longer.

Donovan then suggested they step outside for a walk.

The cool night air brought them a breath of calm after the intensity of the club. They walked side by side through narrow streets lit by orange-hued lampposts. Their steps were in sync, without needing to speak. They had nothing left to prove.

Lyle could still feel the warmth of Donovan’s body against his own, imprinted like a mark beneath his skin. Even now, as they walked with a little space between them, that heat lingered — a comforting echo. The contact, the intimacy, the ease of simply being himself, with no mask, no defenses… He hadn’t felt that in so long, he no longer knew how to handle it. And yet, he wasn’t afraid. Not this time.

But nestled in the heart of that suspended moment, a thought crept in. An absence. A deep, painful longing. The absence of Grace.

His daughter’s face appeared in his mind like a soft, blurry black-and-white photo. Her tiny fingers wrapped around his. Her milky scent, her calm breathing against his chest. The innocent way she looked at him, as if he was her entire world.

A knot formed in his throat.

Even in the middle of that vibrant night, even with Donovan by his side, part of him remained elsewhere — across the ocean. Anchored to a silent bedroom, to an empty crib, to an absence he felt physically in his chest.

They found a small bench near a fountain, sheltered from view. The water murmured softly, pacing the silence between them. They sat down side by side, and that silence... that silence said everything. There was nothing to explain, nothing to justify. Donovan didn’t ask, didn’t push.

He simply placed his hand over Lyle’s, like dropping anchor on a drifting boat.

"I know it’s hard," he said gently.

His voice was low, soothing, almost a whisper against the warm breeze of the night.

"But you’re doing this for you… and for her, too. You’ll be a better father, a more whole man, after this break. This isn’t running away. It’s breathing."

Lyle looked down at their joined hands. His was tense, cold, still carrying that guilt he wore like a second skin. But Donovan’s was warm, present. It said I’m here without needing words.

He took a deep breath, fighting the sting behind his eyelids. Grace’s features still danced in his memory, mixed with the feel of Donovan’s arms, his scent, his voice.

"I didn’t think I was allowed to… live something for myself," he murmured. "Not without feeling like a complete bastard." He slowly raised his head to look at Donovan. "But here, with you, I feel like I can breathe. And at the same time, it’s like I’m betraying something."

Donovan squeezed his hand a little tighter, eyes never leaving his.

"You’re not betraying anything, Lyle. You’re building. You’re filling in pieces of yourself you had to leave empty to survive. And one day, Grace will see that. She’ll understand. She’ll see a father who’s alive. A man who stands tall."

Lyle closed his eyes, a silent tear sliding down his cheek. He didn’t wipe it away. He let it fall.

He slowly turned his head toward Donovan.

"Thank you. For everything. For your patience… for not judging me."

Donovan responded with a soft, almost imperceptible smile. Then he lifted their joined hands to his lips and placed a discreet kiss on Lyle’s fingers — chaste, but filled with immense tenderness.

"I waited a long time before I found the courage to come back to you," he whispered. "I’m not planning on leaving now."

Lyle’s heart tightened, but this time, it wasn’t pain. It was something else. A timid light, but real.

The night unfolded quietly after that, made of fleeting moments, shared glances, soft smiles, and silent hope. Eventually, they made their way back toward their place, each carrying within them the promise of a slightly lighter future.

Under the soothing calm of the night, as they neared their lodging, Donovan glanced toward the nearby sea, a spontaneous idea lighting up his face.

"You know what? What if we went for a midnight swim? The water must be perfect right now, and I bet no one will be there."

Lyle looked at him, a mix of hesitation and excitement flickering across his tired features.

"A midnight swim... it’s been a long time."

The night breeze caressed their faces, laced with salt and promise. Without thinking too much, Lyle felt the irresistible pull of this newfound freedom. He nodded slowly.

"Let’s do it."

Under the gentle light of the moon, they stepped away from the city lights, their footsteps sinking softly into the warm sand. The air smelled of salt, blended with the night’s fresh coolness brushing their skin.

Donovan cast a mischievous glance toward Lyle.

You’ll see, the water’s perfect at this hour. It’s like the sea was waiting for us."

Lyle nodded, his heart beating a little faster. Every moment away from the noise of the world gave him space to breathe — space to find himself again. He slowly took off his shirt, feeling the night air brush against his tired skin, then watched Donovan do the same, their shared vulnerability creating an instant sense of intimacy.

They walked gently toward the water, until the cool sea lapped at their ankles. A shiver ran through Lyle, not only from the temperature, but also from Donovan’s closeness, so near that their breaths seemed to mingle.

They waded in deeper, until the water reached their waists. Lyle felt the salt on his skin, the light weight of the sea lifting him, as if all his burdens were slowly dissolving into the vastness of the ocean. Donovan slipped an arm around his shoulders, pulling him gently against him.

Their bodies pressed together, the warmth of skin contrasting with the chill of the water. Lyle rested his head against Donovan’s chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, a reassuring melody in the quiet night.

"I don’t get moments like this very often," Lyle murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "Sometimes it scares me. But with you… it’s different. And even though I miss Grace terribly, I’m truly happy to be here with you. I don’t regret letting myself be swept along."

Donovan responded by pressing a gentle kiss to the top of Lyle’s head.

Their hands found each other under the water, fingers intertwining softly. Lyle felt a quiet warmth radiate from that contact — a steady fire that soothed his anxieties. He lifted his head. Their eyes met, glowing with shared tenderness and a silent promise.

The kiss they shared was tentative at first, almost shy, before deepening — their breaths and desires merging. In that silver sea, far from judgment, they were simply two men, free to love, vulnerable and strong all at once.

Lyle felt his hands glide along Donovan’s back, while Donovan threaded his fingers through Lyle’s damp hair. They stayed like that, wrapped in each other, cradled by the soft movement of the waves — each moment imprinting a precious memory in the story they were building together.

In the silence between kisses, Lyle whispered, eyes closed :

"Thank you… for all of this. For this weekend. For this life, even if it’s messy sometimes."

Donovan replied with a smile, his eyes shining in the darkness.

"You’re the one who gave me all of this, Lyle. This night is ours."

Their hands found each other again, fingers entwined, holding onto that fragile but sincere connection. Slowly, Donovan leaned in, placing a kiss on Lyle’s temple, then another on his eyelashes, his cheek. Each touch was like a brush of the soul, a gentle balm.

Lyle closed his eyes, savoring the moment like a precious treasure. He felt seen, understood, accepted. It was new, almost unsettling, but so, so good.

When their eyes met again, the silent passion burning between them pulled them even closer. Their kiss resumed, deeper this time, charged with a burning tenderness and a restrained urgency.

In the sea, wrapped in night, they moved together on the delicate edge of regained trust. The outside world — its fears, its wounds — seemed to fall away, suspended, as if this intimate bubble could protect them forever.

They slowly stepped out of the water, dripping under the pale moonlight. Cold sand clung to their feet, but neither seemed to notice. Donovan glanced over at Lyle — his wet hair clung to his forehead, his lips still flushed from their last kiss in the water, and yet he looked more at peace than ever.

They made a brief stop at the beach's public showers, rinsing off the salt and sand still clinging to their bodies. The walk back to the rental house was quiet. Not out of awkwardness, they'd long since passed that stage, but because no words could speak better than the shared silence of that night. There was a kind of peace between them now, almost unexpected, found simply in being together, away from everything.

Once inside, Donovan switched on a small lamp. Its soft light cast their still half-naked silhouettes in fluid shadows across the walls. Lyle placed his damp clothes over the back of a chair, then turned to face Donovan. He didn’t need to say anything ; Donovan already understood. The intimacy between them had already been crossed, but tonight, it carried a new shade.

Tonight wasn’t about losing themselves in desire, or hiding behind the fire of attraction.

It was something else.

A silent pact. A precious trust woven between them, fragile and strong all at once.

The quiet around them wasn’t empty, but full... full of promise, of hope, of a rare tenderness. Lyle felt his heartbeat slow, as if he’d finally found a harbor where he could drop anchor.

Donovan stepped closer and wrapped his arms around Lyle’s waist, pressing his forehead gently to his.

"You’re trembling a little," he murmured.

"I know. But it’s not from the cold," Lyle replied, his breath unsteady.

They kissed slowly, taking the time to savor every second of that renewed connection. This kiss was no longer hesitant exploration, it was a deep reconnection, a wordless dialogue spoken fluently by their bodies. They already knew each other; their movements blended with the ease of a well-rehearsed dance, each gesture resonating like a familiar note in an intimate melody. Yet, despite that comforting familiarity, every caress, every touch carried a near-sacred intensity — as if time had paused just for them, holding this moment still and precious.

Clothes fell slowly, brushing gently against their skin before landing softly on the floor. It wasn’t the urgency of raw desire, it was the trusting surrender of two souls finding each other again. Each layer that slipped away revealed more of their shared vulnerability, a silent pact of acceptance and trust.

Their hands, light and exploring, traced delicate paths across one another’s skin, sparking warm shivers beneath the surface — revealing the depth of emotion held within every touch.

In the bedroom, the soft light filtered through the curtains cast gentle, shifting shadows on the walls. They found the rumpled sheets, like a protective cocoon. Without a word, without hesitation, they slipped into them together, leaving behind the noise and fury of the outside world. Here, there was only the shared breath, the warmth of their bodies seeking and offering each other. They were ready to surrender entirely to this bubble of intimacy, where each heartbeat echoed like a promise.

Their bodies joined naturally, like two fragments made to fit each other. Lyle, this time, held nothing back. He kissed, bit, touched, licked, moaned without restraint. He was no longer afraid of being seen, no longer afraid of being too much. Donovan welcomed him fully.

They made love passionately, first Lyle into Donovan, then the reverse. Each time their bodies unified, it felt like puzzle pieces fitting perfectly, as if their bodies had been created especially for each other.

Donovan arched slightly, his hand gripping Lyle’s waist as he moved in him with thrusts both controlled and passionate. His breathing turned erratic, his torso colliding against Lyle’s with each motion. He let out a hoarse, trembling sigh, his face buried in the hollow of Lyle’s neck.

“Lyle… I’m going to…”

Lyle, forehead pressed into the hollow of Donovan’s shoulder, was panting too, his skin damp, pressed to Donovan’s. His voice, lower, rougher, escaped in a whisper broken by breath:

“Wait… not yet… stay with me a little longer…”

His fingers slipped into Donovan’s wet hair, climbing to his nape, which he encircled with possessive gentleness, pulling him closer, even more so. They moved together in a slow rhythm, almost painful, suspended between the urgency of pleasure and the fierce need to hold onto time.

Donovan gasped lightly against Lyle’s throat, eyes closed, torn between the desire to let go and to obey. Lyle pressed a feverish kiss on his temple, then on his jaw, while their hips continued to seek, to answer one another.

“Just… a little more,” Lyle repeated, in an imploring breath. “I don’t want it to end. Not yet.”

His fingers clung to the moist skin of Donovan's back, holding him firmly, as if grabbing onto him to avoid falling into emptiness. His forehead brushed his, their breaths entwined. There was in that exchanged gaze a tremendous thirst, but also a deep fear—the fear of never feeling something so real again.

The pleasure was there, insistent, burning, but they fought it like one holds onto a dream too precious to let fade.

Donovan trembled in his arms, each movement of their bodies drawing them closer to the boundary they were desperately trying not to cross too quickly.

His mouth found Lyle’s in a disordered, hungry kiss, as if to melt into him, to disappear into this moment. Lyle responded with an intensity almost painful, his hands gripping Donovan’s waist, his hips pressed against his in a controlled back-and-forth, too precise to be innocent.

You’re here… right?” Donovan whispered, almost breathless, his voice cracking.

Lyle nodded gently, eyes half-closed, jaw tense.

“Yes, baby. I’m here. I’m not letting go.”

A rough moan escaped Donovan as he struggled against the inevitable. He clung to Lyle, forehead pressed to his temple, his breathing short and frantic.

“I can’t… Lyle, I’m gonna…”

“Just a little longer, baby… please, hold on…” Lyle murmured against his ear, his voice rough, broken by emotion, by need. “I want you like this, everywhere, all the time…”

Their pace quickened despite themselves, tension overtaking them, unstoppable. Their breaths grew louder, more erratic, and Lyle felt Donovan stiffen against him, heart pounding violently. It wasn’t rough, nor hesitant — but deep, grounding.

In a final surge, he placed his hand on the back of his neck, eyes locked into his.

“Now… go on… let go. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

And in a muffled moan against his neck, Donovan finally gave in, his body trembling against Lyle’s. Lyle followed a second later, unable to stop the wave that crashed through him too, leaving him shaking, spent — but strangely whole.

A heavy but gentle silence settled over them, broken only by their ragged breathing. They stayed there, clinging to each other, still joined, not daring to move — as if letting go might shatter something fragile.

Afterwards, they lay side by side, still naked, bodies pressed close, legs tangled in a wordless embrace. The warmth of Donovan’s skin against Lyle’s was soothing, grounding, forming a tangible bond between them. Slowly, Donovan’s fingers traced light circles across Lyle’s chest — each touch more calming than it was arousing.

Lyle, eyes fixed on the ceiling, seemed lost in a strange calm, suspended somewhere between reality and dream.

“Are you thinking about her?” Donovan asked softly, his voice laced with tenderness and understanding.

Lyle nodded, his chest tightening a little more with every thought.

“Always. Even here, even now. I have this constant feeling that if I stop thinking about her, it’s like I’m betraying her.”

Donovan placed a light kiss on his shoulder, the warmth of his lips a balm for that quiet ache.

“It’s not betrayal,” he murmured. “It’s still love, just different. She’s with you. Even here. Even now.”

Lyle closed his eyes, a sigh slipping from his lips, a blend of relief and nostalgia.

“You’re right. But I still hope that, even from the other side of the ocean, she knows I love her — despite the distance.”

A soft smile curved Donovan’s lips, his warm breath brushing against Lyle’s sensitive skin.

“She knows. Because you love her like no one else ever could.”

Silence settled between them, full of tenderness and unspoken promises. The sound of the distant waves played the soothing melody of the sea, cradling their tired hearts. The sheets, still warm and wrinkled from their embrace, seemed to hold every fragment of shared softness.

And that night, Lyle wasn’t haunted by fear or the need to run. Instead, he dreamed of warmth, of soft sand beneath his feet, of a gentle hand holding his with quiet certainty. He dreamed of a future he barely dared imagine, but one that finally felt possible.

Morning rose gently over the Côte d’Azur.

The sea, barely visible from the terrace, shimmered in a pale blue, almost white under the soft light of the waking day. The waves, much closer than the day before, broke in a gentle murmur against the rocks, while seagulls skimmed low, their wings clicking against the pastel sky. A salty scent floated in the air, mingling with the wild lavender growing between the garden stones.

Inside the room, the air was still heavy with echoes of the night, the moist warmth left by their tangled bodies, the lazy rustling of the sheets, the bittersweet scent of sweat and skin.

And yet, Lyle had been awake for a long time already. He had lain there on his side, unmoving, watching Donovan sleep, still naked beside him. The slow rise and fall of his chest was calmer than the night before. One hand rested lazily on Lyle’s hip, like an anchor, maybe unconscious, but so intimate it almost ached.

The image could have been perfect. If not for the sharp ache pulling tight in Lyle’s chest, a knot, stubborn and deep.

He had slept, yes. Better than he had in weeks. And yet not really.

At some point in the early hours, a dream — no, a nightmare — had cracked through the calm. Grace was there. Standing in front of him, distant, a little older maybe. Her eyes, so familiar, stared at him like he was a stranger. She didn’t speak. She didn’t run. She simply didn’t recognize him.

He had woken up with her name caught in his throat, the taste of fear bitter on his tongue. The warmth of Donovan next to him had grounded him — barely. But the echo of the dream clung to his skin like salt. A fear he couldn’t shake.

And now, in the quiet light of early morning, everything in him wanted to believe in the peace of that shared bed. But the knot was still there. Heavy. Silent. Unyielding.

He stayed like that for a moment, watching every detail of Donovan: the rebellious strands of hair on his forehead, the red mark left by the pillow, the way his lips barely parted. He felt both terribly close… and infinitely far away. As if a part of himself was floating just a few centimeters above his own body, unable to settle. He had no words for what he felt. Just a dizzying sensation. Something both sweet and frightening at the same time.

Finally, Lyle quietly sat up. His naked body slid out of the sheets, still marked by their embraces, and his feet touched the floor carefully. His sweat-damp hair still clung to his neck. He put on clean boxer briefs and crossed the room in silence, gently pushing open the door that led to the terrace.

He leaned on the railing, arms crossed, his gaze lost in the blue line where sea and sky merged on the horizon. Far from everything, yet chained by the inevitable return — the aftermath — that made him tremble.

The anxiety he felt was no longer the same as before the trip. It wasn’t just the shadow of longing, but a vertigo: coming back with something different inside him. A new wound, or a new breath — he no longer knew.

Donovan joined him. The morning light revealed his tousled hair, like a portrait made of human warmth. He was holding two cups: steaming coffee for himself, hot chocolate for Lyle, both resting peacefully in his hands. He placed the hot chocolate cup into Lyle’s hands, then slid his arms around his waist and rested his chin on his shoulder.

"Have you been awake long?" he whispered.

Lyle shook his head, voice barely audible.

"Nope."

Donovan didn’t press. He listened. He waited.

"I dreamed..." began Lyle, his voice trembling. "I was at home. Grace… she was there, but she didn’t recognize me. She looked at me like I was a stranger. And there were flashes, those photos, a microphone pointed at her room…"

He clutched the cup against his chest, his grip so tight his knuckles whitened.

"This trip..." he said, "I feel like I lived in a parallel world. And now, everything waiting for me in the States is coming back. And I’m going to wonder if what I found here — this peace, this night — can really exist once you come back to reality."

Donovan tightened his embrace. The warm scent of coffee mingled with the marine smells.

"Yes, it can exist, Lyle. It doesn’t have to be perfect. A moment like this... that’s already something."

"And what if I can’t hold on? What if I become the guy who listens to every look on the street, every headline?"

"I’ll be here. You won’t become who you were again. I’ll be here to remind you. To tell you: “You deserve this life too.” But promise me this: you won’t smother what you feel. Not for them. Not for you. Not for your daughter. Grace needs a living father, not the ghost you’ve been for too long."

Donovan’s words carried a powerful tenderness. Lyle recoiled slightly, as if to soak it in.

"We’re going back tomorrow?" he asked, voice fragile.

"Tomorrow morning, yes."

A silence settled. The air vibrated with the distant cries of gulls and the faint rustle of trees.

"I’m scared…" Lyle admitted, looking at his feet. "I’m scared I’ve changed. And that this change won’t allow me to be there for her, nor for… us."

"Or maybe this change is your strength", Donovan replied, his voice soft but resolute.

They stayed like that, entwined, watching the still sea before them, the first pale morning stars fading away with the growing light. The air warmed slowly, promising a new day, a new start.

And in this strange calm, between two worlds, Lyle began to understand: it wasn’t a choice between being a father or being himself. It was a fragile path to manage to be both at once.

~~

Their suitcase packed, the two men descended from the rented house, their eyes still filled with the golden morning light. The sky was a clear blue, almost overwhelming in its brightness, and the air carried a scent of iodine mixed with the smell of pine trees and blossoming lemon trees lining the promenade. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves and, in the distance, the sails of a moored boat flapped.

They headed toward the town center, hand in hand, like two traveling companions savoring a moment of grace before returning to reality. The cobblestones softly echoed beneath their steps. The local shops were already lively: a bakery released a cloud of golden steam with the scent of warm bread, a café on the terrace arranged its wrought-iron chairs, and customers lined up in a soft, almost hushed atmosphere. Lyle closed his eyes for a moment to better feel this simple life beating around him, far from pressure, cameras, and whispers.

Donovan stopped in front of a handcrafted glassware shop window.

“Do you want a little souvenir?” he suggested, gently slipping his arm under Lyle’s.

Inside, everything seemed bathed in light: blown glass objects in shimmering colors—vases with organic shapes, small translucent spheres, delicate flasks. Each piece seemed to vibrate in the space like a frozen dream shard. Lyle stood silently for a long moment before a small amber glass drop hanging on a black stand. He picked it up between his fingers.

“For Grace,” he whispered, almost to himself. As if trying to justify this need to bring back something beautiful for her. Something fragile and luminous, like her.

Then his gaze drifted to another, more discreet shelf, where a series of small objects in cool tones rested—hand-engraved paperweights. He chose one, a bluish glass pebble inlaid with an abstract pattern of golden lines, like a restless sea.

“And this one, for Erik,” he said with a slight smile at the corner of his lips. “He’ll say it’s kitsch. But he’ll keep it.”

Donovan nodded with a tender expression, then went to pay while Lyle took one last look at the shop, his hand clutching the two objects wrapped in tissue paper.

They took two coffees to go at the street corner and continued walking along a cobbled alley. Children ran past with dripping ice creams, an old man set up his easel in front of a small square, a lazy dog dozed outside an antique bookstore. Lyle felt his heart tighten at each scene of this universal tranquility. He had never seen so much beauty in such small things.

They stopped near an old fountain with a worn basin, where water fell rhythmically with a soothing splash. Sitting on the edge, facing the sparkling sea, they drank their coffee. The taste, strong and hot, seemed to awaken everything alive within them.

“You know, what you told me this morning… about being a living father, not a ghost… it really touched me,” said Lyle, his eyes fixed on the movement of the water.

Donovan took his hand.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you. But I truly believe it. You can’t be the father she deserves if you completely forget yourself. You exist too, Lyle.”

He nodded. He knew he was right. But accepting it remained difficult. He took the small glass drop out of his pocket and slowly turned it between his fingers. It caught the morning light as if it had trapped a piece of the sun.

“She’ll love it,” he whispered. “She’ll understand, over the years. Maybe one day, she’ll come here. And she’ll know.”

They stayed there for several minutes, watching the day fully settle in. The call of the seagulls, the muffled laughter of passersby, the splash of the fountain… everything was at peace.

Then Donovan leaned in and placed a light kiss in the hollow of Lyle’s jaw.

“Ready?” he whispered.

Lyle took a moment before answering. Then he nodded.

“Ready.”

They stood up, hand in hand, the memories wrapped in their pockets.

They were almost ready to leave the house, suitcases packed and put away, when Lyle suddenly stopped, drawn by a small gently sloping street he hadn’t noticed before. Around a corner, a narrow shop window caught his eye: a discreet sign, hand-painted, simply read:

“Tattoo artist – by appointment or on impulse.”

Donovan, a few steps ahead, turned around when he saw Lyle hesitate.

“What’s up?” he asked, curious.

Lyle, his heart tightening a little, replied in a voice trembling with a kind of urgency:

“I know it sounds crazy, but I need to do this. Now.”

Donovan raised an eyebrow, surprised, but sensed it wasn’t a passing whim.

Lyle pushed open the door, which jingled softly, entering the small salon with walls covered in drawings, sketches, and colorful flash designs. The mixed scent of fresh ink and scented soap floated in the dim light. A woman in her thirties, with a gentle face and sparkling eyes, looked up from her sketchbook. Her arms were adorned with delicate tattoos, almost poetic, evoking flowers and elegant curves.

“Bonjour,” she said with a sing-song Southern French accent. “Je peux vous aider? ”

Lyle blushed slightly, embarrassed by his hesitation.

“Do you speak English?” he asked, seeking a bit of comfort in a language he knew better.

She smiled broadly, a warm smile that immediately erased any awkwardness.

“Yes, of course. We can continue in English if you prefer,” she answered, switching to English, her accent still present.

Lyle stepped forward, his gaze mixed with fragile determination.

“I’d like to get a name tattooed. Just a name, simple and discreet, on my left wrist. Do you have time?”

The tattoo artist examined him for a moment, her eyes shining with understanding.

“For a small tattoo, I have about half an hour. What name?”

Lyle pulled out a worn wallet and took from it a photo printed on glossy paper, slightly dog-eared at the edges. In the picture, a little girl barely one year old, wearing a light-colored overalls, eyes sparkling with mischief, a shy smile on her face. He handed her the photo, almost like a talisman, his voice soft and a little hoarse:

“She’s my daughter. Her name is Grace. I want her name, here.” — he showed his left wrist — “So I can keep her close to me always.”

The tattoo artist took the photo, looked at the little girl, then raised her eyes to Lyle, her expression full of empathy.

“That’s a beautiful name. Soft, elegant, simple. Do you want a particular handwriting style?”

Lyle thought for a moment, then answered:

“Handwritten. Like it’s my own handwriting. Simple, discreet, but permanent.”

Donovan, who had settled in a corner of the room, watched him silently, a quiet tenderness in his eyes, aware that this tattoo was much more than a drawing: it was an act of love, a memory engraved on skin.

Lyle slowly sat down in the chair, his heart pounding. He rolled up his sleeve, exposing the soft, fair skin of his left wrist. A slight sweat beaded on his temple, but he forced himself to stay still.

The high buzzing of the tattoo machine started, vibrating in the calm air. The first prick made him jump, a burning tingling sensation, but he did not move. His gaze lost itself on a blurry spot on the wall, and in his mind unfolded an image: Grace’s room, the white crib, colorful toys, the peaceful silence of the night. He recalled her crystalline laugh, her tiny hands clutching his finger in the dark, the soothing warmth she gave him despite the distance.

The tattoo artist, focused, adjusted her movements, sometimes smiling in complicity:

"You’re doing great. Almost done.”

Lyle felt sweat trickle down his forehead, his heart beating fast. A lump of emotions formed in his throat, a mixture of fear, sadness, and a peace he thought he could never reach again. Each movement of the needle was like a heartbeat, a promise that this moment, this name, would always be with him, engraved in his flesh.

The tattoo artist lifted her head after the final stroke, her satisfied smile lighting up her face.

“It’s done. It’s very pretty. You’ll be able to see it every day.”

Lyle looked down at his wrist. There, delicately traced, the letters formed his daughter’s name: Grace. Simple, elegant, eternal.

A flood of emotions overwhelmed him—nostalgia, the sweet pain of absence, but also a new peace, a form of reconciliation. This tattoo was not just a mark on his skin; it was a silent vow of presence, an unbreakable bond.

Donovan approached, placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“You did it. It’s beautiful.”

Lyle nodded, a thin smile on his lips, feeling that despite all the storms to come, this little name would be his beacon in the night. That name was more than a word; it was a part of him. Fine letters, carefully traced. His name engraved for eternity.

~~

The flight from the Côte d’Azur had been silent, almost too short to give Lyle time to tame the turmoil of his thoughts. When the plane landed in Los Angeles, part of him remained suspended somewhere between the softness of the Mediterranean and the harsh reality waiting for him.

The harsh light of the Californian tarmac struck him as soon as they got off the plane. He absentmindedly rolled up the sleeve of his shirt, as if to make sure the tattoo was real. Grace. In fine letters, almost discreet, but definitely etched into his skin. The simple contact of the fresh ink with the air reconnected him to her, to her presence, to that unbreakable bond.

“Do you regret it?” Donovan asked softly, casting a knowing glance at his wrist. He already knew the answer.

Lyle shook his head gently, a faint smile on his lips.

“Not for a second. It’s… strange, but I feel like I got closer to her by being far away.”

They collected their luggage in a silence heavy with held-back emotions. The two souvenirs carefully wrapped were safely nestled between layers of clothing: the amber glass drop for Grace, tiny and luminous like her, and the bluish paperweight, elegant, for Erik — like a way to thank him without saying it.

On the way back, in the car, Lyle found himself staring at the familiar streets as if they seemed slightly out of sync. Everything looked a bit too sharp, too fast, as if the city hadn’t waited for him.

Donovan drove in silence, letting the music softly fill the space — an acoustic ballad, almost melancholic. At a red light, he glanced at Lyle.

“Want to stop for a coffee before going home? Or do you want to go straight there?”

Lyle hesitated, his fingers drumming on his thigh. The weekend had been a bubble: laughter in the nightclub, bursts of voices by the sea, confidences on the rocks still warm from the night’s heat. And that midnight swim — he still saw Donovan, droplets sparkling on his skin, his words full of truth in the heart of the night.

But now… the return.

“No,” he murmured. “I want to see my baby.”

The answer came naturally, without hesitation. Donovan nodded, respectful. He understood. There was nothing more to add.

When they finally arrived in front of the house, Lyle felt his heart race. His gaze landed on the familiar facade, the shutters slightly ajar, the plants he had neglected these past days, and despite himself, a lump rose in his throat. He got out before the engine was even turned off. His steps carried him forward alone, as if pulled by an invisible thread.

The door opened onto a soft, almost warm silence. The air inside the house was cooler than outside, filled with familiar scents: a mix of laundry, wood, and a hint of warm milk. That intimate scent he hadn’t even realized he missed so much.

In the living room bathed in evening light, Erik was sitting on the couch, legs crossed, a cushion under his arm, Grace asleep against his chest. She was breathing deeply, her fists closed against her cheek. He looked up and smiled at Lyle with a disarming gentleness.

“Hey,” said Erik, looking up to greet them. “She was waiting for you. She slept, ate, cried a little… but nothing dramatic. She’s strong, your daughter.”

Lyle stood frozen for a moment in the doorway, breath short. His gaze slid over Grace’s tiny figure, her moon-patterned pajamas, the little foot sticking out from the blanket, her tousled hair. His fists, which he hadn’t even noticed clenched, slowly relaxed.

He stepped forward, slow, almost shy, as if afraid to break the magic. Then he stretched out his arms. Erik, without a word, gently handed him Grace, who barely stirred in the motion. As soon as she was against him, she nestled into the curve of his neck, her warm breath against his skin.

He closed his eyes. His whole being relaxed.

“I missed you,” he whispered against her hair. “So much.”

He sat on the couch, holding Grace as if he would never let go. Donovan had stopped near the door, silent, but at that moment, he stepped forward too, placed the bags near the entrance, then approached slowly.

Erik, sitting up, gently tapped his brother’s shoulder.

"You did well, Lyle. You needed to breathe. And… you can do it again. Whenever you want. I’m here.”

“I know. Thanks,” Lyle breathed, his eyes still on his daughter. “I left you with the most precious thing in my life, and I know I couldn’t have made a better choice.”

A tender silence settled. Erik smiled, touched, then pointed at the bags.

“You brought back souvenirs?”

Lyle gave a shy smile.

"Yeah. Here." He rummaged through one of the bags, took out a box wrapped in tissue paper. He handed it to Erik, who took it with a curious look. "For you."

Erik slowly unwrapped the package and discovered the bluish glass paperweight, its golden lines dancing under the living room light.

“Wow… It’s magnificent. It’s… art, really. Thanks. It’s very you, Lyle. Quiet, beautiful, and complicated.”

Lyle laughed softly, a laugh halfway between fatigue and emotion.

“And you’re still annoying interpreting everything.”

“That’s why you love me,” Erik replied, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Rest up. I’ll leave you guys.”

He left the room, leaving Donovan and Lyle alone with Grace. Donovan approached slowly, sat down next to Lyle without a word. He watched Grace, curled up against her father, little fingers clenched in his sweatshirt.

“She’s really beautiful,” he said quietly. “It’s crazy how much you can get attached to someone so small.”

Lyle didn’t answer immediately. Then he nodded, resting his cheek against Grace’s head.

“She’s… everything.”

A short silence passed.

“And you?” Lyle asked, turning his eyes to Donovan. “Are you okay?”

Donovan nodded softly.

“Tired. A little lost. But okay. I haven’t laughed like that in… a very long time. And seeing you dance in the club… man, it was unreal.”

Lyle burst out a quiet laugh, almost silent so as not to wake his daughter.

“I let myself go. It was… necessary.”

“That was you,” Donovan whispered, eyes on him. “Maybe not the you you show every day. But the real one.”

They looked at each other for a few seconds. Then Donovan placed a very light hand on Lyle’s thigh. Just a touch. Nothing more.

“Want me to leave you with her?”

Lyle looked at Grace. Then he slowly shook his head.

“No. Stay. Just… stay here.”

So Donovan settled a little more comfortably. He rested his head against the back of the couch. The daylight slowly faded in the room, covering the three silhouettes in a soft warmth.

The day was slowly settling into the room, casting warm vanilla and gold hues across the rumpled sheets. The silence was muffled, as if even the outside world, for once, agreed not to disturb.

Lyle opened his eyes slowly, his cheek still marked by the imprint of the pillow. His first reflex was not to check the time, but to turn his head—and he saw him. Donovan, still deeply asleep, his hair a bit tousled, mouth slightly open, breath calm and warm against his collarbone.

They were entwined, legs tangled, torsos almost completely pressed together. Lyle felt his heart tighten gently—not with fear this time, but with a calm surprise. Before Donovan, he couldn’t remember the last time he had woken up like this, in a human warmth that asked for nothing, demanded nothing. Just being there.

He let his fingers slowly glide through Donovan’s dark curls, softly caressing his neck, the edge of his ear. Donovan barely shivered, then opened one eye, still blurred with sleep.

“Hmm… keep going. I’m falling back asleep with that.”

“I spoil you too much,” Lyle murmured, a half-smile on his lips.

“Yes, but have you seen what I’m worth?”

Lyle laughed softly, burying his face in Donovan’s hair. He breathed deeply, feeding on that scent mixed with soap, warmth, and clean sheets.

He was about to close his eyes when he felt a hand move against him. Donovan, still half asleep, had slid his fingers over Lyle’s chest, then up to his face. His eyelids barely opened, revealing a gaze still fuzzy with sleep but curious, tender.

Slowly, he let his hand explore Lyle’s face, as if discovering a secret map. He traced the curve of his forehead with the tip of his index finger, the straight line of his nose, the start of his eyebrows, then slowly moved down to his cheekbones and jawline. He lingered on every detail, with an almost religious attention, a restrained gentleness.

Then his fingers came to rest on Lyle’s lips, which he gently caressed, as if to feel their shape, their texture. His eyes finally settled on Lyle’s, who watched him without moving, frozen in a kind of peace mixed with turmoil. A delicate shiver ran down his back.

“You look at me like I’m going to disappear,” he murmured, his voice still husky from sleep.

“Maybe I’m just trying to memorize,” Donovan answered in a whisper.

Lyle gently took Donovan’s hand, his fingers brushing against his. He took one between his lips and lightly bit it, playfully, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Hey,” Donovan protested in an amused whisper. “That’s not how you treat an artist’s hands.”

“That’s how you treat the hands of an asshole who wakes me up,” Lyle replied, without any hostility.

“You’re kidding, right? This morning, you woke me up. Like always, your fingers tickling my face while I’m still half-asleep.”

Lyle shrugged, feigning innocence. “I was trying to be gentle.”

“Oh yeah? Scratching my cheek with your thumbnail is gentle now?” Donovan teased, eyes gleaming with amusement.

He laughed softly, a low, muffled laugh, then folded his arm around Lyle, pulling him closer.

“You’re the one smiling, not me. I win.”

Donovan lifted himself slightly, then straddled him, pressing his chest against Lyle’s, his arms around his neck. They didn’t exchange a word for a moment, just this contact, skin against skin, breath against breath. Donovan gently traced the edges of the tattoo on Lyle’s wrist with his fingertip, his gaze tender.

“She’s going to hate me in a few years, you know, for stealing her dad for an entire weekend.”

“She’ll want you to stay, on the contrary. She’s always had good taste.”

They exchanged a slow kiss, first shy, then a little deeper, a little more grounded. No fire, no rush—just a tongue finding the other, a sigh escaping, a shiver rising up the spine.

Donovan finally rested his head on Lyle’s chest, as if reclaiming that place.

“I love your smell in the morning. You smell… like rainwater and sheets that have lived a little.”

“That’s poetic for saying ‘you kind of stink,’” Lyle said with a teasing smile.

“No. It’s intimate. I want to remember it.”

Lyle slid his hands under Donovan’s T-shirt, slowly caressing his back, his shoulder blades, then his sides. His fingers lingered as if memorizing every line, every warmth, every beat against his palm.

They lay there for a long time, cuddling without speaking, kissing intermittently, their legs lazily tangled beneath the sheets.

At one point, Donovan lifted his head and smiled.

“Did you realize we have nothing planned this morning?”

“I planned this,” Lyle replied, tightening his arms around him. “You, me, this bed. Maybe a coffee. Maybe two.”

“Maybe three. And after? A kiss for every sip? Or lots of sex until we can’t think straight anymore?”

“Demanding.”

“Loving,” Donovan gently corrected.

A silence greeted that word. Just a silence, heavy, slow, soft. Lyle watched him for a moment, then leaned in to kiss him long and tenderly, as if that was the answer.

~~

The golden light of late afternoon bathed the garden in a soft, reassuring warmth. The air smelled of clean laundry and sun-warmed wood. The grass, still damp from watering, shimmered under the slanting rays of the sun, sparkling like a sea of emerald dotted with tiny pearls. The little inflatable house stood in the center like a miniature castle, colorful and absurd amidst this almost too perfect calm, its plastic walls vibrating slightly in the warm summer breeze.

Grace laughed out loud, arms in the air, awkwardly running from one corner to another of the inflatable house, her little legs still hesitant but determined. Each step was a challenge, a triumph. Her blue shorts rode too high over her diaper, showing a bit of belly, and her brown hair stuck to her forehead from the heat and laughter. She had a spot of saliva on her chin, one sock halfway down, and the light caught in her eyes that pure carefreeness that Lyle had forgotten for years.

Lyle, sitting in the grass with his arms wrapped around his bent knees, watched the scene with a soft smile, the kind rarely seen on his lips before Donovan. His T-shirt wrinkled under his arms, a blade of grass stuck to his calf, but he didn’t move, as if frozen in the moment, absorbed by the fragile tableau before him. Donovan lay next to him, legs stretched out, ankles crossed, one hand on the earth, the other holding a water bottle he rolled against his forehead. His gaze moved tenderly from Grace to Lyle, a small crease at the corner of his eyes, discreet but genuine.

"She’s unstoppable today", Donovan whispered with a soft laugh. "Did she get her dose of Monaco or what?"

Lyle gave a small laugh, tired but soothed. His eyes shone with a quiet gleam, as if washed by a fragile happiness.

"It’s the house. She’s obsessed with it. You really made a good choice."

Donovan turned his head toward him, eyes half-closed under the sun, a dark lock of hair falling on his forehead. He smiled, a calm smile, almost a secret between them.

"She says “Dada” every time I put her inside. I think it’s my proudest achievement to date."

"You’re competing with my “Daddy” now", Lyle joked, raising an eyebrow, pretending to be jealous.

"Yeah, but she doesn’t let me change her when she makes a mess. She’s pretty clever that one."

They laughed together, sharing a quiet complicity, shoulders shaking slightly, then fell back into a gentle silence, simply rocked by Grace’s bursts of laughter, the rustling of leaves, the faint buzzing of an insect somewhere in the branches, and the muffled sounds of the inflatable house bending under the little girl’s clumsy jumps.

But little by little, Lyle withdrew slightly. His smile faded without disappearing, his gaze darkened a little, something distant in the way his eyes lost themselves toward the ground. As if a shadow was slowly passing behind his eyelids.

Donovan noticed almost immediately, barely propping himself up on one elbow, subtle worry in his voice.

"Hey", he murmured. "Are you okay?"

Lyle stayed silent for a few seconds, then slowly nodded... before shaking his shoulders, as if to shake off an invisible weight hanging from his shoulder blades.

"It’s silly", he finally said, his voice deeper, almost inaudible.

Donovan sat up a little more, watching him carefully.

"You can tell me. It’s not silly if it makes you feel like that."

Lyle was still looking at Grace, who was happily tapping on a plastic window of the house, cheeks red, drooling a little while laughing. A laugh that pierced everything, even the heaviest silences.

"Sometimes... I think about the child I never had with Christy."

Donovan said nothing, simply listening. He had heard part of that story years ago, a story Lyle had never told him despite their deep friendship back then and that he had discovered much later during the trial, but he remembered it briefly—as a half-erased memory, one Lyle had never dared to fully tell.

"It was at least ten years ago. I was like 19 or 20. And as you know, Christy was ten years older than me... It wasn’t planned. My father found the papers in the bathroom. And after that, Christy had no choice. He dragged her to a doctor, put pressure on her family. She only told me afterward. I didn’t know right away."

Lyle paused. He was also struck by the cruel realization that it had been almost ten years since he and Erik had killed their parents. What followed were years of trials during which their lives had been put on hold.

He now had his arms crossed, eyes fixed on the ground, jaws clenched, his fingers gently gripping the fabric of his jeans. A dull tension ran through his posture, barely contained.

"Sometimes I wonder... if it had been a boy or a girl. What difference it would have made. If... if life would have been the same. But I guess it wouldn’t have changed anything in the end. Because I wasn’t there. I was... locked away. Between the walls of the trial. Between Erik and me, we lost six years of our lives, but sometimes I forget that it’s also six years of theirs that we stole. From those children we never had."

Donovan reached out and gently placed his hand on Lyle’s forearm, a slow gesture, as if afraid to break him by mistake.

"You can’t change the past", he murmured. "Nobody can. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t matter."

Lyle breathed in slowly. He closed his eyes for a moment, eyelids heavy, his breath widening in his chest as if fighting against something too vast for him.

"I know. And I have Grace. She saves me every day. You too, now. But sometimes... I think about it. Like a ghost we never could name."

Donovan squeezed his arm a little tighter, his fingers anchored gently but firmly, as if bringing him back to the present.

"That ghost... made room for her."

A small cry of joy broke the silence. Grace had just managed to open the zipper of the little inflatable door and stumbled outside, landing with a laugh in Donovan’s arms, who caught her just in time, his reflexes sharpened by habit.

“Dada!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands, her eyes sparkling and her face flushed with excitement.

Donovan burst out laughing and lifted her above him like a rocket. She screamed with joy, her tiny bare feet kicking in the air. Lyle watched them for a moment, the shadow still present in his eyes but partly swept away by the love — raw, unconditional — that unfolded before him like an obvious truth.

He placed his right hand on his left wrist, where the name Grace was still red and fresh, etched into his skin with ink and fire. One year. An eternity. A new life.

Grace’s laughter had calmed, melting into the song of late cicadas and the soft rustling of leaves brushed by the wind. She had fallen asleep a few minutes later, nestled in Donovan’s arms, her cheek against his shoulder, one hand gripping the collar of his T-shirt like a familiar anchor. Lyle had watched her drift off with a tender smile, then had disappeared inside for a few moments, returning with two glasses of fresh lemonade and a thin blanket.

They were now sitting side by side on the edge of the porch, legs stretched into the warm grass, watching the sky slowly pale above the fence. The silence between them was not heavy — on the contrary, it was soft, simple, the kind shared by people who no longer need to fill the moment.

Donovan absentmindedly played with a blade of grass he rolled between his fingers. He was still in that calm, happy state that only a whole day spent together without disruption could bring. Then, without warning, Lyle broke the silence.

“You know… I thought about it on the plane, coming back.”

Donovan turned his head toward him, surprised by the thoughtful tone of his voice.

“About what?”

Lyle hesitated for half a second, then stared straight ahead, as if he needed to look far away to find the words.

“About starting again. Traveling. Going out, just you and me. Back then, I would’ve told you I didn’t know. That Grace came first, that I couldn’t allow myself that.”

He paused, then continued more softly:

“But you know what? I was wrong. Not about Grace, never... But about me. About… about what I thought I deserved.”

Donovan’s brows furrowed slightly, not from confusion but from restrained emotion. He didn’t dare interrupt.

“That weekend, over there…it was the first time I really felt that. That thing. Being free. Not in other people’s eyes, not running from something. Just there. With you. I’d forgotten what it felt like to laugh without calculating. To dance without looking over my shoulder. And even the tattoo… I know, it was impulsive, but it wasn’t an escape. It was me saying: ‘I’m alive. And she’s mine.’

Donovan stared at him, his heart beating a little faster. He felt that something was shifting. Slowly. Surely.

“Lyle...”

But Lyle cut him off, this time looking him in the eyes, for real.

“What I’m trying to say is… maybe we should keep doing this. Not necessarily go to the ends of the earth every month. But… take time. Just the two of us. A night in a nice hotel with a stunning view, even if it’s just an hour from here. Something that belongs to us.”

He glanced away slightly after speaking, as if afraid of what he’d just admitted, though no words escaped him.

Donovan stayed silent for a moment. He had a hard time believing what he’d just heard. Not because he doubted Lyle, but because he realized what this proposal meant for him. Lyle, who had always refused to be away from Grace for more than a few hours. Lyle, who always double-checked the shutters were closed. Lyle, who had built around himself a fortress so high that Donovan thought he’d have to approach it on his knees, patiently, never forcing it.

And here he was, opening the door.

“Are you sure?” Donovan murmured, his heart pounding.

“I’m not sure about everything. But I’m sure I want this.”

Donovan smiled, slowly, deeply. A smile born in his belly that rose all the way to his eyes.

“Then we’ll do it. Not to run away. Just for us.”

Lyle nodded, and for the first time, he allowed himself to rest his head briefly on Donovan’s shoulder. Not long. Just long enough to breathe.

~~

Erik had once again agreed to play babysitter during his free weekend. True to his sense of responsibility, he had arrived at Lyle’s with a backpack full of college revision books and some snacks he had carefully prepared the day before. He planned to take advantage of the rare moments when Grace gave him a break to catch up on his studies.

Lyle and Donovan, grateful, had taken this opportunity to escape, just the two of them, and find a bit of calm away from the walls of the house, following Lyle’s request to spend time alone together again. They had decided to spend the afternoon at the beach, a secluded spot they had discovered together a few weeks earlier.

The car ride, light and punctuated with knowing smiles, had helped them unwind a little. Donovan drove carefully along the secondary road lined with pine trees twisted by the sea wind, while Lyle watched the passing landscape, his gaze already turned toward the sea.

They had parked the car a little off the beaten path, behind a row of wind-twisted pines, on a side road Donovan had spotted while exploring the area a few days earlier. The path was barely visible, almost erased by the seasons and fallen leaves, but it suddenly opened onto a narrow trail lined with dry ferns and thorny bushes. The beach below had no name — just a ribbon of sand hidden between two cliffs, reached by slipping between rocks like a well-kept secret. A place forgotten by maps, crowds, and eyes.

No lifeguard hut. No families. No colorful towels or children’s shouts. Just the rustling of the wind in the pines, the soft crunch of small pebbles under their feet, and the distant, steady, hypnotic call of the ocean.

Lyle descended slowly, shoes in hand, bare feet on the warm dusty path that clung a little to his skin. The sun cast long shadows between the trunks, drawing moving lines on his arms and face. He had rolled up his jeans slightly to his ankles, and his steps were cautious but determined, as every time he ventured outside his usual boundaries.

Donovan followed close behind, his backpack slightly jostling on his shoulder. Inside, he had slipped a large, slightly worn towel, a bottle of lemon water, a pack of soft biscuits, and his old but trusty analog camera, which he only used for moments he really wanted to capture. He proudly called it “the strict romantic minimum” — like a joke, but Lyle knew he truly meant it.

Once on the beach, they hadn’t met anyone. The sand was scattered with fragments of dry seaweed, pieces of driftwood stranded there like witnesses from another shore, and a few empty shells. In the distance, seabirds lazily circled, crying intermittently, but without disturbing the peace of the place.

They settled behind a rocky formation carved by salt and years, like a little natural nook, an open-air alcove. From there, the view of the sea was clear, but they, half-sitting in the cool shade, remained invisible from the cliff. The sand was denser there, cooler too, still damp from past waves. It crunched under their hands, sticking slightly to their fingers. The wind blew gently, occasionally lifting strands of hair on the nape of Lyle’s neck.

The light was fading slowly. It was no longer burning — it was caressing, golden, oblique, tracing soft and shifting reflections on their skin, like a living painting.

“It’s not El Matador,” Donovan murmured, sitting down on the towel with his legs stretched out. “But it’s quiet. And nobody will recognize us.”

Lyle nodded, his eyes fixed on the slowly rolling waves.

“That’s perfect, precisely because it’s not.”

He sat down as well, placing his palms on the sand, sinking them slightly. A silence settled between them — but a full, dense silence, like a fabric in which they breathed together.

Then Lyle spoke again, more quietly:

“I think I needed this. Not to run away from Grace. Never. Just… to breathe a little differently.”

Donovan turned his head toward him but didn’t say anything right away. He had grown used to these half-whispered confessions, to sentences that floated in the air before finding their anchor. He simply waited.

“That day at El Matador a few weeks ago was good,” he finally said. “I think about it often. Grace covered in sand, and Erik grumbling because she wanted to eat the shells.”

Lyle let out a soft laugh, his gaze lost in the distance.

“He carried her the whole way back. He acted like it was nothing, but he limped for two days.”

Donovan smiled, his eyes lost in the shimmer of the surf.

“I think that was the first time I really saw you... breathe. You were watching Grace play, and that tension wasn’t in your shoulders anymore. That’s why I wanted to find a place like this.”

“Without her.”

Lyle turned his eyes to him. There was no reproach in his voice. No pain. Just a kind of peaceful clarity, as if he was finally grasping what he was living through.

“Not without her. With her in my heart. But… for us. For what we’re becoming, her included. Because if I want Grace to one day see what it means to love healthily... I have to live it too. Not just survive.”

Donovan looked at him for a long moment, his features softened, the shadows under his eyes softened by the golden light.

“You know you’ve changed? Not deep down. But in presence. You’re really here. With me.”

Lyle lowered his eyes slightly, almost shy. Then he whispered:

“And you, you stopped apologizing for existing. You stopped thinking you were a mistake in my life.”

“Because you stopped pushing me away.”

A smile bloomed between them. Simple. Silent.

Lyle turned his gaze back toward the ocean. The waves gently died on the shore, leaving wet lines on the sand like slow, steady heartbeats. He stretched out his hand, palm open.

“Come walk.”

Donovan took it immediately, as if he had been waiting for it forever.

They walked in silence, side by side, their feet in the cool water. Occasionally, a wave reached up to their calves, wetting the rolled cuffs of their jeans, but neither minded. It was light. Without urgency. A quiet interlude.

“Do you think she’ll remember these moments?” Donovan asked after a long silence.

“Not precisely,” Lyle replied. “But she’ll remember them in her body. In how she learns to trust. To love. To walk toward the waves. I hope so, at least.”

Donovan squeezed his hand a little tighter.

“I think we should come back here,” Donovan said softly.

“With Grace.”

“And Erik, if he insists on carrying everything.”

Lyle laughed, this time without restraint.

“She would be able to try swimming on her own now. She imitates dogs when they swim in cartoons.”

“She’s got your stubborn streak. And your sense of drama.”

“You’re offensive.”

“I’m in love.”

Their eyes met. In those eyes, a fierce tenderness gently burned, mixed with a silent call and a soft, fragile urgency. It was a silent language, an intimate pact, a mute promise that nothing could break.

Without thinking, Lyle grabbed Donovan’s hand with a light firmness, a childish impulse in his gesture, a sparkle of mischief lighting up his pupils. His fingers gently squeezed Donovan’s, as if inviting him not to hesitate, to follow him.

“Come,” he said with a smile blossoming, shy but sincere, at the corner of his lips.

Before Donovan had time to answer, Lyle started running, pulling his companion along. They both sprinted across the fine, warm sand, barefoot, their footsteps leaving fleeting marks on the deserted beach.

Their laughter burst out, pure and free, escaping without restraint into the salty air, carried by the sea breeze. That joyful sound, a mix of surprise and amusement, erased the heaviness of the past, making room for an unexpected lightness.

As they neared the water, a wave stronger than usual caught them off guard, rising suddenly, throwing them off balance. They fell together, a splash of water, spraying the air and their clothes. The salty water splashed their faces and arms, refreshing, invigorating.

Donovan laughed out loud, a clear, vibrant sound that echoed between the cliffs, while Lyle wiped his face with a clumsy gesture, drops glistening on his lashes, sparkling under the last rays of the sun.

They got up, soaked, their clothes sticking to their skin like a second layer, their hearts beating a little faster, carried away in this moment stolen from time, from the gravity of their lives.

They ventured further until the water reached only their knees, their bodies shivering under the cool touch of the ocean, gently biting—a striking contrast with the golden warmth of the setting sun caressing their shoulders and wet hair.

Donovan, out of breath from running and playing, suddenly stopped, turned around, and lay down gently in the wet sand, at the edge where the waves came to kiss the earth with infinite softness. The cold, damp sand slipped between his fingers and against his skin, offering a reassuring, almost protective sensation.

Without a word, Lyle followed, letting himself fall beside him, then slowly lying on top of him, placing his warm body against Donovan’s. The contact of their wet skin caused a delicious shiver; their breaths mingled, calm, steady, in a suspended rhythm.

They looked at each other, long and deeply, eyes heavy with silent promises, fragile hopes, and contained desires. Then, slowly, their lips met. At first hesitant, trembling, as if to discover each other one last time, then with an electric, luminous softness that seemed to light up an entire world.

The kiss deepened, becoming more urgent, more passionate, yet still filled with that tenderness they hadn’t always dared to give before. It was a kiss of grounding, affirmation, rebirth. Lyle’s hands slid gently into Donovan’s hair, tugging softly, as if to hold him better, to call him never to leave again. Donovan wrapped his arms around Lyle’s waist, pulling him even closer, pressing their bodies together.

The whole world seemed to fade away around them. Only the soothing murmur of the waves remained, the sand supporting them, and that warm shared breath, intimate, precious.

Above them, the sun continued its slow descent, painting the sky with shades of pink, orange, and purple, like a living and infinite painting.

Chapter Text

Andy and Anamaria had come to spend the weekend at Lyle’s, hoping to enjoy some real time together—a gentle pause in their busy lives. Their warm, simple presence filled Lyle and Erik with a quiet but profound joy. For months now, opportunities to gather like this had been rare, and this weekend felt like a welcome interlude.

Voices and laughter echoed through the living room, where Andy and Anamaria had just reunited with Grace after several months apart. The little girl was running around their legs with the joyful clumsiness of someone just discovering balance. Her cheeks were flushed, and her small brown curls bounced with every step. With every move, every burst of laughter, it was obvious how much she had changed since Christmas.

“Look how much she’s grown,” Andy whispered as he knelt down, arms open, his eyes shining with emotion. “She’s almost become a little girl. And her eyes… she’s so aware.”

Anamaria nodded, a tender smile on her lips as she watched Grace twirl into an improvised dance.

“It’s wild… At Christmas, she could barely sit up. And now look at her. She’s like a walking firecracker.”

Lyle, sitting in an armchair near the window, observed the scene with a cup of tea in hand. His smile, subtle but sincere, reflected a mix of pride and wonder. Donovan, seated beside him with his legs crossed, exchanged amused glances with him, clearly entertained by the little girl’s energy.

“You sure you don’t want us to give you a break?” Donovan joked toward the cousins. “Feels like she’s already taken full control of you.”

Andy laughed, letting himself fall onto the plush rug.

“We’re ready to be conquered. That’s our job, right? Cuddle experts, goofball entertainers... And she loves it. Your kid’s clever. She knows how to pick the right team.”

Still smiling, Anamaria threw a wink at Lyle and Donovan.

“You two, honestly… it’s adorable. Like an old sitcom couple. Do you have a chalkboard somewhere with a diaper and bottle schedule?”

Lyle blushed slightly, glancing sideways at Donovan, who gave him an amused, almost conspiratorial smile.

“We improvise. She’s the one steering the ship, anyway. We’re just along for the ride.”

Donovan shrugged.

“Honestly, she’s more organized than both of us put together. She already knows exactly how to get what she wants. It’s terrifying.”

Laughter rang out as Grace flopped dramatically onto the rug, as if she had just conquered the world. She looked up at Andy, reached out her arms, and shouted something unintelligible but clearly enthusiastic.

“Say ‘Andy,’” Anamaria encouraged, gently stroking the child’s curls.

Grace fixed her eyes on her cousin, focused all her energy, furrowed her brows…

“A-da!”

Andy burst into laughter, delighted.

“I’ll take it. I accept. That’s my new official name.”

“What about me?” said Anamaria with a mock-offended look. “Say ‘Anamaria.’ Come on, you can do it, sweetheart.”

The little one gave it a try, or at least she tried. What came out sounded more like a sing-song gurgle than a name, but she said it with such confidence that no one dared correct her.

“‘Ama,’” Andy declared solemnly. “It’s sweet, short, and suits you perfectly.”

Everyone laughed, except Erik, standing a bit in the background, leaning against the doorframe. He watched the scene with arms crossed, a smile on his face, touched but slightly melancholic. He stepped forward, hands in his pockets.

“She still hasn’t managed to say my name, huh?” he said, mock-injured. “And I do spend time with her, right, Lyle?”

Grace turned toward him, her eyes shining with an instinctive recognition. Then, with a loud, joyful voice:

“Gaga!”

A beat of amused silence, then an explosion of laughter. Erik rolled his eyes, resigned.
“Great. Doomed to be ‘Gaga’ forever.”

“It’s affectionate,” Anamaria consoled him. “And look how she looks at you… She knows exactly who you are.”

Donovan leaned over to pick up the little girl, lifting her gently into his arms and whispering:

“We’ll keep teaching you. One day you’ll say ‘Erik,’ and it’ll be a national holiday.”

Lyle stood up and placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder.

“She adores you, you know. ‘Gaga’ or not. She’s got plenty of time to pronounce things the right way. What matters is that she knows who you are.”

Erik nodded, touched.

“Yeah. But just so you know… the day she says ‘Uncle Erik,’ I’m buying a cake and giving a speech.”

Grace clapped her hands, happy for reasons only she knew, and started babbling joyfully. Donovan twirled her gently in his arms, laughing with her, and Lyle, watching them all, felt a pinch in his chest—a mix of love, gratitude, and a fragile peace he never thought he’d reach.

The sun beat gently on the surface of the water, casting golden reflections over relaxed faces. The pool, edged with pale stone and shaded by trees dancing in a light summer breeze, echoed with laughter and splashes. It was a rare moment of lightness, an unexpected interlude in an often too-heavy everyday life.

The five adults had gathered there almost instinctively, drawn by a shared need for warmth, for simple life. Grace, of course, was the center. With her bursts of laughter and waving little arms, she seemed to radiate a contagious joy that had spread to everyone.

Submerged in the warm water, they took turns making Grace laugh, daring who would splash her without getting scolded by Erik, teasing each other gently like teenagers. It was simple. Light. And terribly precious.

At one point, Lyle drifted away from the group, sliding slowly toward the deeper end of the pool. He leaned against the stone edge, half submerged, watching the scene with a tender, almost discreet, smile.

Andy approached him quietly, joining him in the calmer part of the pool. The joyful tumult of the others drifted to them in the background, like a distant echo.

He swam beside him for a moment before settling against the wall too, arms outstretched, head tilted toward the sky.

A comfortable silence settled between them, broken only by Grace’s laughter and distant splashes. Then Andy turned his head slightly toward his cousin, his face more serious.

“Hey, Lyle… how are you, really?”

Lyle remained silent for a few seconds. He stared at the water, as if seeking the answer there. Then he let out a soft sigh.

“Honestly? Not always great. There were times that were really hard, especially earlier this year.”

He paused, his features tightening a little.

“In January, the photos of the kiss with Donovan at the airport came out. He was supposed to return to New Jersey… It was something ordinary, intimate… stolen. And suddenly, it was everywhere. Sensational headlines. Speculation. Judgment. The comments… you can’t imagine.”

Andy frowned ever so slightly, attentive.

“I remember, yeah… Mom was really worried about you. Actually, we were all afraid you’d relapse. And… you went quiet after that.”

“Because I was drained. It was like all the dirt resurfaced. The trial. The stares. The questions. They started talking about our parents again, about our sexuality, about Grace. They even brought her into the mix. As if it was scandalous that an… ‘ex‑criminal’ and his ‘lover’ would raise a little girl.”

He shook his head, clearly wounded by the memory.

“I was scared. Scared for her. For Donovan. For us. I thought I’d have to stop everything, lock myself away again. But… I held on. He helped me hold on. And now, things are better.”

Andy watched him with gentle sincerity.

“Really better?”

Lyle nodded, this time with a small smile.

“Yeah. I love him. Really. And Grace… she adores him. It’s like she’s always known him. She looks for him when he leaves the room, she holds out her arms. She trusts him. And I do too.”

He paused, his eyes lost in the ripples.

“I’ve never known anything like this. Not like this. Not so simple. Not so clear.”

Andy gave a knowing smile.

“You deserve it, you know.”

Lyle shrugged, humble.

“I don’t know if I deserve anything… but I’ll take it. Every second. Every smile. Every morning with her. Every stolen moment with him.”

Andy stayed quiet for a moment, then moistened his lips.

“You know… I often think about that time. About what we knew. What we didn’t say. What we couldn’t say.”

Lyle slowly turned his eyes toward him.

“Me too.”

They looked at each other for a moment. No words, just that silent understanding born from shared silences, from suppressed truths.

Andy finally shook his head lightly, a disbelieving smile on his lips, heavy with emotion he made no effort to hide.

“Honestly… I never thought we’d get here,” he admitted in a low voice.

Lyle raised an eyebrow, curious.

“Here, how?”

Andy raised a hand to sweep over everything around them: the summer sky, the sunlit house, the laughter in the pool, the baby cooing in the distance.

“You, a father. You… in love. With Donovan, no less. Erik at university. All of us, here. Together. Despite everything that’s happened…”

He stopped, his gaze briefly wavering. A silence floated between them, a bit heavier.

“I don’t want… to rehash the past,” he added softly, almost reluctantly.

But they both felt it, that shadow that never fully vanishes. The shadow of actions. Of choices. Of losses.

Lyle said nothing, but his expression darkened slightly, aware that some ghosts live forever in the folds of silence.

Andy continued, more softly now:

“What I mean to say is… despite everything, I’m starting to believe there’s always a light at the end of the tunnel. Even when you think there will never be one.”

Lyle held his gaze for a moment, eyes shining with contained emotion, then nodded simply.

“Yeah… me too.”

A gentle silence fell between them, peaceful this time. The water lapped softly around their shoulders, and far off, Grace’s crystalline laughter echoed again, like a promise that not all was lost.

Andy straightened a little, stretching his arms behind him with a satisfied sigh.

“Alright… I’ll get out before I wrinkle too much,” he murmured with a half‑smile.

He was about to leave the water in search of a towel when his gaze landed on Lyle’s left wrist. He squinted slightly, surprised.

“Wait… is that a tattoo?” he asked, pointing discreetly at the fine letters on the wet skin.

Lyle glanced at his wrist as though he’d forgotten it was there, then offered a discreet, almost bashful, smile.

“Yeah. ‘Grace.’ I got it a few weeks ago.”

Andy raised his eyebrows, genuinely surprised.

“I’d never imagined you getting a tattoo.”

Lyle shrugged, sounding somewhat distant.

“Me neither. I did it on a whim. Well… more like on a heart‑whim, really.”

He paused, eyes drifting across the gently rippling water.

“Donovan convinced me, after some effort, to go away just the two of us, for the weekend. I was at my limit. Tired. Worn out. I felt guilty just thinking about leaving Grace, even for two days. But… I finally said yes.”

Andy listened quietly, intrigued.

“We went to southern France. First to Aix‑en‑Provence, then Monaco. And… I don’t know how else to say it, but… something changed in me there.”

He offered a dreamy kind of smile.

“It was like breathing for the first time in years. No one knew me. No one looked at me as ‘the Menendez brother.’ I was just… a guy. A tourist like any other. And I had Donovan by my side. Free. Alive.”

He paused, eyes lost in the memory.

“We went to a bar, then a gay nightclub… At first I was petrified. Not because of the people, but because of what it represented for me. To exist like that, openly—it was new. Uncomfortable.” He smiled a little ruefully. “And then, there was this guy, a rather persistent guy, who started hitting on Donovan. I felt something stir inside me. I didn’t flee. I asserted myself. I approached him, draped my arm around Donovan, looked him straight in the eyes… and danced with him. Sensually. Slowly. In front of that other guy.”

Andy burst out laughing, surprised and delighted.

“You?! Dancing sensually in a gay club? I can’t believe it for a second.”

Lyle laughed too, a little embarrassed.

“I swear. I don’t know what came over me. But it felt right. Visceral. I’d never felt like that before. And after that… there were midnight swims in the sea, the sunlight in Aix’s alleys, the softness of morning, the way Donovan laughed without restraint. It wasn’t just a vacation. It was… a punch. A liberation.”

He lowered his gaze again to his wrist, brushing the name with his fingertips.

“And one morning, without warning, I walked past a little tattoo shop. I went in. I told him: ‘I just want her name.’ Because no matter where I go, who I become, she’s what anchors me. She brought me back to life, even before Donovan.”

Andy watched him for a moment, moved by the sincerity of his words.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so… yourself. You look more alive than at Christmas. More free.”

Lyle nodded gently.

“Because I am. At last. Not just a father. Not just a survivor. And not just ‘a Menendez’.”

He turned his head toward the rest of the group. Grace was laughing out loud, splashing joyfully in Erik’s arms while Donovan gently splashed her. The sun was slowly sinking over the water, bathing the scene in a golden light.

Lyle drew in a deep breath.

“I am Lyle. A guy who loves. Who loves his daughter. Who loves this man. And who finally wants to live.”

Andy stayed silent for a moment, gazing at his cousin as though he were seeing him for the first time in a new light. The sun, low in the sky, made the water’s surface sparkle, and an unusual calm had settled between them.

Then he exhaled, his voice thick with emotion:

“You know, Lyle… I’m proud of you.”

Lyle turned his head slowly, surprised, almost skeptical. Andy looked him straight in the eyes, no hesitation.

“Really. You’re still here. You’re standing. You take care of your daughter with a tenderness few would understand, you keep moving forward… despite everything. You could’ve shut yourself off from the world, drowned in anger or shame. But you’re here. Alive. Loving. You chose the light, man.”

Lyle dropped his gaze slightly, jaw tight.

“It’s not always easy, you know. There are still days I feel like I’m suffocating. Where the past catches up without warning. Nights where I see their faces again, where I wonder if I could’ve done things differently.”

Andy nodded gently, his throat tightening.

“What we all lived through back then… it’s not something you heal from in a year or two. That trial, what it revealed… it broke something in each of us. Even those watching from the outside. We were shaken to our foundations. It’s like a scar we’ll carry for life. But you try. We all try. In our own way.”

A heavy but peaceful silence passed between them. Lyle drew in a deep breath, the water gently lapping his shoulders.

“Yeah… we try to piece things back together. One by one.”

A crystal laugh made them turn. A little further off, Erik was holding Grace out above the water as if to make her fly, while Anamaria and Donovan pretended to send little waves her way. The child clapped excitedly, letting out a sharp squeal that made everyone laugh.

“Careful, Grace’s going to lift off!” Erik shouted, splashing Anamaria with a kick.

“Oh no ! Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No, it’s SUPER GRACE!” Donovan exclaimed, laughing, only to be drenched by the mini tornado.

The little girl laughed heartily, cheeks flushed, eyes shining. She grabbed a lock of Erik’s hair and tugged joyfuly, causing her uncle to wince and laugh.

“She’s got strength! We’ll have to teach her to aim for toys, not ears.”

Anamaria, giggling, got closer with a small colorful board shaped like a dolphin.

“Here, princess, look! It’s your favorite dolphin! Want to give him a kiss?”

Grace grabbed the toy with both hands, waved it for a moment, then flung it with all her might… right at Donovan’s chest.

“Ouch!” he exclaimed, exaggerating his pain. “She’s got your spirit already, Lyle, for sure.”

Lyle, back with Andy near the others, smiled tenderly.

“She doesn’t let herself be messed with. It’s in her blood.”

To confirm it, Grace let out a booming laugh, then splashed everyone with her frantic little arms. Everyone cried mock indignation as they shielded themselves, before delightfully surrendering to the splash. Erik seized the moment to “revenge,” lifting the little girl and tossing her gently into Anamaria’s arms, who caught her laughing.

Donovan swam toward Lyle and slipped a hand gently around his waist, his gaze shining with simple happiness.

“Are you okay?”

Lyle slowly turned his head toward Grace, laughing with abandon, carried by Erik, Anamaria and Andy. The simple joy of his daughter, surrounded and protected, calmed the storm in his chest for a moment.

“Yes… everything’s okay,” he answered softly, a gentle smile tugging at his lips.

Donovan nodded, relieved. They remained silent a moment, letting Grace’s laughter fill the air around them.

A little later.

The golden evening light bathed the garden. A bit away from the house, Donovan leaned against a low stone wall, the cordless phone pressed tightly to his ear. He was staring straight ahead, but his mind was elsewhere.

He didn’t even have time to speak before his boss’s sharp voice snapped on the other end of the line.

"You really plan on staying out there? In California? You're still officially on leave, Donovan."

Donovan leaned more firmly into the warm stone, watching the leaves ripple in the breeze.

"That’s exactly why I’m calling. I’ve made up my mind. I’m resigning."

A tense silence followed. Then the voice returned, colder than before.

"And you didn’t think it was worth telling me in person?"

"You were 2,500 miles away. I went with the most direct route."

"It’s easy, huh? Running away. Leaving everything behind. I thought you were more dependable than that."

Donovan clenched his jaw.

"How long was I dependable, huh? I worked nonstop, even when people side-eyed me after the trial. Even when rumors started about 'my relationship'. I said nothing. I took it. I stayed professional. But now? I don’t see the point anymore."

His boss let out a dry, mirthless laugh.

"You don’t see the point because you’ve decided to shack up with Lyle Menendez ? Seriously, Donovan ? Have you lost your mind ?"

"No. I’ve just stopped pretending. And by the way, he’s not just 'Lyle Menendez'. He’s a man. A father. Someone I love. And I don’t need to hide that from anyone."

"You do realize your image reflects on us, right ? Clients associate your name with… that case. With that soap opera of a couple."

"What the clients think is your problem, not mine. I’m done with the hypocrisy. With justifying who I love or where I am. I’ve found a life here. A real one. And yeah, I stayed longer than planned. Wanna know why? Because for the first time in years, I can breathe."

Silence thickened on the other end. Then:

"You’re making a huge mistake, Donovan. You’re throwing away a solid career for what? Some unstable fling? You really think there’s a future for you two, with all the baggage he carries?"

Donovan looked up at the sky, almost weary. But his voice was steady now.

"You know what? Maybe there’s no future. Maybe it’ll be hard. Maybe it’ll all fall apart. But at least I’ll know I chose this. Not a career plan. Not an image. Not a watered-down version of my life."

Another pause. Then, colder:

"You will soon receive my resignation letter."

The voice of his boss, cold and distant, was heard one last time, each word falling like an irrevocable sentence : "Good luck, Donovan. You’re gonna need it."

Donovan gave a humorless smile.

"Maybe. But I’d rather need courage than keep living on my knees."

He hung up.

The garden returned to stillness, suspended in a golden hush. In the distance, Grace’s laughter drifted on the breeze. He closed his eyes for a moment, fingers still curled around the receiver.

Then he opened them, drew in a deep breath… and walked back toward the house.

The living room was bathed in a soft, golden light, filtered through the sheer curtains that swayed gently in the warm summer wind. The heat of the day had faded, leaving behind a gentle calm where every breath seemed to hang in the air.

In the center of the room, on a plush rug in warm tones, Grace was babbling joyfully. Around her, Lyle, Erik, Andy, and Anamaria were looking at her in an almost sacred attentiveness. Erik spun Grace slowly in his arms with a tenderness that contrasted with her playful energy, triggering peals of laughter that lit up the whole room.

Anamaria, beside him, captured each moment with a soft, glowing smile, as if she were preserving not just the memory, but the rebirth of a family. Andy, meanwhile, was throwing knowing glances at Lyle, glances full of unspoken emotion, shared history, and quiet joy.

Lyle gently stepped away from the group and made his way over to Donovan, who had remained quietly in the background, leaning against the doorframe, watching the scene with a tenderness tinged with something new, a kind of calm, like he was finally soaking in this moment of peace after so many years of unrest.

"So ?" Lyle murmured, his gaze curious but edged with worry. "How’d it go with your boss ?"

Donovan shrugged slowly, a tired but soft smile on his lips.

"Tense, as you’d expect. He didn’t take it well. But it’s done. I quit."

Lyle laid a gentle, almost protective hand on Donovan’s arm, trying to pass on all the reassurance he could.

"Don’t worry about money, okay ? My parents’ inheritance covers everything Grace and I need. We’ll be fine, together."

Donovan nodded, clearly relieved, letting out a breath he’d been holding.

"I know. And it helps, a lot. But I still want to find another job. Something that keeps me here, close to you both."

He met Lyle’s eyes, open and steady.

"In the meantime, I want to give myself fully to this. To you and Grace. No more flying across the country, except maybe to visit my sister from time to time."

Lyle’s smile came easily this time, his chest lighter, as though this simple exchange had lifted an invisible weight.

"It’s good to hear that."

A comfortable silence settled between them, broken only by Grace’s light giggles and the patter of her little feet scampering around the room. Their eyes remained locked a moment longer, sealing something quiet and certain between them.

Then, a louder burst of laughter drew their attention. Across the room, Grace had flung herself into Andy’s open arms, sending another ripple of joy through the space.

Lyle and Donovan exchanged a quiet, knowing smile, both of them finding in that single moment a kind of strength they thought they’d lost long ago.

The house had gradually grown drowsy, voices fading one by one, as though carried away by the fatigue of a long day. Andy had retreated to the guest room, where the cool sheets promised restorative sleep. Erik sat on the living room sofa, wrapped in a blanket and face buried in a pillow, his steady breathing betraying deep slumber. Meanwhile, Lyle had gently put Grace to sleep, her small frame nestled against him in the dimness of the bedroom. Once the child was peacefully asleep, he turned off the light and made his way to his own room, the silence gradually reclaiming its reign.

Outside on the terrace, however, the night was still alive. Under a star‑filled sky, a gentle breeze caressed the leaves of the trees, carrying with it the warm scents of summer. On a wicker sofa placed on the garden terrace, Anamaria and Donovan remained alone, contemplating the soft lights of the house.

They sat side by side, somewhat wrapped in the rising coolness of the night, the gentle darkness surrounding them like a protective veil. Their eyes sometimes wandered toward the soft glow of the windows, where the sleeping silhouettes of their loved ones could be made out, before returning to each other, in that silence heavy with unspoken words and contained emotion.

Anamaria remained quiet for a moment, her fingers nervously playing with the weave of the wicker sofa. She looked toward the house in the distance, as though seeking courage. Then, slowly, she broke the silence with a gentle voice, laden with contained emotion, almost difficult to express.

"You know, all this, this whole story… it traumatized a lot of people. Much more than some want to show." She paused, her gaze drifting into the starry night. "I admit I hesitated for a long time to speak of it. Because it’s always heavy, you see? Like a burden we carry without being able to put it down."

Anamaria looked away momentarily, remembering the images on television, those scenes where her cousins stood in court, judged by the whole country, their past life laid bare in public.

"I still see myself in front of the TV… watching Erik and Lyle like that, judged, exposed… It was unreal. How could two kids we knew, our cousins, do something like that?" She inhaled deeply, her voice lowering. "For a long time, everyone believed it was mafia business, something external. No one really wanted to accept that it was them, that they did that to their own parents. It was unbearable to imagine."

Anamaria turned her eyes toward Donovan, searching for his reaction.

"I think that trial broke much more than their lives. It broke ours too, even for those who were outside all that. I’ll admit that for a long time I didn’t really understand why you turned against Lyle back then. It seemed so cruel, almost… a betrayal, you know?"

Donovan slowly nodded, a sigh escaping his lips.

"I know. I still blame myself today."

Anamaria took a deep breath, as if gathering her thoughts.

"Last Christmas, when you came, I saw something different. I saw how sincere you were. I saw how much you loved Grace. It really touched me. It helped me to understand." She paused for a moment, then resumed, a timid smile forming on her lips. "At that time, nobody in the family really knew what was going on between you and Lyle, though we suspected. When that photo of the kiss at the airport came out, strangely, no one was truly shocked. Well… not really. Some handled it better than others, certainly, but it wasn’t that startling. As if, deep down, we already knew."

Donovan gave a small smile, a mixture of nostalgia and relief in his eyes.

"Yes, I think it clarified things in a way. Even if it didn’t make everything simpler."

Anamaria looked into the distance, as though seeing those past moments again.

"What surprises me most is that I’ve never seen Lyle so fulfilled. Really. He has that light now, that peace… it’s beautiful to see. It changes everything, you know? Even Erik, he seems brighter seeing his brother so happy. And you know what? I’m ultimately happy that you’re together. For real. Not just because it’s easier or expected. But because it’s sincere. And because it does him good. To him, to both of you."

Donovan, touched, gently placed his hand over Anamaria’s.

"Thank you, Ana. It means so much to me, to hear that from you. You’ve been one of the few who truly supported me, even when you had every reason to blame me."

She smiled, letting out a soft laugh.

"I believe sometimes you just need time to understand. And some courage to look beyond appearances. That trial, that story, it left indelible marks. But tonight, here, seeing you with him, with Grace… I want to believe in it, you know? That there is still light, despite everything."

A peaceful silence settled between them, paced only by the gentle rustling of leaves and the distant murmur of the last stars.

Anamaria softly broke the silence again, a hint of sincere curiosity in her voice.

"Tell me, Donovan… what exactly is it like to be Grace’s ‘dada’?"

She smiled, a bit mischievous, as though trying to imagine what it must mean, with all that it implies for him.

Donovan looked at her, a tender glint in his eyes, then replied with a slightly embarrassed smile.

"It’s… complicated to explain. It’s a mix of responsibilities, fear, pride. Every day I learn how to be there for her, to love her unconditionally, to be that pillar she and Lyle deserve."

He paused, casually stroking the armrest of the sofa.

"You know, it’s a somewhat unique world, especially when you think of what people might imagine about us. But Grace… she doesn’t care. To her, I’m just her ‘dada.’ And that means more than anything."

Anamaria nodded, moved.

"It shows. She adores you."

Their eyes met, full of complicity, while around them the night continued to unfold its veil of calm.

Donovan inhaled deeply, letting the nighttime coolness caress his skin, while his gaze never left Anamaria’s.

"You know, being ‘dada’ is a lot like learning a new language… a language made of small gestures, of smiles exchanged in the hush of night, of waking in the middle of storms, and shared silences when she sleeps peacefully. It’s discovering that every little moment matters, that her happiness becomes part of you."

He smiled, his fingers playing with a leaf fallen at their feet.

"And there’s that fear, too. The fear of not being enough, of promising her a better world when everything we’ve lived through is never far behind. But that’s also love — choosing to move forward despite the shadows."

Anamaria laid a hand on his arm, a comforting warmth.

"It’s beautiful, Donovan. What you live, what all three of you are living… It’s fragile, precious. And it deserves to be protected, every day."

A light breath rose along the terrace, carrying the subtle scent of nocturnal jasmine.

"I never thought I’d see you like this, you know. Not at the trial, not last Christmas. But tonight, this evening, you glow."

Donovan blushed slightly, turning his gaze toward the starry sky. Silence returned, soothing, while the night gently enveloped them.

Anamaria turned her eyes away, nervously playing with the edge of the pillow, a silent weight in her throat. A fleeting idea crossed her mind, hesitant, unspoken, the question she dared not voice: Would he ever want his own child, someday? And maybe a child of his and Lyle’s…?

But she held back. The words felt too heavy, too intimate, suspended in the night.

She focused instead on what truly mattered, on what she saw before her: Donovan, present, loving, attentive.

She turned her gaze back to Donovan, sitting there calm and tranquil. She noticed how the starlight reflected in his eyes — a quiet clarity that contrasted with the storm he’d traversed. His hands, resting on his thighs, were relaxed, yet they spoke quietly of attention and sincere love.

She thought of Grace, of the tenderness Donovan showed her, of the patience and kindness he offered to soothe the child, make her laugh, reassure her. That image of a man capable of such love comforted her, dispelling momentarily the shadows of the past.

~~

A few weeks later, on a warm summer afternoon.

In the bright kitchen of their home in Montecito Heights, Lyle was busy feeding Grace. The little girl was settled in her light wooden high chair, her small hands nervously gripping the edge as Lyle slowly brought the spoonful of carrot puree to her lips. The soft morning light bathed the room, highlighting Grace’s brown curls and the shy smile she offered her father.

Suddenly, the shrill ringing of the phone broke the silence, shattering this bubble. Lyle quickly wiped his hands on a dish towel, then picked up the receiver, instantly recognizing the warm and familiar voice of Andy.

“Hey Andy,” he said with a sincere smile, his voice full of tenderness. “How are you?”

Andy’s voice, always full of enthusiasm, had the power to reassure Lyle, gently bringing him back to reality beyond his daily worries.

“Hey Lyle! Just a quick break from work. I wanted to check in on you and Grace, the little star of the family. Is she doing well?”

Lyle replied, his eyes still fixed on Grace, who watched the new exchange with curiosity. The spoon hovered in mid-air, silence hanging between the words, filled with attention and love.

Lyle looked away for a moment, absorbed by the conversation with his cousin.

But as the conversation was in full swing, a sharp, piercing scream suddenly cut through the air. That scream... that howl of pain and panic. Lyle’s heart froze, a cold shock ran through his chest.

“Grace?!” he choked out, the phone still pressed to his ear.

Without thinking, he hung up hastily, his legs seeming ready to give way beneath him. He rushed to the high chair, breath short, body tense with anxiety.

The sight that met him was a nightmare. Grace lay on the floor, on her back, her legs twitching uncontrollably. Her mouth was wide open, but at first no sound came out, just the frightening silence that precedes a scream. And then it came: a howl of pain and terror that pierced Lyle to the bone. The high chair, pushed askew nearby, looked like a silent threat, a relic of the moment when everything had changed. Its seat twisted, the safety strap poorly fastened or torn, he couldn’t see clearly anymore. Everything was blurry, drowned in panic.

He dropped to his knees, picking up his daughter with desperate gentleness. Her little body burned against his chest, her skin clammy, hot tears rolling down her neck.

“Jesus... my baby... Grace, you’re okay, you’re okay... calm down, Daddy’s here, I’m here...”

His voice trembled, almost inaudible.

Donovan appeared in the doorway, breathless, alerted by the cries.

“What’s going on?!”

He saw the scene - the chair, the panic on Lyle’s face, the child’s body curled against him - and froze, paralyzed by the terror of reliving another trauma.

Lyle, unable to form a coherent answer, looked up at him, eyes full of anguish and pleading.

“S-she fell... I-I don’t know how,” Lyle replied in a trembling voice, chilled to the bone by his daughter’s screams of pain. “Come on, we need to get to the hospital right away.”

They grabbed their coats in a hurry, hearts pounding wildly, arms wrapped around Grace as if by this simple contact they could erase the pain. Every step toward the car was torture: tense muscles, frayed nerves, and the sensation of walking through a too-real nightmare, where every second counted, and every second was terrifying.

Grace cried and whimpered still, nestled against Lyle’s chest, her little fists clutching his sweater. Donovan opened the passenger door as Lyle carefully placed his daughter on his lap, refusing to let her go, even for a moment. His hands barely trembled, but his gaze was empty, disoriented. He felt Grace’s fragile warmth against him, her ragged breathing, and that warmth burned him like a constant reminder of what he might lose.

Inside the car, silence fell like a lid. Only Grace’s painful sobs and the engine’s hum broke the heavy quiet.

Lyle gripped Donovan’s fingers, knuckles white, nails digging into his palm. This contact, that firm hand, was all that kept him from collapsing. There were no more words. Just Donovan’s tense gaze on the road, his clenched jaw, eyes clouded with an anxiety he didn’t have the strength to express.

And in that tense silence, Lyle sank.

Memories of the trial surged up violently. The courtroom benches, the flashes of photographers, the vicious questions. Pictures of his parents. Blood. Screams. And above all, those looks. The public’s, the jurors’, the press’s. He saw them now, in the shadow of the rearview mirror, ready to resurface as soon as he stepped through the hospital doors. And amid it all, that deep, dull fear of losing what he loved most in the world. Each heartbeat was a cruel reminder of his fragility, each breath a challenge against the pain and fear threatening to engulf him.

The car sped toward the hospital, the falling night wrapping Montecito Heights in a cold darkness. Donovan kept his eyes glued to the road, face tight, tense, while Lyle tried to keep some calm for his daughter, whispering soft, almost desperate words.

“It’s going to be okay, baby, Daddy’s here...” he repeated softly against her temple, stroking her tousled hair, even though terror gnawed at him from within.

But deep down, he didn’t believe it. He wasn’t sure he could protect her. Not sure he was what she needed.

At the emergency room, the sliding doors opened with a cold, mechanical sigh. Lyle entered first, drawn and tense, his daughter in his arms. Donovan followed close behind. A nurse spotted them arriving and called for backup, but no word of compassion escaped her lips.

Lyle felt sharply, painfully, that all eyes were on him, and behind the displayed neutrality hid a silent suspicion, an invisible judgment, an unspoken accusation. “What negligence,” they seemed to think. “How could he let this happen?”

Lyle’s heart tightened even more. His mind spun wildly, running through worst-case scenarios. His guilt, already devouring, became an overwhelming weight, a pit he felt falling into endlessly. He thought he read in their eyes: “Him again,” “The Menendez,” “What has he done this time?”

The fear of not being believed, of being seen as a monster again, gripped his throat.

They were led to an exam room, impersonal, with faded pale green walls and harsh white neon lights. A nurse gently took Grace from Lyle’s arms, and this simple gesture made him reel. He fought the urge to recoil, as if a piece of himself was being ripped away.

He wanted to protest, say she had to stay with him, that she couldn’t be away from him yet. But he didn’t have time. The doctor entered.

A woman in her forties, brunette, thin glasses, pristine white coat, who approached without a word to spare. She examined Grace calmly, almost with professional tenderness. But when she looked up at Lyle, her gaze was anything but neutral.

“She has a serious bruise on her hip, a mild sprain on her wrist, and a large bump on her temple,” she finally announced.

Lyle closed his eyes for a moment. Relief, yes. But not enough.

“How did she fall?” the doctor asked. “Were you with her?”

Her voice was neither harsh nor soft. Just matter-of-fact. But to Lyle, it rang like a knife blow. He felt sharply, painfully, that behind this displayed neutrality hid a silent suspicion, an invisible judgment, an unspoken accusation.

“I... I was feeding her. I... the phone rang, I turned my head for a second, just one second...”

His voice broke. He was ashamed. Ashamed for not seeing. Ashamed for nearly failing.

Donovan stepped closer, placing a gentle hand on his back. He wanted to be a pillar, an anchor in this storm. But even his touch couldn’t calm the vertigo gripping Lyle.

A few minutes later, they were taken to a waiting room. Lyle sat on a hard plastic chair, Grace sleeping in his arms, and this time, he held her like a lifeline. His eyes lost in the neon ceiling lights, his mind emptied by anxiety.

Donovan sat silently beside him, his leg twitching nervously.

Lyle looked down at his daughter, gently stroking her sweat-damp hair.

“Do you think she’ll be okay?” he murmured.

Donovan looked at him, eyes reddened with worry.

“She’s strong, Lyle. She’s like you.”

Lyle let out a brief, bitter laugh.

“That’s what scares me.”

Then the door opened. A nurse came back and gently told him that Grace had to be kept under observation for monitoring. And then the floor seemed to drop beneath his feet. The word “observation” echoed in his head like a verdict. He couldn’t bear the thought of being separated from his daughter like this, of leaving her alone in that cold hospital after she got hurt.

“No... no, I can’t... I can’t leave her alone. Not now, not her...”

His voice rose, nervous, tense. His breathing grew erratic. Donovan stood up immediately, gently grabbing his shoulders.

“You’re not leaving her. You’re entrusting her. Just for a moment. I’m here, I’m staying with you. I promise we won’t lose her.”

But in Lyle’s eyes, there was only emptiness and panic.

Lyle jumped up, arms wrapped tightly around his daughter, as if clinging to the last branch before falling. His breathing quickened dangerously, his chest rising irregularly, oppressed by mounting panic he could no longer contain.

“Please, let me stay with her... I can’t... I don’t want her to be alone,” he said in a strangled voice, closer to a scream than a plea.

Grace, sensing the tension in the air like a storm about to break, started crying even harder. Her little hands blindly searched her father’s neck, seeking refuge, a landmark. Lyle held her tighter, with a nearly desperate strength, his arms contracting around her tiny body like armor. He buried his face in his daughter’s soft hair, trembling hands mechanically stroking her brown curls, while his lips repeated, almost inaudibly:

“I’ve got you, baby, I’ve got you... Don’t worry, Daddy’s here... I’m here...”

Donovan placed a firm but gentle hand on his shoulder, trying to anchor him in the present, to reconnect him with reality.

“Lyle, calm down... I’m here, I swear. She’s safe. The nurses know what they’re doing. You’re not losing her.”

But Lyle shook his head, slowly at first, then more violently. Panic spread through his body like poison. His fingers clenched, his gaze blurred, avoiding Donovan and the doctors around him.

“I... I can’t breathe,” he murmured, his face paling under the shock. “I... I...”

His breath broke, irregular, rapid, uncontrollable. He pressed his forehead against Grace’s, seeking anchorage in their closeness. His body was about to give out, shaken by invisible spasms, his mind engulfed by a black tide of memories and fear.

The doctors approached cautiously, their voices gentle but firm.

“Sir, you have to breathe. Let us help you. If you collapse, you won’t be able to watch over her.”

Donovan, closer than ever, tightened his grip on Lyle’s hand and placed his other hand on the back of his neck. His eyes, full of anxious tenderness, never left Lyle’s.

“Look at me, Lyle. Stay with me. We’ll get through this. You’re not alone.”

But Lyle no longer heard him. He was trapped in his own storm. Images looped in his head: the tipping chair, Grace’s scream, her little head hitting the floor, and above all... the doctors’ gaze, the silent judgment, the doubt.

His legs buckled. He staggered, arms still wrapped around his daughter, like a castaway refusing to let go of his only lifeline.

“I can’t leave her... I can’t lose her... Not her... not my daughter!” he screamed, voice broken, hoarse, as if ripped from his guts.

His voice cracked on the last word, a guttural cry that echoed in the room like thunder. The little girl cried even louder now, her hands gripping her father’s T-shirt, eyes wide with fear. She reacted to his anguish, mirrored it, shared it.

A doctor approached slowly, placing a soothing hand on Lyle’s shoulder.

“Sir... I understand. But look at her: she needs calm, rest. You’ll see her very soon. She’s in good hands, I promise you.”

Donovan stood right in front of him. He took Lyle’s face between his hands, gently, without force, thumb brushing his sweaty cheek.

“Lyle, listen to me. Breathe. Breathe with me. Inhale... exhale. I’m here.”

But Lyle was trembling too much to respond. His ragged breathing struggled to find a steady rhythm. He felt like he was suffocating. His heart pounded in his temples, his throat tightened, his body refused to cooperate.

A nurse approached him and slipped a glass of water into his hand. Donovan guided his movements, helping him take a sip.

“Drink slowly. That’s it… A little more. Good. You’re doing fine.”

Little by little, Lyle’s breathing regained some regularity. His gaze steadied, still blurred with tears, but more focused, more present. He leaned against Donovan, exhausted, drained, his body suddenly heavy as lead.

Donovan kissed his sweat-damp hair, then gently stroked his cheek with infinite tenderness.

“What you’re feeling is normal. But you’re not abandoning her. She needs care; the doctors know what they’re doing.”

Lyle nodded slowly, painfully. He raised his eyes to Grace, her small face flushed from crying, now calm, breathing peacefully. He placed a last caress on her cheek, whispering in a broken but firm voice:

“I’ll never leave you, baby girl… never.”

The doctor returned, her look soft but resolute. She knelt slightly to get on their level, her hands folded in front of her.

“Sir, we need to keep her under observation tonight. It’s a safety measure. You’ll be able to see her regularly. We’ll keep you updated minute by minute.”

Donovan squeezed his shoulder, encouraging him with his gaze.

“We’ll handle this together. I’m staying with you.”

Lyle felt a shiver run down his spine, a wave of emotion he tried to contain. Donovan gently pulled him close, wrapping his shoulders with a protective arm. The simple but sincere contact gave him a small breath of fresh air in this suffocating moment.

The moment of separation was wrenching. A nurse approached, and Grace, still a little unsettled, began to cry softly as she sensed they were going to separate her from her father. Her little arms stretched toward him, desperately seeking one last touch.

Lyle reached out a trembling hand to hold her back, his voice breaking:

“No, my angel… don’t cry…”

But it was already too late. The nurse took Grace gently but firmly in her arms, rocking her softly to try to soothe her. The little girl clung a moment longer to Lyle’s hand, her tiny fingers weakly squeezing his skin before letting go, her cries gradually fading.

Lyle’s heart broke silently, a deep, raw, painful shard. It was as if a part of him was being torn away.

“I’ll be right back, my angel,” he whispered, tears beginning to roll down his cheeks.

His eyes burned with sorrow, his breath trembled, and his body felt shattered, every heartbeat a painful reminder of the uncertainty and fear consuming him.

Lyle closed his eyes and swayed slightly. He felt Donovan gently press his back, an anchor in this storm, before the doors to the room softly closed behind them, leaving Lyle alone with the gnawing worry that crept in like a persistent shadow.

“Come on. I’ll take you out for some fresh air.”

They walked slowly through the hospital’s white corridors, the noise of neon lights, machines, carts—all seeming distant. Floating. Abstract.

When they reached the outside, Lyle collapsed into Donovan’s arms, unable to hold back his sobs.

“How am I supposed to live without her?” he sobbed, voice choked. “I can’t… I just can’t…”

Donovan held him tightly, his hand gently rubbing Lyle’s back like soothing a lost child. He kissed his temple, holding him as tightly as Lyle had held his daughter. The car became a silent refuge. Lyle slumped into the passenger seat, arms crossed over himself, his gaze vacant. He cried silently, eyes fixed on the black night beyond the windows.

Donovan drove, fingers clenched on the steering wheel, heart heavy. He glanced worriedly at Lyle from time to time, then returned his eyes to the road.

Arriving at the house in Montecito Heights, a dense, almost unreal silence wrapped the interior. The walls, bathed in the dim evening light, seemed to shrink around them, as if refusing to welcome this suppressed anxiety. The house was no longer the bright haven it had been just hours earlier. It suddenly felt too big, too empty. Too silent without Grace’s coos.

Lyle collapsed onto the bed without even taking off his shoes. He slumped like a body emptied of its soul, arms hanging, features frozen in a fatigue that was not physical. His eyes fixed on an abstract point on the ceiling, but his gaze saw nothing. His breathing remained jagged, throat tight, each heartbeat echoing his guilt.

Donovan quietly entered the room, closing the door silently behind him. He placed their coats on the back of the chair, without a word, then approached the bed. He sat at the edge, next to Lyle, and slid a hesitant but present hand onto his shoulder. His palm stayed there, warm, anchored, trying gently to break the shell of pain Lyle had built around himself.

“Lyle, talk to me. I’m here. You don’t have to carry this alone.”

Donovan’s voice was low, almost a whisper. Not a command, but a tender invitation, full of patience.

Lyle shook his head, his features tightening. He breathed deeply, then let out a trembling sigh.

“I’m terrified, Don. Terrified that something will happen to her. Terrified of losing what we’ve built. And… I’m afraid it’s my fault. That I should have done more… been more vigilant. Better.”

His words broke as they escaped his lips. They were heavy, trembling, as if torn from his throat by pain. His voice was nothing but a breath filled with despair.

Donovan leaned slightly toward him, bringing his face closer to his, his eyes capturing Lyle’s with immense, patient softness.

“You are a wonderful father, Lyle. You are attentive, loving, devoted. No one can predict accidents. Even the most vigilant. Grace needs you strong, and she knows you are there for her. She feels it. It’s not your fault.”

Lyle nodded gently, but his whole body remained tense, inhabited by a dull anxiety. Then, as if he had been waiting for this moment to truly collapse, he let himself fall against Donovan. His shoulders began to shake under the weight of fear held too long. He buried his face against Donovan’s chest, breathing in his familiar scent like air after holding his breath for too long.

“I can’t sleep without her,” he finally admitted, voice barely more than a whisper. “I feel empty. Like a part of me stayed at the hospital with her.”

Donovan slowly slid his fingers through Lyle’s hair, stroking it with instinctive tenderness. He murmured soft words, almost prayers, into the hollow of his ear.

The room, though so familiar, seemed strange without Grace’s sounds, without the clinking of her toys, without her little laughs on the baby monitor. The silence was no longer calm; it was deafening.

The bed creaked slightly as Donovan lay down beside him, pulling Lyle close, covering him with his arm like a shield. They stayed like that for a long moment, motionless, alone in the heavy night.

Lyle, his eyes red-rimmed, stared at the ceiling in the dimness. He was pale, as if emptied. His breath was short, irregular. At times, a tear rolled silently down his cheek.

Donovan, still by his side, slipped his hand into Lyle’s. He immediately felt the tension in Lyle’s fingers — stiff, trembling, cold despite the warmth around them. He squeezed them gently, placing his thumb in the hollow of his palm to stroke it slowly.

“Lyle…” he began in a breath, never taking his eyes off him, “I know it’s hard. So hard. But she’s in good hands. They know what they’re doing. They’re watching over her. And I’m watching over you.”

Lyle slowly turned his head away, eyes avoiding contact as if fearing to meet pity. His voice was almost inaudible:

“And if it’s not enough? What if something worse happens? What if… I can’t protect her?”

Donovan tightened his grip gently, tilting his head to finally meet his gaze. In his eyes shone a burning tenderness, but also reassuring steadiness, like a lighthouse in the storm.

“You acted immediately when she fell, you did what a father is supposed to do. The doctors are watching over her and won’t let anything bad happen. And I can promise you that you will never have to go through this alone. Not as long as I’m here. And I will be here, Lyle.”

Silence fell again, but it was different. Less heavy. It vibrated with presence, with support.

And then, in an almost inaudible breath, Lyle let out:

“I feel like I abandoned her. I was supposed to be there. It’s my role. My duty. I failed at who I am.”

Donovan, moved, brought his face closer to his, caressed his cheek with his fingertips, wiping away salty tears.

“You never abandoned Grace. Never. You were there, immediately. You held her, reassured her. You protected her like you do every day. What you’re feeling is love. And that love… it’s immense.”

A faint bitter laugh escaped Lyle’s lips, between sobs:

“That love destroys me sometimes.”

Donovan tilted his head and kissed his forehead, long and tender. Lyle’s arms closed around him, and little by little, his breathing calmed. Donovan’s breath against his temple, his reassuring hands, his familiar scent… all helped him not to fall apart.

The night was, however, anything but restful for Lyle. He opened his eyes slowly, heavy eyelids, his body numb from a half-lived, half-endured night. The faint dawn light reflected through the window where they had forgotten to close the curtains. His breath was short, and the slightest movement seemed to shake a fragile balance. He lay still for a few seconds, frozen in the stillness of a void he had never known so violently.

Next to him, Donovan still slept. His face was relaxed, almost peaceful, but even in his sleep, Lyle could perceive the fatigue ingrained in every line. He lingered on the curve of his lashes, on the slow, regular breathing, as a reminder that, despite everything, something here still held.

Lyle carefully sat up so as not to wake him. He slipped out of bed like leaving a sanctuary that had become too silent. His feet touched the cold floor, and a light breeze from the open window chilled his skin. He crossed the room softly and gently pulled back the curtains.

Outside, the garden was covered in a thin layer of dew. The sun barely pierced through the low clouds, and the tree branches seemed to bow softly under the weight of the night gone by. A few birds sang hesitantly, as if they didn’t dare celebrate the day yet.

But this silence was not the one he was used to. Something was missing.

The sound. The sound of Grace.

No little giggles from her crib, no rustling of sheets as she rolled in her sleep, no morning coos between yawns. No little arms reaching out. No warmth on his chest.

Nothing.

That emptiness was unbearable.

He went down to the kitchen, bare feet dragging across the cold tiles. The silence there was too great, almost oppressive, an unusual silence, distorted by Grace’s absence.

The high chair still stood there, slightly askew, exactly where it had tipped over a few hours earlier. A small forgotten toy lay beneath the table, as if abandoned on a battlefield. On the floor, a thin stain of dried milk marked the spot where the bottle had rolled.

Lyle froze for a moment, eyes fixed on the chair. His stomach knotted. The image of Grace falling, her scream, the dull sound of the impact... it all looped again and again. He forced himself to look away, slowly approached the countertop, and turned on the coffee maker. It was only him, the void, and this endless night clinging to his skin.

He waited as the coffee brewed, gaze lost in the steam rising slowly. Each drop seemed to fall too slowly, as if even time refused to move forward. His eyelids burned. He felt like he hadn’t slept in days, even though it had only been a few hours.

Finally, he poured himself a cup. He raised it to his lips but didn’t drink right away. He simply held it between his hands. The warmth spread slowly through his trembling fingers, but it still couldn’t reach his heart.

Everything around him screamed Grace’s absence. And in that kitchen frozen by anguish, he was nothing but an emptied father, at the mercy of a world waiting for any crack.

Then, suddenly, the phone rang.

The noise made him jump. He felt a jolt in his chest — that immediate, instinctive panic. He rushed to the phone, hands trembling as he grabbed the receiver, his voice already torn by anxiety.

“Hello?”

“Good morning, this is Dr. Meyers from the pediatric ward. How are you doing, sir?”

The doctor’s gentle voice contrasted sharply with the tension rising in Lyle’s throat.

“Hello… I… How is my daughter?” he asked in a breathless voice, not even thinking to answer the doctor’s question.

“She had a stable night. She slept almost uninterrupted. We adjusted her pain medication. She’s a bit grumpy this morning, but that’s normal at this age. She’s moving her leg, which is a good sign.”

Lyle felt himself stagger slightly, as if his legs no longer held him.

“Is she… crying a lot? Is she… looking for us?”

A floating silence, as if the doctor was searching for the right words.

“She did cry a little upon waking, yes. She looks for you with her eyes.”

Lyle felt tears well up. “Can I come… today?” he asked in a whisper.

“Of course. We’re waiting for you. She’s in a quiet room; you can see her without stress. She needs familiar presence.”

He nodded, even though no one could see.

“Thank you… Thank you very much.”

He hung up, fingers still clenched on the phone. He stood there for a few seconds, unable to move. A dull pain lodged just below his ribs, not the sharp anguish from the day before, but something deeper, more rooted: instinct.

Then he felt a presence behind him. Donovan.

“Did you get news?” he asked, voice still heavy with sleep.

Lyle turned, eyes red but brighter.

“She… she’s holding on,” he breathed. “She’s grumpy, she moves… She’s still here.”

There were no words more beautiful at that moment than “she’s still here.”

Donovan approached and gently placed his hands on Lyle’s cheeks, as one supports something precious. He kissed his forehead and pulled him into a slow, contained but complete embrace.

“We’re going. We’ll show her we’re here. We’ll show her her dads are waiting.”

Lyle closed his eyes in his arms.

“She’s so small, Don. So small… And she went through all that…”

“I know, baby.. But our princesse is strong. Like you.”

A silence.

Then Lyle added, in a trembling whisper:

“We leave as soon as you’re ready. I want to be close when she opens her eyes.”

Donovan nodded. There was nothing else to say.

That morning, they would do only one thing: join Grace.

The soft hallway of the hospital barely echoed under their steps. Each tile seemed to amplify Lyle’s heartbeat, turning this path to the observation room into a tunnel of tension and painful memories. The ambient silence, punctuated by the steady beeps of monitors and the distant whispers of nurses, felt like a weight on his chest.

As they approached, a dull anxiety rose within him. His fingers, clenched around the handle of the empty stroller they had been given at the entrance, trembled imperceptibly. Donovan walked beside him, silent but so present, so close that Lyle could almost feel the reassuring warmth of his shoulder.

When the door finally opened onto the observation room, the pale neon light revealed a calm, almost unreal space. Everything seemed frozen in artificial peace.

Then, he saw her.

Grace. His daughter. His tiny little girl, so fragile under the white sheets. She was curled under a hospital blanket too big for her, her small face turned to the side, pale but peaceful. A discreet bandage covered her hip, and a tiny foam splint encased her left wrist. Her breathing, slow and irregular, was the only audible sound in the room besides the murmur of the heart monitor.

Lyle’s breath caught sharply.

“My angel…” he whispered, voice broken, as if just seeing her intact was enough to stir all the suppressed emotions.

He knelt slowly beside the transparent crib, his knees barely touching the floor. He stretched out a trembling hand toward her, brushing her soft hair stuck to her forehead.

Grace opened her eyes.

They fluttered for a moment, misty, hesitant. Then, her little arms weakly rose in a disordered, instinctive gesture, like a silent call.

Lyle, his heart crushed by this tiny offering of trust, lifted her delicately, holding her against him with infinite tenderness. Her light weight, so familiar, reminded him how small and vulnerable she still was. The touch of her cheek against his neck, that tiny warm breath, almost made him sob.

Grace whimpered softly, her face creasing for a moment before nestling against his chest, rocked by the frantic beating of her father’s heart. She didn’t cry, not really. She simply clung to him with the strength of those who instinctively know where safety lies.

With a tight heart, Donovan approached gently. His gaze never left Grace, scrutinizing each small breath, every movement with an almost painful attention. He slowly raised his hand, hesitating for a moment as if measuring the right distance between him and the child, then tenderly stroked Grace’s soft hair, his fingers brushing each strand with paternal delicacy.

A light sigh escaped Donovan, a mixture of relief and restrained emotion. Seeing Grace there, alive and peaceful, seemed to soothe a part of his own inner chaos.

“Hello, baby girl…” he whispered, his voice soft and trembling. “You’re the bravest, you know that?”

He brushed Grace’s cheek with the tips of his fingers. She stared at him for a moment with her big dark eyes, then made what could have been a sleepy little smile, almost imperceptible, before curling up again.

But the respite was short-lived.

The door opened quietly behind them. Measured footsteps announced the arrival of Dr. Meyers. His face was masked, his piercing gray eyes professional, distant.

He closed the door slowly, as if isolating the scene from the rest of the world.

“Mr. Menendez?”

Lyle barely straightened up, keeping Grace in his arms, holding her like a barrier between himself and fear.

“Yes,” he replied, his voice dry but controlled.

“I’m here to revisit the exact circumstances of the fall. For the clarity of the file. Could you please detail them?”

The question was phrased with neutral politeness. But the undertones floated, sharp, between each word.

Lyle felt a familiar tension return to haunt his shoulders. That of suspicion. Of presumption. Years of accusing looks in courts, cameras, journalists. He slowly raised his chin.

“You’re looking at me as if I’m already guilty.”

The doctor said nothing. His silence spoke volumes.

Lyle continued, voice choked : “I know what I represent to you. The past. The headlines. But this child… this little girl against me, she’s my whole life. I was next to her. She was on her high chair, she leaned... I wasn’t fast enough. She fell. It’s an accident. An accident.”

Donovan calmly placed his hand on Lyle’s forearm, saying nothing, a simple reminder : breathe. But Lyle felt the anger rising. A cold anger.

“What do you want to write in your report, huh? That a father known for murder ‘let’ his daughter fall? That maybe there was something else? That it ‘fits the profile’?”

His eyes were red, shining with held-back tears.

“But I’m telling you : I would give my life for her. My life.”

Dr. Meyers remained silent for a moment, his gaze heavy. He finally spoke, more softly.

“I understand your concern. But we have a protocol. Every injury in a young child — especially an infant or toddler — requires a thorough report. It’s not personal.”

“No. But your look, that is,” Lyle replied, voice low and bitter.

A tense silence. Then Donovan intervened calmly : “There’s nothing to hide. The fall happened exactly as Lyle described. And no sign of suspicious trauma was found on X-rays or examination.”

Dr. Meyers briefly nodded.

“Very well. In that case, we continue standard observation. She remains under pediatric surveillance for at least another twenty-four hours. If anything changes, we’ll call you immediately.”

He turned on his heels without another word, leaving the room with that well-practiced neutrality of doctors who have seen too many tragedies. Once the door closed, a dense silence fell over the room.

Lyle sat on the chair beside the crib, still holding Grace in his arms, his gaze fixed on an invisible point on the wall. Donovan stood behind him, gently placing his hands on his shoulders.

“You stood your ground,” he whispered in his ear. “You didn’t let anything slip.”

Lyle nodded, almost imperceptibly. He looked at Grace, curled against his chest, a tiny thumb in her mouth, her lashes fluttering softly against her skin.

“I will protect her, Don. No matter the cost. Even against those who think they should do it in my place.”

~~

After another night of anguish at the hospital, Grace was finally allowed to leave. Lyle had signed the discharge papers that morning, his hands still trembling despite the good news. The doctor, cold but professional, had given them a prescription for the pain and a follow-up booklet to present to a pediatrician. Donovan carried the car seat to the car, while Lyle didn’t let go of his daughter for a single inch, holding her tightly as if he feared she would disappear again.

The journey home was silent, punctuated by sighs, furtive glances, and tender gestures. The house in Montecito Heights welcomed them under a light summer rain, as if nothing had happened. Yet, everything had changed. The peace was fake, fragile, ready to crack at the slightest breath.

They settled on the living room couch. The little girl was half-asleep, curled against Lyle’s chest, her cheek still flushed from the past fever, her tiny fingers gripping her father’s shirt.

Lyle didn’t move. His gaze was fixed on the void, but his arms kept tightening their hold around his daughter. As if to apologize. As if to turn back time.

Donovan watched Lyle from the armchair, a few steps from the couch. He could have approached. He could have spoken. But he knew better. Lyle was curled up on himself, sitting deep in the couch, Grace asleep against his chest. He barely moved, only a hand occasionally sliding over the little girl’s back, as if to check she was real.

Donovan knew him well enough to recognize the signs: the frozen face, the glassy eyes, that way of breathing without really taking in air. He was holding something back. And that something was going to explode. He respected that bubble. He knew it would burst. He saw it in the way Lyle’s lips trembled, in the barely perceptible twitch of his jaw.

Then, very softly, Lyle lowered his eyes to Grace and whispered, barely audible:

"It’s me… It’s my fault."

Donovan turned his head toward him, without interrupting.

"If I hadn’t picked up that damn phone… She wouldn’t have fallen. She wouldn’t have cried like that. She wouldn’t have… had those bruises. She wouldn’t have had to… to sleep there, alone. In that cold hospital bed. Feeling the machines. Breathing that disinfectant smell…"

His voice broke. A tear ran down his cheek, which he didn’t even bother to wipe away.

"And those doctors, Don… They looked at me like I was… a monster. Like I did it on purpose. Like I was…"

He took a sharp breath, and his shoulders began to shake. He buried his face in Grace’s hair, now deeply asleep.

"It was the same as at the trial. The looks, the questions. The way they phrased things, always half-spoken, always with that doubt in their eyes. 'And you were alone with her, Mr. Menendez?' 'How many minutes exactly did you leave her unattended?' 'Does your daughter fall often?'..."

A sob rose, barely held back.

"I was scared, Don. I thought they were going to take her away. That they would say I was unfit. That they’d send me to jail… or worse, that they’d place her somewhere. Far from me. And… I couldn’t have handled that."

Donovan moved closer gently, placing a firm but gentle hand on Lyle’s shoulder.

"You’re not a monster, Lyle. You’re a father. A damn good father. You don’t realize it, but you went through hell for her. And you keep doing it, every day. Even now."

He paused, searching for the right words, ones that wouldn’t minimize anything.

"It was an accident. It could’ve happened to anyone. Even two parents, even those who had a normal childhood. What matters is that you reacted immediately. That you took her. That you never gave up. And she… she’s okay. She’s here. She’s sleeping against you. She knows you’re protecting her. You never abandoned her."

Lyle nodded slowly, unable to speak. He kissed Grace’s forehead, then closed his eyes, letting the tears flow freely this time. Donovan leaned a little more and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, saying nothing.

When Grace’s eyelids finally gave in to sleep, her tiny fists slowly opened, releasing the tension of a world still too big for her. Lyle lifted her with infinite care, his arms instinctively forming a protective cradle. She weighed almost nothing, yet he held her as if she were made of blown glass.

His movements were slow, almost ritualistic, as if performing a ceremony. He climbed the stairs one by one, his feet placed with silent precision on the wood. He matched his breath to Grace’s, inhaling with every slight rise of her small chest, exhaling with hers. Every sound in the house — the creak of the wood, the distant murmur of rain against the windows — seemed amplified, almost sacred.

The bedroom was bathed in warm, tender light from a cloud-shaped nightlight. The walls, painted a faded pink, reflected an almost unreal softness. Lyle pushed back the covers of the little bed with a trembling hand. Then, with a slow movement, he laid her on the mattress, making sure to keep a hand under her neck until she was well placed. He adjusted the sheep-shaped stuffed animal against her belly — the same one she had at the hospital, which she held so tightly even while sleeping.

Grace stirred a little. She scrunched her nose in her sleep, let out a small rough sigh, and turned her head to the side. Lyle held his breath. But she didn’t wake. She calmed again, her features relaxing into deep sleep.

Lyle stayed there. Frozen. He couldn’t look away.

His gaze slid over every detail of her face: her wet black lashes, stuck together by fatigue, that little drop of saliva at the corner of her parted lips. The bump on her forehead was barely visible in the dim light, but he saw it. He saw only her. She screamed in the silence.

And he… he had almost failed.

He felt it in every tense muscle, in that unbearable weight lodged deep in his stomach. An acidic, burning weight that climbed to his throat and threatened to explode. He should have stayed. He should have heard the sound of the strap sliding. He should have reacted a second earlier.

Instead, he found himself frozen on the phone, paralyzed, unable to think. Until that scream. His daughter’s scream. The dull thud of her little body on the tile. Then his legs gave way beneath him. The world holding its breath. Nothing but chaos. And after… the hospital.

The too-white corridors. The double-edged questions. The looks full of doubts disguised as clinical kindness. The suspicion in every word.

Lyle slowly leaned against the doorframe. He was empty. Drained. He wanted to apologize again. For every second of inattention, for every past mistake, for his daughter’s pain, for everything he carried and might pass on to her.

But there were no words. None left. Only silence.

He stayed there. Frozen. Watching her sleep, until a gentle hand came to rest on his arm. Donovan, silent, his eyes full of worried tenderness.

"Come with me."

Lyle turned his head slightly toward him, still elsewhere. He cast one last glance at Grace, his fingers gripping the doorframe as if he would hold on all night. Then he let go, and gently closed the door, almost reluctantly.

"She’s sleeping…" he whispered, his voice hoarse, halfway between a justification and a temporary goodbye.

Donovan didn’t answer right away. He just stayed there, near him, silent, his gaze locked on his. Then, gently, he placed his hand on his arm — a light but firm pressure, a simple gesture, no urgency. There was no question, no expectation, just that discreet contact, almost instinctive. An anchor.

"Come."

His voice was low, calm, almost a whisper. A deep note, without tension. Not a command, but an invitation. A hand stretched out in a corridor without light.

Lyle didn’t move at once. He glanced back toward Grace’s room, hesitating. He felt like he was leaving her, even though she was just a few meters away. And yet, he felt that pang in his stomach, that old, dull, absurd fear that something would happen to her as soon as he looked away.

But Donovan was still there. Present. Patient. So Lyle finally followed.

They slowly descended the stairs, without a word. Donovan kept his hand on him, like a quiet assurance. Each step creaked slightly under their weight, a discreet but familiar sound that echoed strangely in the silence of the house. Once downstairs, Donovan headed without hesitation toward the glass door in the living room that opened onto the backyard.

"Wait… where are you going?" Lyle frowned, unsettled. He caught up with him halfway down. "It’s raining…"

"I know," Donovan replied without turning around. "Just follow me. You’ll see."

He opened the glass door. The cool, damp air immediately rushed into the entryway, carrying with it the mineral scent of wet earth, soaked leaves, and the heavy sky. A fine rain fell, almost misty, a shimmering veil that made the surfaces tremble.

Lyle stepped back slightly, caught off guard.

"Are you serious? You want to go outside… now? Like this?"

Donovan turned to him, a faint smile on his lips.

"Yes. Take off your shoes. Trust me."

Without waiting, he slipped off his shoes. Lyle watched him do it, still frozen, arms crossed.

"You’re joking," he muttered. "It’s cold, we’re going to catch a cold…"

"Lyle."

Donovan’s voice was gentle, but this time more certain. He stared at him, his gaze cutting through the doubts like a slow but precise arrow.

"This isn’t a punishment. It’s… a moment. Just for you. For you and me. To step out of that spiral, even for a minute. You don’t have to prove anything here. You can just… exist."

Lyle looked away. His fingers nervously pinched the hem of his sleeve. He felt his heart pounding in his chest, without knowing why. The absurdity of the situation unsettled him. And yet… he slowly pulled off his socks. A gesture almost childlike, hesitant, vulnerable.

He placed his bare feet on the cold floor. A shiver ran up his legs, but he didn’t move. Donovan offered his hand, and Lyle took it, resigned.

The rain fell on him instantly as he stepped outside. It wasn’t heavy, but steady, fine and gentle, like a veil laid softly on his shoulders. His hair immediately got wet, sticking to his forehead. He felt the moisture soak his t-shirt, the fabric clinging to his skin. He shivered.

Donovan waited for him in the middle of the yard, already soaked. His hair dripped, and his clothes outlined the lines of his torso. He looked at him, calm, standing in the soft light from the porch filtering through the drizzle. Like a living statue, rooted, steady, in the middle of the chaos.

Lyle moved toward him with slow steps, uneasy, arms crossed tightly around his body. He was both cold and burning. He didn’t understand what they were doing there. He didn’t understand Donovan. And yet, he moved forward.

When he reached him, Donovan barely raised his hands. He gently wrapped them around Lyle’s waist, with that particular slowness reserved for precious, almost sacred things. Then he pressed his forehead against his. The contact was damp, warm, reassuring.

"Close your eyes."

The voice was low, whispered in the rain.

Lyle hesitated.

"Don, I—"

"Trust me," he repeated. "Just… for a moment."

So Lyle obeyed. Out of fatigue. Instinct. Need. He closed his eyes.

"Breathe. Listen."

Donovan spoke softly, but his words carried, like a warm blanket on a frozen ground.

"There’s only the rain. Can you feel it? On your skin? It doesn’t judge. It doesn’t watch. It just falls. It cleanses. It soothes. It expects nothing from you. Feel it. Feel the grass beneath your feet, the air around you."

Lyle breathed in slowly. The rain rolled down his cheeks, his forehead, his neck. It seeped into his collar, slid down his back. He shivered. But he wasn’t cold. Not really.

"You’re here, Lyle. Not elsewhere. Not in that damn courtroom. Not in that hospital room. You’re not on the phone. You’re here. With me. And your daughter is safe. She’s sleeping. She’s fine. She loves you."

He felt Donovan’s arms tighten slightly around him. Not to trap him. To keep him from collapsing.

"You don’t have to be strong now. You can set down the burden. Just for a minute. Breathe with me. Feel. Nothing else. Nothing before. Nothing after."

The silence thickened, saturated by the constant sound of rain on the earth, on their bodies. Lyle felt his muscles loosen, almost against his will. A long breath escaped his chest. Then another.

His forehead slid a little against Donovan’s. He dropped his arms, then slowly wrapped them around his lover, intertwining his fingers in the hollow of his back. As if it was the only thing he still knew how to do.

And there, in the middle of the soaked lawn, under the rain and in the arms of this man, he finally stopped running.

He saw nothing. Heard nothing.

Only Donovan’s breath. And the fine rain falling on them like it was washing away their pain, their sins.

They stayed like that for a long moment, motionless under the rain, their foreheads pressed together, their breaths seeking, taming each other.

Then, slowly, Lyle stepped back half a step, just enough to look at him. His face was soaked, hair plastered to his forehead, eyelashes heavy with drops. But his eyes stayed clear, bright, filled with something he hadn’t let out for a long time.

Fatigue, but also pain. And deeper still… tenderness.

"Why do you do all this?" he asked in a hoarse, almost broken voice. "Why do you stay… when you could leave?"

Donovan didn’t answer right away. He raised a hand and gently pushed a wet lock of hair from Lyle’s forehead, his fingers gliding along his temple with the delicacy of a breath.

"Because I see you," he finally said. "Not what others see. Not what the papers say. Not what you think you are. I see you. The man who taught me what love is."

Lyle lowered his eyes, jaw clenched. He swallowed hard.

"I’m a fucking disaster," he murmured. "I’ve failed at everything. My parents, my brother, my daughter. I… I let her down, Donovan. Literally."

His fingers trembled. He clutched Donovan’s soaked t-shirt, unable to hold them back.

"I looked away for a fucking second, and she fell. I thought… I thought I was going to lose her. And I saw the doctors looking at me like they did at the trial. With that silence. That doubt. Like I was guilty, again."

His voice broke.

Donovan slid his arms around him and held him tighter, gently pressing him against his chest. His mouth brushed Lyle’s ear, voice barely audible over the rain’s crackle.

"You’re not guilty, Lyle. You’re human. You’re tired. You’re a father doing his best. And you’re not alone anymore."

Lyle inhaled sharply, like air was missing. He rested his forehead on Donovan’s shoulder, leaning on him, hard, desperately.

"And if I mess up again? If I hurt her without meaning to? I don’t know how to be what she deserves. I’m just holding on, praying I don’t fall apart…"

"Then you’ll fall apart," Donovan answered calmly. "And I’ll be here. We’ll pick up the pieces together. Always, my love."

Lyle gently raised his head. He met Donovan’s gaze. He saw a sincerity that almost made him dizzy.

"You’re too kind to me," he murmured, like an accusation.

Donovan gave a small, sad, tender smile.

"No. I’m just in love with a man who doesn’t realize how extraordinary he is."

Silence fell again, broken only by the drops sliding down their faces, blending with their skin. Donovan raised a hand, placed it against Lyle’s cheek, caressing it softly with his thumb.

"You don’t have to earn love, Lyle. It’s not a reward. It’s not a prize to win. It’s something given to you. And I’m here. Because I want to be here. Not because you behaved well. Not because you deserved it. Just because it’s you."

A tremor shook Lyle. Not from cold this time. He slowly nodded, lips parted as if to answer—but then he gave up. He didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know anymore.

So he did the only thing he could do. He stepped forward again. And this time, he pressed his lips to Donovan’s.

It was a wet kiss, salty from the rain, fragile as a breath, but full of raw truth. That of two battered souls, against each other, in a world that had denied them peace for too long.

Under that warm rain, in the heart of the soaked garden, Lyle no longer thought of the fall, the trial, or even tomorrow.

Just this moment. Just this kiss.

Just Donovan.

~~

Since they had come home, Lyle had barely taken his eyes off his daughter. He watched her every movement, every tiny whimper. Donovan had offered several times to take over, to force him to rest a little, but Lyle couldn’t. He simply couldn’t.

And then, that evening, just after he had placed a blanket over Grace before leaving her room and heading downstairs to the kitchen, the landline phone rang. Lyle hesitated a second before picking up.

"Hello?"

"Lyle? It’s Terry."

His aunt’s voice was tense, unusually sharp. He immediately felt a knot of anxiety rise in his throat.

"Aunt Terry? What’s going on?"

Silence. Then: "You need to explain to me what I just read."

"Read where? What are you talking about?"

"Someone… a source, I don’t know who… tipped off the media that you went to the hospital with Grace. That the doctors asked you questions. And that there are… suspicions."

Lyle’s heart skipped a beat. He leaned against the wall; suddenly, he couldn’t breathe.

"Suspicions?" he repeated softly. "You mean… they think I hurt my daughter?"

Terry let out an exasperated sigh — not at him, but at the world.

"That’s what’s starting to spread. A journalist contacted me. They want the family’s reaction. Lyle, you need to be careful. You know how these things work."

He closed his eyes, fighting to keep his voice from shaking.

"It was an accident, Terry. She fell off the high chair. I was just… on the phone. And she fell."

"I know. I believe you. We all do, in the family. But the others…"

She didn’t finish her sentence. She didn’t need to.

Lyle hung up a few minutes later, his hand still clenched around the receiver. He stood there motionless, eyes fixed on the wall in front of him without really seeing it. His temples throbbed. The silence after the call was heavy, almost deafening — like after an explosion. His legs felt weak, his breathing short, too short. He forced himself to put the phone down, slowly, as if any sudden movement might shatter the fragile balance keeping him from falling apart.

He left the kitchen, his heart pounding irregularly, erratically against his chest. Each step felt heavier than the last, as if he were walking upstream through a nightmare.

In the living room, Donovan was sitting on the couch, leaning slightly forward, elbows on his knees. The television screen in front of him showed a local news broadcast. The sound was low, almost imperceptible, but enough for Lyle to hear the anchor’s voice.

"…back under the spotlight. Lyle Menendez, acquitted in 1996 along with his brother for the murder of their parents…"

Lyle froze at the foot of the stairs. His gaze locked on the screen. His stomach tightened instantly, violently.

"…was seen this week at a Los Angeles hospital, accompanied by his one-year-old daughter. An internal source reports that medical staff expressed certain concerns regarding the child’s condition…"

His knees almost gave out. He moved forward in slow motion, drawn despite himself to the images. It was like watching a crime scene you couldn’t look away from.

On the screen, old footage from the trial played in succession. Camera flashes. The solemn faces of the jurors. The cold, still photos of José and Kitty Menendez. Then Lyle — barely twenty, handcuffed, his features drawn, framed by two officers.

He relived it all. The defendant’s box. The smell of polished wood, the scratching of pens on paper, the murmurs in the courtroom. The suffocating heat. The judging stares. And that unbearable feeling of being stripped bare, watched like an animal in a cage.

Then, a change of image. A blurry video, clearly filmed from a distance. The hospital entrance. You could barely make out two figures : one carrying a baby, the other walking beside them. The commentators were already speculating.

"No official report for now, but Mr. Menendez’s criminal history has reignited concerns. Let’s not forget he was once tried for homicide…"

Donovan suddenly changed the channel, only to land on another news station where the presenter’s voice announced:

"Lyle Menendez involved in a new troubling case: his one-year-old daughter was admitted to the hospital after a suspicious injury. According to a medical source, the circumstances remain unclear, and a report may be filed."

This time, Donovan jumped to his feet. He rushed toward the remote and, with a quick movement, turned off the television. But the damage was done. The image vanished in a flash, leaving the room in dim silence.

Lyle didn’t move. Frozen. His eyes still fixed on the now-black screen, as if he could still see the reflection of his own past there.

"They’re never going to leave me alone," he murmured, his voice hollow. "No matter what I do… they’re just waiting for me to slip."

Donovan stood beside him, tense. He hesitated, then gently placed a cautious hand on his shoulder. But Lyle pulled away softly, almost mechanically, without looking at him. His eyes remained on the blank screen, but his mind was already far away. He saw the hospital room again, the nurses’ sidelong glances, the doctor’s overly precise questions. The heavy silence that followed his answers.

He clenched his fists.

"I’m going to lose everything," he whispered. "They’re going to take Grace away from me. I can feel it."

Donovan wanted to say something, to reassure him. But no words would have been enough. Not now. Lyle wavered slightly, then sat down slowly on the edge of the couch, as if his body could no longer support him.

His voice broke. A sob rose, dry, muffled, brutal. He buried his face in his hands, trembling, unable to breathe properly. Not like this. Not again. Not Grace.

Donovan knelt in front of him, silent, just there, his gaze fixed on the man he loved falling apart.

Watching Lyle crumble like that felt like witnessing a dam burst, an overflow of pain, exhaustion, fear, all held back for too long. Lyle didn’t cry loudly, not really. It was a silent sob, almost ashamed, as if apologizing for breaking down.

Donovan felt a deep ache in his chest. A quiet anger rose inside him. Not at Lyle — never. But at the world. At the doctors who doubted at the slightest mistake. At the journalists who hunted for the smallest crack, the faintest shadow, without caring about the consequences. At that damn past that refused to let them go.

He took a deep breath, straightened up, and sat beside Lyle on the couch, without touching him right away. He knew Lyle needed space. But he stayed close — a steady, silent presence.

"I won’t lie," he said softly, his voice low and steady. "I’m boiling inside. I want to go to that hospital and tear everything down."

Lyle didn’t answer, but his shoulders twitched slightly. He wiped his face quickly with the back of his hand, like a teenager caught being vulnerable.

"You didn’t do anything wrong, Lyle. Nothing. And they know it. They just want a story to sell. They don’t care about Grace, or you, or the truth."

"That’s not the problem," Lyle murmured hoarsely. "They’ve never needed proof. As soon as my name comes up, it all starts again. I could be perfect… and it would never be enough."

Donovan turned his head toward him. Lyle looked drained. Empty. His features drawn, his eyes red, shining with tears he refused to shed. Donovan hesitated for a moment. Then, slowly, he placed his hand on Lyle’s forearm. Not to pull him close, not to force him to talk. Just to remind him that he was there. Truly there.

Lyle closed his eyes. His jaw tightened.

"It’s like I’m trapped in a fucking nightmare that never ends. Every time I start to believe I have the right to be happy, something comes along to wreck it all." He lowered his head. His voice was barely a whisper. "I’m scared, Don. I’m scared they’ll take her away from me."

The silence that followed was heavy. Weighted. Donovan gently tightened his grip on Lyle’s arm.

"They won’t take her."

"You can’t know that."

"Yes, I can. Because we won’t let them. Never."

A primal fire ignited in Donovan’s eyes, an ancient, wild force that had nothing to do with reason. It was an instinctive rage, a deep reflex, like an animal ready to defend its young against any predator. He straightened up, breath short, almost defiant.

"If anyone dares lay a hand on her, I’ll be there. And believe me, they’ll quickly realize they’ve made the worst mistake of their life."

There was a promise in Donovan's voice, a vow etched into his heart. That anger, that fierce protection, was stronger than him, it was his deepest truth. Lyle slowly lifted his eyes to meet his. His gaze was blurry, exhausted, but flickered with something new, a fragile glimmer of hope.

"And what if it’s not enough? If public opinion… if social services decide I’m too dangerous, that my past erases everything else?"

Donovan held his gaze, unwavering.

"Then we’ll fight. Together. Until the end. We’ll never give up."

A trembling breath escaped Lyle, like a dam slowly giving way. He looked away, unable to handle that much sincerity all at once. But he didn’t pull away from the hand resting on his arm.

"You know," Donovan said after a moment, "there’s a reason Grace chose you. You might think she’s just a baby, that she doesn’t understand. But she knows. She feels that you’re the only person in the world who’d die for her."

Lyle let out a laugh without joy.

"Yeah. And I can’t even keep her from falling off a chair."

"You looked away for half a second. It happens. It happens to anyone. Except you — they’ll crucify you for it because you don’t get the luxury of making mistakes."

Lyle nodded slowly, his eyes still lost in the void. Then, after a long pause:

"I can’t afford to mess up, can I ?"

"You never have, Lyle. Not really. You stayed standing when everything should’ve broken you. And you’re still standing. You’ve fought this far, you’re not stopping now. And I’ll be here, Erik will be here, your whole family will be here to hold you up. And I swear to you, I will not let anyone take Grace from us ; if anyone comes for her, I will stand between them and her, and I will not back down."

This time, Lyle didn’t stop the tear that slid slowly down his cheek. He wiped it away silently, then leaned forward until his forehead rested against Donovan’s shoulder. Just for a moment. Just long enough to say “thank you” without having to say it.

Donovan didn’t move. He stayed there, solid, steady, anchoring him without weighing him down.

Chapter Text

The sun had barely risen when Lyle opened his eyes.

It took him a moment to understand where he was. For a second, he thought he was back in his cell. Then he felt the comforting warmth of a wrinkled sheet, the weight of a small body nestled against him, and a hand brushing lightly against his own.

Grace.

She was asleep between him and Donovan, curled up in their bed, mouth slightly open, cheeks still flushed from the fever she’d had the night before. Her tiny fingers rested on Lyle’s T-shirt, gripping it as if afraid he might slip away.

He hadn’t been able to. He couldn’t leave her alone, not even for a second. The night before, when Donovan had suggested putting her in her crib, Lyle had simply said no. He had laid her between them, stretched out gently on his back, and stayed awake for a long time, one hand resting on her belly, as if to make sure she was still breathing.

Donovan hadn’t said a word. He had turned off the bedside lamp, turned toward them, and waited for sleep to come.

Now, in the soft morning light, everything seemed peaceful.

Lyle lay still for a moment, listening to the tiny sounds of the house waking up: the creak of the wood, a bird outside, the faint sigh of the wind against the windows. Then… a soft, muffled sound.

A coo.

Grace stirred slightly, her eyelids fluttering. She turned her head toward him, opened her eyes wide, and made that little sound she saved just for him, a curious sigh mixed with a half-formed smile. Lyle felt something loosen inside him, and a genuine, trembling smile spread across his face.

He pulled her close, wrapped her gently in the small knitted blanket Terry had made before she was born, and stayed there, his head resting against hers. She nestled immediately against his chest, her tiny head tucked into the curve of his neck, her little fingers still clutching his shirt.

He stayed like that for a long time. Rocking her. Listening to her breathe. Crying silently without even realizing it.

Donovan eventually stretched beside them. He turned his head, watched them for a moment without speaking, then slowly sat up and got out of bed. Lyle heard him go down the stairs and return a few minutes later with two mugs of coffee.

“I brought you this,” he said softly, holding out a mug.

Lyle looked up, then murmured : “Thanks.”

Donovan came closer, set the mug on the nightstand, and sat on the edge of the bed. He brushed the tip of his fingers over Grace’s hand, tenderly.

“She’s okay, you see ? She’s strong and brave. She’s like her father,” Donovan said before leaning in to kiss Lyle’s stubbled cheek.

Lyle shook his head with a sad smile.

“No. She’s much better than me.”

“That’s why she needs you,” Donovan replied.

A silence settled between them. But it was broken by a dull sound downstairs, against the front door.

Three sharp knocks. Not violent, but firm.

Lyle froze. So did Donovan. Lyle’s whole body tensed at once, like a cornered animal. He held Grace closer, protectively, his eyes fixed on the stairs.

“Do you think it’s—?” he began.

“I’ll go check,” Donovan cut in.

He stood up and went down, not running, but cautiously. Lyle strained to listen. He heard the door creak open, then Donovan’s voice, cold and clipped:

“No, he doesn’t want to talk. Get out.”

A hum of voices. Flashes. The clicking of cameras.

The press.

Lyle closed his eyes, his throat tight. So that was it. The world had come knocking at his door. Again.

Donovan slammed the door shut and came back upstairs quickly.

“They’re out there. Two, maybe three photographers. A guy with a mic. Looks like someone tipped them off.”

Lyle didn’t react right away. He kept rocking Grace, as if nothing had happened.

Donovan sat at the foot of the bed, resting his arm on the corner of the mattress.

“We’ll handle it. I promise.”

“You weren’t supposed to get dragged into this mess,” Lyle muttered.

Donovan looked up at him, unwavering.

“Stop saying that. It’s not your mess, Lyle. It’s ours now.”

And in the look they shared at that moment, there was no doubt left.

The kitchen phone rang a little after nine.

Lyle was in the bathroom, giving Grace a quick bath. Donovan, still wearing last night’s clothes, walked past the phone, hesitated for a second, then picked up — hoping it wasn’t another journalist.

“Hello ?”

“What the hell is going on, Donovan ?”

He smiled faintly as he recognized Audrey’s voice.

“Good morning to you too,” he replied, leaning against the counter.

“I just saw the news. The news, Donovan. Are they really talking about Lyle as if he’s a danger to his own daughter ?”

Donovan sighed, lowering his head.

“Yeah. They’re talking. They’re spinning a story out of a simple accident. Grace fell from her high chair. Lyle panicked, we took her to the hospital, and now… media circus.”

There was a silence, then Audrey’s voice softened, gentler now, almost worried.

“How’s he holding up ?”

“Not well... He’s surviving because of Grace. He barely sleeps. He’s terrified of losing her.”

“And you ? You sound exhausted.”

Donovan gave a short, bitter laugh.

“You have no idea. We all slept in the same bed last night. Grace in the middle, Lyle clinging to her like she might disappear. And me… I don’t even know if I’m being helpful or just a helpless witness.”

“You’re not helpless,” she said firmly. “He needs you. She needs you. And I know you’re stronger than you want people to think.”

He fell silent for a moment, eyes fixed on the window.

“And Mom ?” Donovan asked in a low voice.

Audrey sighed, heavier this time.

“I talked to her earlier. She’s… indifferent. Or maybe just crushed, you know ? Dad cuts her off every time she opens her mouth. She knows that if he doesn’t want her to speak, she won’t. It makes her sad, but she doesn’t have the strength to fight. She’s just trying to keep the peace.”

“As always,” murmured Donovan.

“Yeah. She feels stuck between him and us. I think she wants to defend you, but she’s too scared to go against Dad.”

Donovan closed his eyes, his jaw tightening.

“What did Dad say ?”

“What he always says. That you ‘get yourself into messes.’ That you ‘should think about your reputation instead of burying yourself with a criminal.’ That you ‘should’ve listened to him.’ You know him. He doesn’t get it.”

“He never does.”

Silence again.

“I told him to shut up,” Audrey continued. “And I told him if he kept running his mouth about you and Lyle, I’d cut ties for good.”

A faint smile curved Donovan’s lips.

“Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me. I’m here. And I’ll keep saying it as long as it takes: you have the right to love whoever you want. And Lyle… Lyle loves you. I can see it, even from here. So don’t listen to the idiots — least of all Dad. He’s already lost too much in his life; he can keep his misery to himself. And for the record, I believe Lyle. I know he could never hurt his daughter.”

Donovan swallowed hard, leaning back against the kitchen door, his heart tight.

“Do you want to talk to him ? To Lyle ? He’s busy with Grace, but—”

“No, let him rest. Just… tell him I’m thinking about him. And that I believe in him, even if I barely know him. Can you tell him that ?”

“I can.”

“And promise me something.”

“What ?”

“That you won’t let him go. No matter what happens.”

Donovan glanced upstairs, where water was still running in the bathtub. He could hear Lyle humming softly, a tune just for Grace.

“I don’t plan on letting go of anything,” he said.

“Good. Then hang up and go back to them. And if anything happens - I mean anything - call me. If you ever need to, come here. Bring Lyle and Grace. Get some air. I know with the media storm brewing, getting on a plane probably isn’t in your plans, but still… I’m here.”

Donovan smiled against the receiver, a wave of gratitude washing over him.

“I’ll think about it. Thanks, Audrey.”

“I love you, Donny.”

“I love you too.”

He hung up gently. For a moment, the kitchen was quiet again.

Lyle laid Grace softly in her crib, her tiny fingers still wrapped weakly around his. He closed the bedroom door carefully, his breathing still uneven — a trace of anxiety lingering.