Page 92 of Nine Week Nanny

The credits roll up the screen, some pop song bouncing through the speakers.

I glance down at Lennon, completely out cold against my side. His small chest rises and falls in the steady rhythm of deep sleep. His face is peaceful in a way it rarely is during waking hours.

I pull the blanket higher around his shoulders, careful not to wake him.

"Do you want me to wake him? Or will you carry him?" Sloane's voice is low beside me, barely audible above the music.

I shake my head. "I'll carry him. He needs the sleep."

The day's evaluation has taken more out of him than he'd ever admit. Chris's forced enthusiasm, followed by thinly veiled frustration, made Lennon retreat further into himself with each passing minute. That's when I came up with the movie and picnic idea. He needed something to help him forget all of that.

The kid deserves uninterrupted rest.

Sloane smiles, her eyes soft as she watches Lennon nestled against me. "You're too good."

Good at this? I never imagined myself sitting under the stars watching an animated movie with a seven-year-old. Now I'm fighting for custody of him against my own father.

I don't answer. I can't trust my voice with her hand still tangled in mine, warm and small against my palm.

Instead, I lean toward her, just enough to catch her mouth in a slow, deliberate kiss. Brief but steady. A promise for when the timing's right.

When I pull back, her lips part like she wants to say something, but I'm already shifting to gather Lennon into my arms. His weight settles against my chest as I stand, surprisingly heavy for such a small frame.

He stirs slightly, sighs once, then tucks his face against my shoulder.

The exhaustion from Jacksonville crashes through me, but holding Lennon keeps me present and anchored. This is real. This matters. The warm press of his body reminds me exactly what I'm fighting for.

"I'm going to clean all of this up," Sloane says as she stands.

"Okay, but leave the blanket. Maybe you'll let me hold you for a while once I put him to bed."

"I can do that."

I carry Lennon up the stairs, his small body warm against my chest. The house is eerily dark and quiet except for the soft pad of my socked feet against the hardwood.

When I reach his bedroom, I push the door open with my shoulder. Only the small rocket ship nightlight casts a blue glow across the navy walls. I move toward his bed, careful not to jostle him as I lower him onto the mattress.

Lennon's eyes flutter open for just a moment as I pull the navy blue down comforter over him. "Night, Pope," he mumbles, his voice thick with sleep as he turns over on his side, facing away from me.

My throat tightens. The way he says my name tugs at some paternal I had no idea existed.

"Night, buddy," I whisper. "I'm right down the hall if you need anything."

He nods, already drifting back to sleep. I run my hand over his small back, my hand lingering for a moment. His breathing evens out almost immediately, deep and steady.

I stay beside the bed, watching the rise and fall of his chest. Seven years old. So damn little. His face in sleep looks even younger, the wariness that usually shapes his features completely gone.

After experiencing today, watching Chris, his manipulation on full display, and looking at Lennon now, I know with bone-deep certainty that I have to put everything into making sure he's safe. I'll tear anyone apart who tries to hurt him, especially Chris Carrigan.

I back away from the bed, lingering in the doorway. The dread that's been my constant companion since the custody petition surfaced again.

The hospital crisis, the looming court date, Chris’s fucking grin, they all flash through my mind at once. Everything could fall apart so easily, and it feels like I'm the only one who can do anything to fix all of it.

I pull the door halfway closed, enough that I'll hear him if he wakes. My chest feels ready to explode, pressure pressing hard against my ribs.

I grab the baby monitor from Sloane's room and head back downstairs. I hear her in the kitchen putting the food away. When I walk in, she looks up, a smile that instantly melts all of the anxiety I'm carrying.

I set the monitor on the counter with a soft click and pack the empty cardboard containers in the bag. Sloane glances up fromthe sink where she's rinsing plates, her hands covered in suds. Her eyes flick to the monitor, then to me, her smile warming.