October, The Odd Ones

I invited Thomas in. After everything, after the tears, the anger, the ache so sharp it felt physical, I just wanted comfort. Closeness. The sense of him beside me, real and breathing. When we stepped inside, my dad was waiting in the hallway, his brows pinched with worry. He came over, hugging me first, his hands gentle at my back, like he was afraid I might break. Then he looked at Thomas, a flicker of old hurt and new caution crossing his face.

"We're fine," I murmured quickly, my voice still raw. "I just want to feed Lola and sleep."

"You haven't had dinner," he said, soft but insistent in that fatherly way.

"I don't want to," I said, shaking my head.

Thomas nodded, stepping in quietly to fill the spaces I couldn't. "I'll go check on Jimmy and Alice," he said and he did, slipping away into the quiet of the house. I went to my room with Lola, cradling her small, warm weight against my chest. She smelled faintly of milk and baby shampoo, her breath slow and even. I rocked her gently, humming under my breath, thanking her silently for being, out of all my children, the easiest baby. My soft little anchor.

After a while, Thomas came back in, his tie loosened, shirt sleeves rolled up. He saw us, and without a word, stepped closer, wrapping his arms around us both. He started swaying gently, the three of us a slow pendulum in the low lamplight. He even tried to sing a low, tuneless murmur that made me chuckle into Lola's hair, because his singing is about as graceful as his stick-figure sketches. But it didn't matter.

Then he leaned closer, voice rough but tender. "Go take a bath," he whispered. "Or a shower. Relax. I've got this. I'll take of everything." I hesitated, then nodded, pressing a kiss to Lola's head before handing her over.

The water was warm, and for a few blessed minutes, the knots in my chest loosened. When I stepped out, wrapped in a robe, he was waiting in the hallway.  His eyes met mine, soft and careful, like he was still afraid of pushing too far, too soon.

"Everyone's having dinner now," he said gently. "Do you want to eat something?"

"No, thank you," I murmured, my voice smaller than I meant it to be.

He nodded, then hesitated, glancing toward the guest room.

"Okay... do you want me to leave?" he asked, even softer this time.

"No," I whispered, surprising even myself with how quickly the word came out. "Stay. But... I'm going to change first." I slipped into soft pajamas, wiped the steam from my face, then let him in.

"Just hold me tonight," I told him, my throat tightening again.

"Anytime, sweetheart," he murmured.

We lay down, the room dim, the air still heavy from the day. He wrapped around me from behind, his chest a warm wall at my back, his breath slow and deliberate. After a while, he  whispered, "I've got you sweetheart. Just relax," and somehow, I did, his breath at my neck, his voice low in English and then softer still in French, words of apology, love, promises I barely remember because I drifted off before they ended.

During the night, I stirred awake more than once when I heard Lola fussing in her crib but each time, Thomas was already there. Quiet, patient, rocking her gently back to sleep, whispering to her in that low, soothing voice that somehow worked better than mine. Even at dawn, when she let out another soft cry, I half-sat up, but he touched my arm and whispered, "Shh... I've got her. Just enjoy your Sunday morning. Sleep in, love."

For once, I let myself do exactly that.

When I finally got up, the house was already humming with soft laughter, clinking pans, and that unmistakable weekend calm. First, I went to check on Lola. Jimmy was sitting cross-legged on the rug, his phone balanced on his knee, carefully holding her against his shoulder like she was the world's tiniest queen.

"...and that's Captain America," he was telling her solemnly, "and he's okay, but Spider-Man's way cooler. Don't tell Dad, though, he still thinks Iron Man is unbeatable." Lola, wide-eyed, reached for a handful of his hair. Jimmy winced as her tiny fingers tugged, but he just gently pried them off and kept talking, completely undeterred.

Downstairs, the kitchen felt like stepping into a warm, living memory: the smell of butter, cinnamon, and something sweet and caramelizing on the stove. Thomas stood at the hob, sleeves rolled up, brow furrowed as he whisked a glossy sauce that steamed in the morning light.

My dad was next to him, cutting fruit with the air of a man who'd been handed a task and instantly decided it should be turned into performance art. "Thomas," he announced, inspecting a strawberry like it had personally offended him, "this sauce better taste like a divine revelation, because it's taking so long my grandkids will graduate before we eat."

Thomas didn't even look up. "and yet," he countered, "your strawberries still look like they were diced by a man wearing boxing gloves."

Mom was standing off to the side, leaning against a stool because her knees wouldn't let her stay standing for too long, but she was doing her best to keep up. She chuckled into her hand, eyes shining. "Honestly," she sighed, "you two need a morning radio show."

Alice, in her high chair, was living her very best baby life, cheeks smudged with banana, fist closed around a single defiant berry, which she triumphantly smacked onto the tray before squealing like she'd invented gravity. Every time Dad tried to wipe her face, she leaned back, eyes wide and scandalized, like "how dare you interrupt my creative process?"

Thomas glanced back then, caught my eye in the doorway. His whole face softened, like someone had taken a warm cloth to fogged-up glass. "Morning, sweetheart," he murmured. The words landed quietly but hit me right in the ribs.

Then, like muscle memory, he reached for a mug, poured fresh coffee, added oat milk in a neat swirl, and slid it across the counter toward me. "Don't let it go cold," he said, almost offhand, turning back to the pan. I curled my fingers around it, the warmth settling into my chest, and watched him: the tiny crease at the bridge of his nose when he concentrated, the faint smudge of flour on his forearm, the absent tap of the whisk. A hundred small things I'd nearly forgotten to notice, and which still mattered more than I could admit.

Dad, knife now waving like a conductor's baton, raised an eyebrow at me. "Your husband here thinks he's the lovechild of Julia Child and Gordon Ramsay," he announced. "I've heard more about crêpe texture in twenty minutes than in my entire life."

"It's called sharing knowledge," Thomas shot back, eyes dancing.

Mom, still half-perched on her stool, whispered to me, "I haven't seen your dad tease someone this much since Jimmy tried to deep-fry frozen pizza."

Thomas caught just enough of that to lift the whisk dramatically. "Jealousy is an ugly thing, Joseph," he declared.

Dad smirked. "and yet somehow still prettier than your sauce."

Alice, delighted by the noise and attention, started banging her spoon harder, catapulting banana onto the floor. Thomas didn't even sigh: he crouched, wiped it up, kissed the sticky top of her head, and went right back to plating the crêpes like mess was just another form of family ritual and then, almost casually, he reached over and tugged the stool a little closer to Mom so she wouldn't have to shift her weight as often. He barely even looked up, just said, "Don't stay on your feet too long," and kept moving. The words were gentle, practical and pierced right through me, because he didn't even realize how much they meant.

In that moment—coffee warming my palms, laughter bubbling through the room, the kitchen smelling like butter and home, I felt it: how something broken could still feel alive. How love, even bruised and re-stitched, could still hold warmth. 

After breakfast, Jimmy dragged Thomas outside for a backyard football match, the kind that always started half-serious and ended in laughter. The grass was still damp from morning dew, and Lola was warm and drowsy in my lap as I watched from a wicker chair on the patio. Mom sat nearby, her knees propped up on a little cushion, scorecard balanced on her thigh, pencil tapping against her chin like a judge at a village fair.

"That's three-nil!" Jimmy shouted, breathless, hair sticking to his forehead. "You sure you played football at school, Dad?"

Thomas was bent forward, hands on his knees, chest heaving.

"I did!" he panted, waving an accusatory hand toward me. "But your mum distracted me. It's not fair."

I laughed, shading my eyes from the sun.

"Don't blame me because you run like an old Labrador."

"Old Labrador? That's generous," Dad chimed in, "More like a limping duck with two left feet."

Jimmy collapsed onto the grass, wheezing with laughter, rolling from side to side like he couldn't quite believe his luck at hearing adults roast each other so freely. Even Thomas, catching his breath, had to grin at that.

"Traitors," he muttered. Mom called out the new score, voice warm and amused.

"Alright, Thomas: zero. Jimmy: three, and style points deducted for blaming your wife."

"Style points?" Thomas repeated, half laughing. "I've been playing in jeans! Cut me some slack!"

"Next time wear shorts, city boy," Dad shot back, flipping a skewer of peppers. "Or better yet, just referee and let the kid keep his dignity."

"You mean my dignity," Thomas corrected, chuckling.

Jimmy jumped to his feet, ball tucked under one arm, and pointed at Thomas dramatically.

"Last chance, Dad! Loser does the dishes after dinner!"

Thomas raised both brows, wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist.

"Deal. But if I win, you clean Alice's high chair for a week."

Jimmy made a face that was half horror, half challenge.

"Deal!"

I took Lola to have her nap. Around us, the afternoon sun turned the lawn gold, and laughter spilled over the fence like something too generous to stay contained. For a moment, just sitting there, baby warm in my arms, the smell of grilled burgers in the air, and the sound of Thomas's laughter mixing with Jimmy's, it felt like the simplest, most miraculous kind of peace.

Later, after the football match ended in Jimmy's triumph and Thomas's mock despair, we all drifted back inside. Dad took command of the kitchen, wrestling a pile of shiny apples on the cutting board. Every few seconds, a piece slipped out from under the knife, skittering across the counter like it had a life of its own.

"Bloody thing," Dad muttered under his breath, retrieving another slice with stubborn dignity. "If fruit had any manners, I'd be done by now."

Thomas wiped his hands on a dish towel, then picked up one of the better-looking slices Dad had managed to tame. He held it out to me with a small, tentative grin.

"Peace offering," he said softly, eyes searching mine. "It's sweeter than it looks." I raised an eyebrow, unable to stop the smile tugging at my lips.

"If you two are going to flirt," he deadpanned, "at least do it where the bloody tea won't boil over."

Mom clucked her tongue at him, but she couldn't quite hide the curve of her mouth.

"Joseph, hush," she scolded gently. "Leave them be."

Dad pointed the tip of the knife at Thomas, eyes narrowed in playful warning.

"One scorched kettle and you're buying me a new set, son."

"Deal," Thomas shot back without missing a beat, still watching me as though he couldn't quite believe I was here, smiling back at him. Mom shook her head, chuckling as she reached for the sugar jar.

"Honestly, it's like living in a sitcom," she murmured under her breath, but there was warmth in every syllable.

...and for a heartbeat, with the smell of apples and cinnamon in the air, Thomas's hand brushing mine as he passed the slice, and my father's mock complaints filling the kitchen, the world felt gently, beautifully whole again.

Dinner was louder than the morning had been, full of clatter and chaos in the best possible way. Alice banged her spoon on the table with single-minded determination, splattering mashed vegetables everywhere. Each time someone tried to clean her up, she squealed and slapped her chubby hands on the tray, triumphant in her tiny rebellion.

Lola, nestled in her high chair nearby, watched with wide eyes and occasionally reached out to grab a piece of bread or a napkin, her little fingers sticky from curiosity more than hunger.

Jimmy, halfway through a forkful of pasta, launched into his superhero 온라인카지노게임 for the second time, voice pitched with excitement as if none of us had heard it before.

"And then Captain America throws his shield, but Spider-Man jumps in and—"

"We know, Jimmy," I teased gently, though I couldn't help smiling at how animated he was.

Dad, carving slices of roast chicken, pretended to grumble under his breath.

"If this 온라인카지노게임 gets any longer, dinner'll be tomorrow morning."

"Grandpa!" Jimmy protested, giggling.

Through it all, Thomas moved around the table almost silently: refilling water glasses, cutting Alice's food into toddler-friendly pieces, wiping a spill Jimmy didn't even notice he made. Every time he passed behind me, I felt the faint warmth of his hand just brushing my shoulder, a quiet reassurance he didn't say out loud.

Then Jimmy's grin sharpened into mischief. "Remember that time Dad burned the barbecue?"

Thomas groaned, dropping his head for dramatic effect, "One burger," he insisted, voice muffled. "It was one burger."

Dad raised his fork like a judge delivering a sentence, "It was charcoal," he declared solemnly. "Your mother banned him from the grill for a month."

Mom, laughter already in her voice, added, "and we still bring it up every summer." 

Thomas let out an exaggerated sigh, but the corners of his mouth curved up in defeat, "You lot are ruthless," he muttered, shaking his head, though his eyes flicked over to me for half a heartbeat.

Alice let out a shriek of delight, flinging a piece of broccoli directly onto Dad's plate. Without missing a beat, Dad speared it on his fork, held it up like a trophy, and announced,

"Thank you, Your Majesty. Fresh from the royal hand."

Mom swatted his arm lightly, and Thomas ducked his head, shoulders shaking with quiet laughter.

Between Jimmy's endless retelling, Dad's teasing, Mom's soft laughter, and Thomas's gentle, unseen care, I felt the walls inside me loosen. As if maybe love, real love, wasn't always in grand declarations but in shared stories, burnt burgers, messy toddlers, and a hand brushing your shoulder...

After dinner, we got the girls ready for bed first. Alice, sticky with banana and jam, needed a full wipe-down that turned into squeals and giggles; Lola was easier, already half-asleep against my chest before I even set her down.

Mom and Dad were gathering their things to go upstairs. She pressed a hand to her knee, grimacing. "These knees," she muttered. "They've survived two kids, three dogs, and that disastrous attempt at Zumba, but they won't survive another late night."

Dad patted her back gently. "Come on, love, I'll rub some cream on them if you promise not to kick me when it stings."

"I make no promises," she sniffed, but there was a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

"Don't let your father's heroics fool you," Mom added, glancing at me. "He'll complain about it for twice as long as the massage lasts."

Dad threw his hands up. "She wounds me daily," he declared to the ceiling, then winked at me before they shuffled off together, still bickering gently in that soft, familiar way that made the house feel like home.

Few minutes later, I was watching Thomas and Jimmy untangling a mountain of blankets on the couch for movie night.

"Dad, the corners go under, not over," Jimmy scolded, fighting with a stubborn fold.

"You sound like your mother," Thomas teased, trying (and failing) to look offended.

"Well she's right about everything," Jimmy shot back, grinning.

"Well, almost everything," Thomas said, plopping down heavily onto the couch. "Except about which superhero could beat the others."

"Don't start," Jimmy warned, but Thomas only raised his brows, deadpan:

"I still say Batman could totally take Thor if he had enough prep time."

Jimmy's jaw dropped. "He's literally a god, Dad."

"A god, yes," Thomas nodded solemnly, "but with terrible armor design."

Jimmy groaned into a pillow, muttering something about "I can't believe this man raised me," while Thomas just grinned at me, completely pleased with himself.

The movie ended, the last notes of the soundtrack trailing off into the quiet room. Jimmy stretched, half-yawned, then mumbled a quick "Night, Mum. Night, Dad," before disappearing upstairs, leaving the living room hushed and a little golden in the lamplight. Thomas sat beside me on the couch, his shoulder warm against mine, the empty popcorn bowl between us. He looked down at his hands for a moment before speaking, his voice low, almost shy.

"Do you remember," he began, "the first time we ever watched a movie together? We must've been, what, fifteen?"

I smiled, the memory already blooming in my chest.

"You were so excited," he continued, chuckling softly. "You kept talking through half of it, pointing out lines, guessing what would happen next... God, I barely saw the movie at all. I just kept thinking how close your shoulder was. How wonderful you smelled and how my heart was beating so stupidly fast I was sure you'd hear it."

He hesitated, then met my eyes, his gaze open and raw in that way it only ever was with me.

"I was terrified, you know," he admitted. "Terrified you'd look over and see how badly I already liked you."

My breath caught, and warmth rose up my neck so quickly it almost stung. For a second, I couldn't speak—then the words slipped out, soft and certain, barely louder than a breath:

« Je t'aimais déjà à ce moment-là... »

Thomas froze, eyes widening just slightly, the words sinking in.

"What did you say?," he whispered, as if he wasn't sure he'd heard me right.

"I already loved you then," I repeated, voice shaking a little. His mouth curved into a smile that was almost heartbreakingly tender, eyes shining, laughter and wonder caught in the same breath.

Then he kissed me. Slow at first, uncertain, reverent, as though he was asking permission even now. His lips were warm and familiar, yet the gentleness made it feel almost new: like rediscovering each other in a language we thought we'd forgotten. His hand cupped my jaw, thumb brushing a tear away before it could fall, and I leaned into him, heart pounding so loudly I wondered if he could feel it too.

Outside, the night stayed quiet, just the hush of leaves shifting beyond the window, the soft hum of distant traffic, but in that small circle of lamplight, it felt like the world had folded itself around us.