Chapter 1
The Brooks household is unusually quiet for a Friday night.
With Cleo and Tessa gone for the weekend (off to a sleepover at their aunt's house, no doubt currently filling it with the same whirlwind of noise and glitter and opinions they usually reserve for the living room) it's just two kids under Weston and Nikolai's care tonight.
Nikolai rocks gently back and forth on the recliner, three-year-old Hazel Brooks warm and heavy in his arms.
Her cheek is pressed to his chest, one small hand clutching a badly chewed-up plastic carrot with the kind of iron grip only toddlers are capable of.
She smells faintly of baby powder, and every so often her eyelids flutter as she fights sleep, stubbornly refusing to let go just yet.
"Is okay," Nikolai murmurs softly, then presses a kiss to the top of her curls.
"I got you."
He adjusts his hold so her head can rest in the crook of his neck, patting slow, even beats over her back.
Hazel surrenders in less than a minute, the quiet sound of her snoring blessing his ears.
Another win for Nikolai Voss.
Across the living room, Weston sits on the floor next to Milo.
Milo Brooks is five, almost six, and currently very busy sorting Brixto pieces into neat little piles by color.
Red with red.
Blue with blue.
Dark green carefully separated from light green.
He works in silence, hands moving with focused precision, like it's important work.
Necessary work.
At his side, Weston mirrors him without thinking, legs folded the same way, hands moving at the same pace.
He's got his own little handful of Brixtos to sort, and he does so diligently, adding them to the same colored piles as Milo's.
When a stray piece wanders too far, both of them frown and nudge it back into place at the same time.
It makes Nikolai smile.
They make such a good team.
It happens every time they come babysit.
Milo doesn't say it outright (he rarely asks for anything directly), but he feels more comfortable at Weston's side.
He follows him around the house like a moon on Weston's orbit, sometimes a little too close, sometimes a little too incessantly.
Not that Weston minds.
He always makes space for him, which Nikolai's glad for because his own hands are almost always full—Milo's sisters make sure of it.
Nikolai loves them to death, all of them, but he won't lie and say the girls are as calm and sweet as their brother is.
Hazel alone is a safety hazard, always crawling over furniture or biting Nikolai's ankles.
And when the twins are home...
Well, that's the real challenge.
Nikolai has to keep eyes on them at all times, especially since the brownie incident two months ago (to this day, he still apologizes to Sloane about nearly burning the house down).
Tonight, though, is different.
Calm.
Comfortable.
Almost domestic.
Weston and Milo finish sorting the last Brixto into the blue pile and lean back to admire their hard work.
"What are you making now?" Nikolai asks, keeping his voice low.
Not just for Hazel's sake, but careful not to pop the quiet bubble that seems to have settled over Weston and Milo.
Both shake their heads without looking up.
"I'm done," Milo answers.
Weston hums in agreement.
"Oh," Nikolai blinks.
"You're not going to, you know..." he gestures at all the Brixto on the floor.
"Build?"
Milo doesn't answer.
He simply raises a hand to point at the clock on the nightstand behind Nikolai.
It reads 8:45 PM.
"It's bed time," Weston says.
Milo nods.
Nikolai nods too, even if he doesn't quite understand why they spent so much time sorting instead of playing.
Isn't the whole point of building blocks to build something?
Houses, cars, animals, new creatures...
The possibilities are endless.
He doesn't say any of that, though.
He's learned, slowly, to be careful with Milo in ways he's only ever been careful with Weston before.
Instead, Nikolai simply adjusts Hazel as she twitches in her sleep.
"Okay, then.
Uncle Weston will take you to bed now."
Milo shakes his head.
"Pickles needs to get ready first."
Weston is already standing up, nodding like it was obvious.
"Yeah, let's do that."
Nikolai watches them disappear down the hall.
Hazel snores softly against his chest.
"Well," he tells her.
"Let's get
to bed, then."
He stands from the recliner carefully, heading towards Hazel's bedroom to tuck her in the way Sloane showed him the first time.
He smooths her hair once, soft and tender, and smiles to himself.
"Goodnight,
obez'yanka
When Nikolai steps back into the hallway, he hears Weston's voice from the kitchen.
"Alright," he says, calm and neutral, as always.
"I'm going to take Pickles now, is that okay?"
Nikolai walks closer, leaning against the doorframe as Milo hands over a well-loved stuffed alligator, green fabric worn thin in some places.
Weston takes him with both hands, cradling Pickles like he's made of glass.
"Two minutes," Weston narrates, opening the door to the microwave and carefully placing Pickles inside.
"So he's nice and warm."
Milo watches intently, hands flapping at his sides in excitement.
When the microwave beeps, Weston tests Pickles's temperature carefully before handing him back.
"Good," Milo declares, hugging the alligator to his chest.
"Good," Weston repeats.
"Now pajamas, teeth, book, and lights, right?" He counts with his fingers, one step at a time.
Nikolai doesn't understand the order, or why it matters so much, but he understands that it does when Milo's eyes light up in agreement.
He nods and launches himself into Weston, wrapping him into a bone-crushing hug that brings a small breath out of him.
Milo loves to hug him, and while Weston is used to it, he still gets caught up with surprise by the boy's strength.
Still, Weston smiles into it, one hand wrapping around Milo, the other one rubbing soothing circles on his back.
"Gentle, now," he reminds him, and Milo relaxes into the hug, his grip loosening naturally.
"Let's go."