That's What You Get

Chapter Twenty-Eight: What We Think We Deserve

The nursery was coming together faster than Dani expected.

She stood in the doorway in her work boots, her uniform shirt unbuttoned at the collar, hands on her hips as she watched Patrick fuss over the mobile again. Stars and moons. Safe, neutral, perfect. He'd already re-hung it twice.

"You planning to raise an astronaut, or just making sure it spins in seven dimensions?" she asked dryly.

Patrick laughed, a real one, the kind that used to charm her before she learned how tightly he could hold a leash.

"She'll like it," he said, not turning around. "Babies like movement."

"She's not even here yet," Dani said, stepping into the room. She ignored the way her hand instinctively cradled the slight curve of her stomach. "And Luca and Lincoln don't care about a spinning moon. They're six and eight. They like dinosaurs and fart jokes."

Patrick turned, smiling. "And yet, you've got them listening to bedtime stories and saying 'yes, ma'am' like you're raising cadets."

Dani smirked despite herself. "I'm still a cop, Trick. Not a miracle worker."

But the warmth faded fast. As Patrick crossed the room to her, brushing his hand over her belly like he had a right, Dani's muscles locked for just a second. Reflex. Not new. Not gone.

He kissed her temple.

"You're tired," he said gently. "Let me finish up here. Go sit down, baby."

She didn't answer right away. Just looked past him at the room, the soft sage walls, the twin beds tucked in the corner for the boys. A bookshelf she'd started filling with Luca's favorites. A blanket she hadn't meant to keep, draped across the rocking chair.

It was everything they'd talked about. Well... More like she'd talked and he'd waved it off. She was never sure he actually listened to her.

But some nights, especially the quiet ones, she remembered the weight of his hand closing around her arm too hard. The way he'd lowered his voice, not to soothe but to scare. And how, when she'd finally left, he hadn't begged.

He'd waited.

And when she came back, he'd smiled.

He hadn't hurt her since. Hadn't raised his voice. Hadn't laid a hand on her except with open palms and gentle touches. But that was the thing, wasn't it? She knew exactly what he was capable of. And the only reason he wasn't doing it now... was because she was pregnant.

It made her feel safe and trapped in the same breath.

Dani stepped back, her voice steady. "I'm not tired. I've got case files to finish."

Patrick's expression faltered for half a second. Just long enough.

Then the smile returned. "Alright. I'll warm up some dinner if you want it later."

"Sure."

She walked out without waiting for an answer.

Down the hall, she heard the boys laughing in the living room, Lincoln's high giggle, Luca's sharper, more controlled amusement. They'd been taught how to box up their fears and show only what was safe. She recognized it because she'd done it too.

She was amazed at how safe she'd been able to play it. She had everyone convinced she was just clumsy. Ran into one too many doors. Being in the field helped, too. Get a little rowdy with a suspect, a few bruises seemed feasible.

And when she missed work a few months ago, she just took a some sick days. Told her captain that she needed a few days of rest and recuperation before diving headfirst into foster papers and trying to save those boys from a lifetime of suffering. Captain Benson let her work from home for a few weeks while she filled out paperwork and Patrick got the house together.

Maybe it was a silent cry for help.

A plea that went unheard.

She thought if there were kids in the house, he'd stop.

She prayed.

In the kitchen, her work phone buzzed. She looked down, drained and exhausted.

A message from Skye: Got the witness to talk. Might be able to close it by Monday.

Dani exhaled. Ground herself in what she knew. Evidence. Truth. Protocol. She was a cop. A mother. A survivor. And she was still figuring out which of those things could live peacefully inside the same skin.

Which of those could co-exist without blowing up?

-----

The house was silent.

Mikey sat on the edge of the bed, shoes already tied, backpack at his feet. He hadn't turned on any lights. The moonlight filtering through the blinds painted pale stripes across the floor, soft and cold. His heartbeat felt louder than the room allowed.

Pete was still asleep.

Mikey had waited, hour by hour, breath by breath, until Pete's breathing settled into that deep rhythm he always had around two or three in the morning. Even now, he was curled toward Mikey's side of the bed, one hand stretched across the sheets like he was still reaching for him in sleep.

He used to find that comforting.

Now, it made him nauseous.

Mikey stood slowly, carefully. Every movement felt amplified, like the creak of the floorboards might wake the whole block. He reached for the backpack, one he'd slowly packed over weeks, essentials only, tucked away piece by piece while Pete was in the shower, on a call, out at the store. Toothbrush. Socks. Spare charger. The small folder with his ID, insurance card, the keys Dani had given him months ago, back when she'd whispered, "Just in case."

This was "just in case."

He moved quietly to the dresser, pulled open the second drawer, and reached behind the old winter sweaters. His journal was still there. He flipped it open to the last page he'd written.

May 3.
He made my favorite soup tonight.
Told me he was proud of me again.
Then asked who I was texting.
Wasn't angry. But I saw it in his mouth, how tight it got.

He didn't write anything new. Just closed the journal, slid it into the bag, and zipped it shut.

He wasn't scared of Pete in the way he used to be. That raw, flinching kind of fear had calcified into something colder, harder to name. He was scared of what Pete might become again. Scared of what he'd become, staying.

The bruises had healed. The damage hadn't.

He slipped out of the room and into the hallway, every step deliberate. The house looked tidy, almost cozy. The dishes were done. A blanket folded on the couch. One of Pete's little sticky notes still clung to the fridge: You are safe now.

Mikey tore it down on his way out.

The door closed behind him with a gentle click. No slamming. No second guesses. Just that final, soft end to a chapter he'd rewritten too many times.

Outside, the air was cold against his face. He tugged up his hoodie and walked down the stairs with the kind of silence only someone practiced in leaving could manage.

-----

Two hours later, he was at his brother's apartment.

Gerard didn't ask questions. Just opened the door, pulled Mikey inside, and locked it again behind him.

"Spare bed's made up," Gerard said. "Bathroom's clean. You want food?"

Mikey just shook his head.

Gerard nodded like he understood more than he said, and that was the end of it.

Mikey crawled into the spare bed, still wearing his hoodie, shoes tucked neatly beneath the frame. He didn't cry. Not really. But his throat ached from holding everything in.

He lay there in the dark, listening to the muffled sounds of the city outside, and finally whispered into the silence, like a secret prayer:

"I really wanted to believe him."