Chapter 959: Night At The Penthouse
Night at the Penthouse (Arthur’s POV)
Grey folded and the world let us through.
One step we were in Ouroboros—steel corridors, low lights, the hum of night crews still at their posts—and the next we were in my penthouse in Avalon City. The ward recognized me and set the rooms to night mode: soft gold along the baseboards, blinds lowered, temperature nudged warmer. The quiet here is different from headquarters. No runners. No paging tones. Just the city far below like a calm sea.
Rose’s hand was still in mine from the jump. I felt the last of the mission-wire leave my shoulders as we crossed the entry hall. It smelled like fresh sheets and cedar. I had keyed the security to expect us; no chime, no handshake prompts. Tonight was supposed to be simple: arrive, wash, sleep.
"Stella’s already down," I said, voice low without meaning to be. "Reika tucked her in after dinner. I told them we’d be late."
Rose nodded. Her hair was loose, auburn falling past her shoulders. No badge, no House pin. Just her. "Good," she said. "You look like you need three hours with your brain turned off."
"Ambitious," I said, and meant to make a joke of it, but the truth was close.
We didn’t tour anything. The living room’s glass wall held the city lights like a promise. We walked straight to the bedroom. I set my slate on the dresser, thumbed it to emergencies only, and slid it into the drawer so I wouldn’t keep looking. The ward read the gesture and dimmed another notch. Rose disappeared into the bathroom; water ran, then cut. I took my turn after, the fastest shower of the month, and came out in a cotton shirt and sleep pants with skin that finally felt like it belonged to me.
She was already in bed, propped on one elbow, watching me the way she does when she’s making sure I’m not still carrying something I could have set down. I slid under the covers and the mattress remembered us. It’s a big bed by design—my life is not simple and neither is my family—but right now it was just the two of us and the quiet.
"Slate’s off?" she asked.
"In a drawer," I said. "Very brave."
She smiled and tugged me closer by my sleeve. "Then we can turn everything else off, too."
I let Lucent Harmony drop. Not the shield itself—just the habit of keeping it quietly poised in the background even while I’m safe. It’s almost as loud as a thought when you stop it. The air got softer. Rose leaned in and kissed me once, slow and certain, and then again with the kind of patience you only give someone when you know the rest of the world can wait.
It’s a strange skill, learning how to relax on purpose. You have to notice you’re armoring up and then convince muscle and mana they can stand down. I felt the click of it, the small inner sound of doors unlocked, just as the bedroom door opened.
We didn’t hear a chime. There wasn’t one to hear. She’s whitelisted in the penthouse wards the way breath is whitelisted in lungs.
"Daddy?"
Stella stood in the doorway with a blanket pushed up under her chin and her stuffed fox dangling from one hand. Black hair half-out of a braid, black eyes too awake for this hour, socks that did not match. She looked like she had run here on important business and then remembered to be polite at the last step.
"Hey, Star," I said, sitting up. "You couldn’t sleep?"
She shook her head, took three fast steps in, paused on the edge of the rug like it was a border that needed a stamp, and then, when Rose flipped back the corner of the duvet without a word, came the rest of the way and climbed up.
"I wanted to be with you," she said, like she had done the math and this was the answer. She glanced at Rose. "With both of you. If that’s okay."
"It’s more than okay," Rose said. She patted the mattress between us. "Come here, comet."
Stella scrambled in with the controlled chaos of a twelve-year-old who has made a plan and is executing it now. The fox landed on the pillow like a diplomat sent ahead to announce terms. Stella wedged herself diagonally the way she always does, head toward Rose’s shoulder, feet pointed at my shin. She smelled like laundry soap and a hint of workshop—one of her projects had clearly refused to go to bed on time.
I adjusted the blanket over her legs. "Long day?" I asked.
"My brain was loud," she said. "It listed things. I told it the list could wait and it said ’no.’ Charlotte says I should tell it to sit. I told it to sit and it stood up on purpose. Coming here was faster."
"Then you were smart to come," I said. "We can outnumber a list."
Stella’s fingers searched in the dark. I held mine up. She found them and laced them without looking. Rose did the same on Stella’s other side. For a while we didn’t talk. We counted breaths together in the quiet. The city’s light made a barely-there band along the blackout shades. The ward’s hum traded night blue for something warmer.
"Can I ask something?" Rose said after a minute, voice steady and simple.
Stella turned her head. "Always."
Rose swallowed once; I saw the small movement in the dim. "Would you like to call me ’Mom’ instead of ’Aunt Rose’?" she asked. "Only if you want to. Only if it feels right to you. I want to be that for you."
Stella went very still. Her eyes widened. For a heartbeat she looked like every age she has been—three, six, nine, twelve—all layered at once and all of them wanting the same thing. She looked at me, last check.
"It would make me very happy," I said. "Names are yours. You don’t have to choose tonight. You don’t have to choose ever. But if you want it, it’s yours."
She bit her lip. The fox slid off the pillow and did not protest. Then the want won.
"Okay," she said. Small voice, very clear. "Mom."
Rose’s breath hitched. She didn’t cry; not at first. She smiled like someone promising a good thing and nodded once, slow. "Hi, Stella," she said. "I’m your mom."
Stella launched herself into Rose’s arms with all the speed and totality of a decision that will stick. I put my arm around both of them and closed the circle. The bed felt bigger for it, not smaller.
We stayed like that until the emotion in the room settled into something gentle and ordinary. It’s a good kind of ordinary. The one that makes a place into a home.
"Ground rules," Stella said at last, practical even with wet lashes. "Mom gets this side. Daddy gets that side. I go in the middle because geometry. If there’s a nightmare we do the hand thing." She lifted our linked hands and wiggled her fingers. One squeeze means I’m here. Two means I love you. Three means go to sleep.
"Accepted," I said.
"Also," she added, "tomorrow we make pancakes. The thick ones. With the tiny chocolate chips that somehow jump into the batter even when you say no."
"We will investigate that jumping," I said gravely.
"It’s physics," Rose said, equally grave.
"Then it’s not our fault," Stella concluded, pleased.
She settled back down, head tucked under Rose’s chin like it had been designed for that spot. Her breathing slowed by degrees. She made one small, unconscious sound and nudged her cold toes against my leg. I did not protest. This is the tax you pay for being allowed to be a part of something good.
Rose looked at me over Stella’s hair. Even in the dim I could see her eyes shine. Thank you, she mouthed.
You asked, I mouthed back. I just tried not to ruin it.
Her mouth curved. The room was quiet in that full way that makes sleep easy. I reached toward the dresser without getting up and pushed the drawer with my slate in it closed the last inch. It wasn’t necessary. It still felt good.
"Daddy?" came a tiny voice, half-asleep.
"Here," I said.
"Tomorrow can we fix the squeaky wheel on the workshop cart? It makes the ward in the corner sad."
"Yes," I said. "We’ll oil it after pancakes."
"Okay," she murmured. "Good night, Mom. Good night, Daddy."
"Good night, Stella," Rose whispered, and kissed the top of her head.
"Good night, Star," I said.
We didn’t make plans after that. The map could find me in the morning. The warrants, the reports, the next set of clean-ups—none of that was going anywhere. I let my eyes close with my daughter’s hand warm in mine and the woman I love steady on the other side of her. The ward hummed like a house pleased with itself. The city breathed under the glass.
Some things are worth guarding because they are powerful or they move empires. Some things are worth guarding because they are small and right and make the rest of it make sense. A child’s voice saying Mom for the first time. A bed that holds three heartbeats and no alarms. A night when nothing explodes and no one asks for anything except pancakes.
I slept. Not like a man who caught a gap between alarms. Like a man who came home and had the sense to stay.