Page 122 of Hunted, Season Three

Nah.

No need to risk waking his ass up.

Truth is, his ass’ll be up soon enough.

Somewhere in the next two hours.

Tops.

Post exiting, I resume the trek back to our room, rechecking the non-crucial texts I got from Garcia earlier.

Trying to see if I’ve got time for a poker night next week wasn’t exactly a pressing matter.

Plus, him hosting them more often as a sly way to spend some time with Zero – who’s basically kept his distance outside of the card nights since the wedding – isn’t my car or my lot to fucking secure.

I told him the same shit he told me.

Thatchangecan be a good thing.

He – of course – did what he does best.

Smiled.

Poured himself another drink.

Pretended he had no idea what the fuck I was talking about and switched subjects.

Look, it’s not my job to force him to get his shit together.

But I’ll be there for his ass when does.

Just like he was for me.

Nudging the cracked door open wider with the heel of my boot successfully reveals to me the other reasons worth getting my ass out of bed every morning.

Kid lying on his stomach with his arm draped off the side of our king-size mattress closest to the baby monitor tells me he was last to insist they check on D whenever he stirred while Rabbit pressed against his back, arm flopped on top of his, indicates she stopped him from prematurely getting up.

Ah.

Proof there’s no parenting manual.

Do we let him self-soothe?

Do we rush to hold him every time he whimpers?

Is whimpering a hold worthy thing or is only crying?

How ugly does the crying have to get?

What if he just needs to fart?

Or burp?

Do we have to rush our asses out of bed to assess that?

Roadblocks and detours that lead us in circles are constantly being thrown up when it comes to deciding what to do, what route to take, what speed to fucking go; however, I will say this.

Over the course of our relationship, we’ve learned to take turns in the driver’s seat.

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