Page 17 of The Minotaur's Little Peach
Something shifts in Daegan's expression—a flicker of pain that mirrors my own. His thumb traces gentle circles against Taran's tiny back, and I watch the careful way he adjusts his hold to support our son's head.
"He wrote about your morning routine," Daegan says quietly. "How you'd make kaffo strong enough to wake the dead and tease him about needing it to function like a civilized being."
The accuracy of that description makes my throat tighten. Korrun always did pay attention to the small details, the everyday moments that build a life together. I'd forgotten that he shared those pieces of us with his brother, that our private domestic happiness became part of his letters home.
Taran shifts against Daegan's chest, making the soft huffing sounds that usually signal he's waking up. My body responds automatically—the familiar pull of anticipation, the way my arms reach slightly forward even though I'm not holding him. But Daegan seems to sense the change too, his voice dropping to an even gentler murmur as he speaks to Taran about staying asleep just a little longer.
Watching them together creates this strange duality in my chest. Relief that my son has family beyond me, someone who shares his blood and his father's features. But also this sharp ache, because seeing Daegan hold Taran feels like watching an echo of what should have been. The way his large hands cradle such a small life, the protective curve of his shoulders, the quiet focus in his expression—it's so reminiscent of Korrun that sometimes I have to look away.
The resemblance between the brothers is undeniable, though Daegan carries himself differently. Where Korrun moved with the steady confidence of someone who'd found his place in the world, Daegan has this restless energy beneath his careful control. Like he's spent so many years in motion that sitting still requires conscious effort.
"You don't have to stay in the kitchen with us every morning," I tell him, though I'm not sure why. The company isn't unwelcome, exactly. It's just complicated in ways I don't know how to navigate.
"Don't mind it," he says simply. "Been eating meals alone for years. This is better."
His honesty catches me off guard. There's no pretense in the statement, no attempt to make me feel guilty or manipulate the situation. Just a straightforward acknowledgment that he prefers shared meals to solitary ones. It should make things easier between us, but somehow it makes them more complicated instead.
The front door opens, and Mirath's voice carries through the house. "Anyone awake in here, or am I talking to myself again?"
"Kitchen," I call back, grateful for the interruption. Mirath's daily visits have become the highlight of my routine—a chance to talk to someone who knew me before grief became my primary identity, who doesn't treat me like I might shatter at any moment.
She appears in the doorway with her usual purposeful energy, dark curls escaping from the loose braid draped over her shoulder. Her healer's bag sits comfortably against her hip, and she's already assessing the scene with practiced efficiency.
"How's our new mother today?" she asks, settling into the chair beside mine. Her gaze sweeps over me with clinical attention, checking for signs of fatigue or distress that I might not volunteer on my own.
"Fine," I say automatically, though we both know it's not entirely true. I'm functioning, which is different from fine, but it's progress from where I was a week ago.
Mirath's attention shifts to Daegan and Taran, and I watch her take in the easy way he holds my son. There's approval in her expression, though she doesn't comment directly. Instead, she reaches across the table to brush her fingertips against Taran's forehead, checking his temperature and color with the casual competence that makes her such a good healer.
"He's gaining weight nicely," she says, settling back in her chair. "And you look like you've been sleeping better."
It's true, though I'm not sure I want to examine why too closely. Having another adult in the house means I don't wake up with quite the same level of panic when Taran cries in the night. Knowing someone else is there, someone capable of helping if something goes wrong, has eased some of the constant tension I didn't realize I was carrying.
"Daegan's been helpful," I admit, the words feeling strange on my tongue. Acknowledging his presence, his usefulness, feels like crossing some invisible line I'd drawn for my own protection.
Mirath's eyebrows rise slightly, and she glances between us with the kind of knowing look that makes me want to clarify exactly what kind of help I mean. Nothing intimate. Nothing that crosses the careful boundaries I've established. Just practical assistance with the daily challenges of caring for a newborn while my body recovers from birth.
"Good," she says simply. "You need the support, whether you want to admit it or not."
The directness of her statement makes me shift uncomfortably in my chair. Mirath has never been one to dance around difficult topics, but lately, her bluntness feels more pointed. Like she's trying to push me toward something I'm not ready to face.
The storm Daegan predicted begins in earnest, rain drumming against the windows with increasing intensity. The sound should be soothing—I've always loved storms—but today it makes the kitchen feel smaller, more intimate. Like the three of us are contained in this warm bubble while the weather rages outside.
Taran finally wakes fully, his small cries cutting through the comfortable silence we'd fallen into. I start to rise, but Daegan is already shifting him gently, testing to see if the position change will settle him. When it doesn't, he looks to me with a question in his eyes.
"Probably hungry," I say, extending my arms to take him. Our fingers brush briefly during the transfer, and I'm struck again by how carefully he handles the exchange. No lingering contact, no attempts to prolong the moment. Just respectful efficiency that makes it easier to accept his help.
As I settle Taran against me to nurse, I'm aware of Daegan's presence in a way that should make me uncomfortable but doesn't. He doesn't look away or make a production of giving me privacy. Instead, he simply continues his quiet conversation with Mirath about the storm, creating a buffer of normalcy that lets me focus on my son without feeling exposed.
This is what the past week has been like—this careful choreography of shared space and mutual respect. Daegan anticipates needs without overstepping, offers help without making me feel incapable, and somehow manages to make his presence feel natural rather than intrusive.
It should be easier to maintain my emotional distance. But watching him with Taran, listening to the low rumble of his voice as he talks about everything and nothing, I find myself thinking about what it means to have family again. To have someone who shares the responsibility of keeping Korrun's memory alive for his son.
The realization settles over me slowly, like the warmth from the kaffo cup seeping through my palms. For the first time since Korrun died, I'm not facing everything alone. And maybe, eventually, that might be enough to start building something that resembles living again.
9
DAEGAN
