Christian: All That Remains Is The Echo Of Ruin.

We don’t so much enter the house as explode into it. Think less “family returning home” and more “Ringling Brothers on energy drinks.” Backpacks airborne, shoes bouncing like rubber bullets, and Bryce—sweet, feral Bryce—uses my pants as a napkin. Why? Don’t ask me. Ask his therapist ten years from now.

“Alright, bedtime drill—positions!” I bark, channeling a coach who’s already accepted defeat.

Jaxon drops his shin guards with a dramatic thunk. Charlee is trying to balance a spoon on her nose like we’re running auditions for America’s Got Pointless Talents. Meanwhile, Chase has shed exactly one sock and is chasing the dog, who—unfortunately—is now holding the other sock hostage.

Mayhem. Pure, undiluted, chaos.

Fast-forward twenty minutes and what do we have? Two time-outs, a toothpaste war that left minty casualties across the sink, one floss-related hostage crisis, and enough tears to qualify as a baptism. Not all from the kids, by the way.

Finally—finally—we corral everyone into family scripture study. Charlee opens Isaiah with the gravitas of a Fortune 500 CEO about to announce layoffs. Jaxon raises his hand and hits me with a theological grenade: did Peter technically sink because he doubted or because he looked down at his feet?

I tell him that’s a great question, we’ll circle back tomorrow—with snacks, obviously.

Then comes family prayer, and then individual prayers—each one longer than the last, full of tangents about friends’ birthdays, broken crayons, and that one time Jesus probably liked dinosaurs. Hard to argue.

And then—then we arrive at the crown jewel of our nightly circus. The tradition that’s weird, wonderful, and my personal favorite.

“Okay,” I say, rubbing my hands together like I’m about to reveal the villain’s master plan, “who’s first?”

Charlee bounces on her knees, arm flying up. “Would you rather sneeze out glitter forever and ever an’ ever… or—hic!—make soap bubbles pop out when you’re nervous?”

I nod solemnly. "Glitter sneezes. Obviously. I'd be a walking New Year's Eve party with allergies. Instant legend."

The giggles hit like dominoes. Charlee smirks. “Nice, Dad.”

“Alright, Bryce, you’re in the hot seat.”

Bryce scrunches his face. “Okay, would you rather fight a humongous duck, like—quackzilla!—like taller than our house —or a whole army of duck-sized gorillas? Like, a hundred of ‘em.”

I freeze. My brain runs the math. “That is… genuinely terrifying. The duck has reach. —instant aerial advantage. Gorillas have numbers—classic swarm problem. But let’s be real: you punch a duck, you’re on the evening news. You punch a gorilla, it’s probably just Thursday. So… gorillas. Let chaos reign.”

The kids detonate into laughter.

“Chase?” I prompt.

She snickers. “Would you rather have big silly duck feet… or a honky horn on your head that goes HOOONK! every time you’re bored?”

“Wow. Sticking with the poultry theme. Alright, duck feet. Sure, I’d waddle—but let’s be honest, that horn wouldn’t survive one staff meeting.”

Now it’s Jaxon’s turn. He leans in, eyes glittering with the setup. “Would you rather talk to animals but only in dad jokes… or be the fastest person ever, but only when you’re walkin’ backwards?”

I pretend to think hard. “Easy. Dad-joke animal whisperer. Imagine the power—me and a raccoon doing stand-up behind the garage. That’s how you win the neighborhood.”

They collapse, laughing. I give them a theatrical bow.

Charlee wipes a tear, still giggling. "You should be on TV. Like... like the silly part after bedtime.”

I wink. "That’s where the legends live."

And then comes the quieter stuff—the sacred part. One by one, I tuck them in. Smoothing hair. Adjusting blankets. Pressing soft kisses against warm foreheads. In return, I get the absolute best squeeze-hugs.

“Love you more than you love me.” I whisper.

“Love you most,” Charlee whispers back.

“Impossible,” I counter.

“Love you the mostest,” Bryce blurts, grinning like he’s already won.

“Nice try, bud,” I grin. “But math doesn’t work that way.”

“Love you infinity,” Jaxon tries.

“Well,” I grin, “I love you more—so, infinity… plus waffles… plus taxes. Which, trust me, are unbeatable.”

“Love you till the moon explodes,” Chase announces.

“Whoa,” I whisper. “Going full Michael Bay with the love metaphors tonight, huh?” Still—love you more. Moon explosion or not, I win.

By the time the last eyelids drop, I’m staggering out of their rooms like a soldier who barely survived the front. The house is technically “quiet,” but it’s the booby-trap kind of quiet. Every toy is crouched in the dark, waiting to roll an ankle. The kitchen looks like it lost a cage fight with a blender. Yesterday this place was spotless—we were in Paris, cheering their mom as she added Olympic golds to her collection. Now? One dad-day later, and we’ve got Cheeto fingerprints on the dog and a couch that looks like it hosted a bake sale and lost.

I should clean. I don’t.

Instead, I collapse onto the couch. Fold like bad origami. The second my body hits cushions, I let out this sound—half dying walrus, half deflating balloon—and honestly, zero shame. Dignity? Gone. Muscles? Filing HR complaints. Survival? Questionable.

With what’s left of me, I grab my phone and hit Sydney’s name. She picks up on the first ring, “Hey, you.”

And just like that—her voice settles over me like sunlight through a window you didn’t know you needed open.

“So,” I say, running a hand down my jaw, “I saw this woman at the Olympics last week. Absolutely stunning. Runs like lightning. Won a handful of gold medals. Any chance you know where I can track her down?”

She laughs—and it’s ridiculous how that sound works. That laugh doesn’t just heal my soul; it rewires the entire day, like switching the world from black-and-white to full HD color.

“Mmm, sorry,” she says, all playful, “she’s already married to some ridiculously amazing guy. But lucky for you? I’m available.”

And then… time does its little magic trick. Isn’t it funny? Time is supposed to be constant—sixty seconds a minute, no more, no less. Except with her, it bends. Collapses. Speeds up when I’m holding her hand, slows down when she’s walking away. Without even blinking—no, seriously, I swear I didn’t blink—I look at my phone and somehow we’ve been talking for almost an hour.

And in that hour, I realize what I always realize when it’s her: she’s not just my wife, she’s my anchor, my co-pilot, my comic relief, my miracle in running shoes. She’s the only person who can make me want to sprint through time and freeze it at the same time.

Then her voice softens. “I just want to be home with you.”

My throat tightens. My whole chest does, like I can’t fit enough air in it.

“All I want is for you to be in my arms,” I whisper, quiet, raw. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

The call ends, and suddenly the house feels quieter. Not sad-quiet. Not ghost-town-quiet. Just… waiting. Like the whole place hit pause until she walks through that door tomorrow.

I set the phone down carefully, like it’s still holding her voice in the circuitry. Dumb, yeah. But I do it anyway.

Then the couch groans beneath me like it, too, is over this day. I flick on the TV, let the screen do its thing—colors flashing, dialogue buzzing, some generic sitcom laugh track trying its best—but I’m not watching. Not even close.

My mind, traitorous as ever, abandons the present entirely, dragging me back to the moment the idea of us crossed from impossible to possible.

Some days brand themselves into you because of the big stuff—weddings, first kisses, or, say, the day your kid redecorated a Chick-fil-A playplace with their digestive tract.

And then there are the other ones—the stealth days. Nothing special. Ordinary. Until suddenly they’re tattooed in your memory forever.

This was one of those.

I can still smell it—cinnamon rolls, buttery pretzels, that weirdly addictive mall-air haze engineered by corporate masterminds to short-circuit human willpower. Voices overlapped, pop music spilled from store speakers, neon SALE! CLEARANCE! NEW ARRIVALS! signs practically shouted for attention.

We were drifting through it all, and Sydney was talking—fast, animated. A new training playlist? Some workout she swore would kill me? I was nodding like a seasoned pro.

“Right. Totally. Makes sense.”

But honestly? I didn’t hear a single word.

Because I was too busy staring.

She was—absolutely breathtaking. Not just in the “stop traffic, jaws drop, angels sing” kind of way—though yes, she checked that box in permanent ink—but the whole package. Wicked smart, fun, witty, and effortlessly classy.

It was the way she moved, the way her eyes lit up when she talked about something she loved, the way her laughter spilled out—full and real—and the casual toss of her hair that somehow knocked the air right out of me every single time.

She was sunlight. She was oxygen. She was… yeah. Everything.

And me? I was trying to drown out the voice in my head reminding me that she was wildly out of my league. Like… intergalactic leagues. NASA couldn’t chart that distance.

Then—she stopped.

“I want to go in here for a sec,” she said, pointing.

I followed her finger and immediately… no. Nope. Absolutely not.

Sleepwear Boutique

Panic. Full-body freeze. Mouth engaged without brain clearance. “Uh… cool, yeah, I’ll, uh, just wait out here.”

She gave me this look—this ‘are you five?’ tilt of the head. “What? You won’t come in with me?”

I swallowed. Then swallowed again. My entire body malfunctioning. “You want me to—uh—go in? Like… with you?”

She was already halfway to the door, tossing a glance over her shoulder. “Why not?”

Why not? Oh, I don’t know. I could have drafted an entire dissertation: confidence-crushing glares, lace landmines, skimpily dressed mannequins silently judging me. Still—I trailed after her like a lamb to the retail slaughterhouse.

Okay. Deep breath. Be cool. Just act like you belong.

I glanced at the window display—yeah, no, definitely didn’t belong. Mannequins lined up in… well, barely anything.  My face went volcanic, the kind of heat that crawls right up your neck.

I hustled to Sydney’s side, lowering my voice like we were planning espionage. “Syd… It’s a lingerie store.”

She didn’t even flinch. “And?”

One word. She dismissed me in one word. The equivalent of a full eye-roll.

I rubbed at my temple and exhaled through my nose. “It’s a lingerie store,” I repeated, slower this time, as if I was explaining gravity to a goldfish and hoping she’d suddenly see the peril.

Blink. Blink. And—yep—there it was. The eye roll. Then the smirk.

“Christian, you are so dramatic sometimes.”

Translation: I just lost this battle.

Before I could even muster a weak protest, she was dragging me through the entrance like I was an oversized toddler being steered into a dentist appointment.

“Okay, okay, fine,” I muttered, practically gluing myself to her side, like maybe her confidence was contagious and I wouldn’t immediately combust. “But just so we’re clear—if we’re doing this, we’re acting like we’re together.”

She side-eyed me. “We are… together.”

“No, no,” I said, waving one hand vaguely between us, “not just, like, walking-together together. I mean together-together. As in—a couple. The kind of couple who walks into a lingerie store because it’s perfectly normal and no one calls mall security or puts me on some kind of watchlist.”

She stopped—just for a second—tilted her head again, and arched one eyebrow in that signature “I’m already two moves ahead of you” way.

“Deal,” she said, soft and sweet.

But her lips twitched, fighting back a grin that was pure trouble, and her eyes? Total mischief. Like she was plotting world domination, and I was the idiot who showed up with chips and dip.

And that’s how I marched straight into my own personal nightmare.

The moment we got near the land of unmentionables, I was convinced the thermostat broke. I was sweating through my shirt, interrogation-room style. Not cozy, not romantic. This was the kind of heat where you start confessing crimes you didn’t even commit.

Sydney? Oh, she was fine. Cool as a cucumber. Calmly flipping through pajama sets like she was picking out cereal.

And then there was me. Christian Devereaux: walking panic attack in sneakers. Convinced I was the unwilling star of a group chat called Who Let Him In?

Every instinct screamed: Run. Escape. Find the food court and never look back.

But like a genius, I glanced up.

Instant regret.

Accidental eye contact with a clerk mid-bra consultation. Her eyes said: Wow. You just stole my diary, read it to the town square, then lit it on fire for good measure. Like I’d just committed some kind of unspeakable social crime by existing in her line of sight.

Abort. Abort. Eyes down.

Okay. Okay. New protocol: The Safety Triangle. Floor. Ceiling. That fake fern in the corner.

Ugh! Get it together, Christian. Focus. Think.

Alright. Alright. Technically, this could be an opportunity, right? Lean into the chaos. Seize the moment. What’s that line—twenty seconds of insane courage?

Yeah—sure. Let’s call it that.

“You know,” I started, aiming for suave and landing somewhere between nervous waiter and voice-cracking teenager, “hypothetically… if we were a couple, we’d, uh, probably be holding hands right now.”

Sydney looked up. One eyebrow raised, lips curling into a smile. “Oh, really?”

“Yeah,” I nodded—too fast, too eager. Regret hit instantly, like biting tinfoil. Somewhere in my brain, a siren wailed: Abort mission. Abort. But nope—words were out, and I was strapped in for the crash.

“I mean—it’s what couples do, right? Especially in, um… places like this. For comfort. And, uh, plausible deniability.”

Comfort? Plausible deniability? Really, Christian? What are you, testifying before Congress? Just stop. Bite your tongue. Fake a seizure. Literally anything would’ve been better.

But instead of laughing me right out of the store, she actually smiled —really smiled. It was full, bright, completely genuine—the kind of smile that made my lungs forget their job entirely. Then, without missing a beat, she slid her hand into mine like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Her fingers were soft. Warm. Familiar. And for a split second, I couldn’t quite believe this was actually happening. Then the realization hit hard—my heart forgot its job entirely and started slamming against my ribs like it was desperate to break out and start a solo career somewhere far less stressful.

I pressed my lips together, giving this little nod—like I was totally calm, totally normal, everything was fine, while my body was two seconds from throwing sparks like a faulty toaster.

Inside my head, it turned into a heavyweight title fight:

Voice of Reason: Okay, Christian. Stay cool. You’re a normal guy. Just hanging out with a great girl. Totally fine. Deep breaths. You’ve got this.

Voice of Unhinged Panic: Are you out of your MIND? Stay cool? You are HOLDING HANDS with SYDNEY—the girl you are catastrophically, irreversibly IN LOVE WITH—and in case you missed it, WE ARE IN A LINGERIE STORE. I AM NOT COOL. I AM THE OPPOSITE OF COOL.

And yeah… unhinged panic voice was definitely winning.

Minutes passed. Or maybe hours. Or geological eras. Time officially stopped the moment her fingers slid between mine.

For reasons completely beyond me, my body decided to override all rational thought and go fully rogue—like, cool, I was barely breathing, my heart was short-circuiting, and apparently the next logical step was… push my luck? Right. Sure. Makes perfect sense.

So I shifted a little closer—casual, like I wasn’t internally combusting—and slid my arm around her waist. Just enough to test the waters. Just enough to lean into whatever this wonderful, absolutely ridiculous energy was between us.

Miraculously, my brain and mouth finally synced. I cleared my throat, leaned in a fraction, and murmured, barely above a whisper, “Hypothetically… I’d probably do this too.”

Somewhere in the back of my mind, there was a voice absolutely losing it—full panic mode—shouting: What are you doing? Why? Seriously, why? And honestly, I couldn’t even tell if it was the sensible voice or the unhinged panicked one.

And then—Sydney.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just flashed that twinkle in her eyes—the one that said she knew exactly what she was doing to me. “Probably,” she said, like she’d already won.

And then—oh no, oh yes—she leaned in. Not much, but enough. Enough to completely wreck me. My arm was around her, she was right there—close enough that her perfume—warm, subtle, impossible—wrapped around me and, yeah, it was absolutely intoxicating.

For one perfect second, life was flawless. The voices in my head? High-fiving, chest-bumping, running victory laps. Fireworks. Confetti. I swore a choir of angels had just cleared their throats.

And then—because this was Sydney—she dropped a bomb.

“But then…” Her eyes danced, lips curving. “You’d probably pick something out for me too… right?”

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again—basically doing my best impression of a very confused goldfish.

Nope. Hard no. I shook my head, fast and frantic. “No, no, no. Hypothetically, we’d hug, kiss, get engaged, maybe even married—probably all of that—before I’m picking anything out in here.”

She laughed—head back, full and free—the kind of laugh that you’d play on repeat forever if you could.

The laughter softened into a smile as she shifted her weight, glancing toward the door.

“I think I’m ready,” she said, merciful at last. “They don’t have the pajamas I wanted.”

I let out a breath, doing my best to act like I didn’t just lose four years off my life in that store. My heart was still racing, my palms still slightly clammy, but hey—I survived. Barely.

As we stepped back into the wide, echoing stretch of the mall, the noise and motion rushed in around us, but between us? There was still this current—sharp and alive—like the air right before a lightning strike.

She turned to me, her eyes glowing with that unmistakable, playful dare.

“Hypothetically,” she said, all casual—like we were just chatting about the weather—“we wouldn’t stop holding hands. Especially since, y’know, there are a few more stores around here that might make you uncomfortable.”

She bit the inside of her cheek, barely holding back a grin, like she was fully aware she had me—and she was loving every second of watching me unravel.

My heart actually skipped. Like, full-on forgot how to beat for a second while my brain scrambled to make sure I had heard her right.

I just stared—completely, shamelessly mesmerized—like time hit pause. It took a second, but eventually, my mind confirmed that, yeah… she definitely said what I thought she said.

I exhaled, doing my best to play it cool—even though my internal monologue was basically doing backflips and firing off confetti cannons. I shrugged, going for casual, effortless. Nailed neither.

“You’re right,” I said, my voice just barely steady. “Just to be safe… we should probably keep playing the part.”

She lifted her brows—slow, deliberate—and it lit something in me like a match to dry kindling. Without a single word—she extended her hand toward mine.

Then—just like that—the memory is ripped from me…

My head snaps up as the screen floods in red and white. The headline doesn’t just scroll. It screams. Cuts. Tears straight through my chest like a blade between the ribs:

BREAKING NEWS: DISGRACE ON THE TRACK—SYDNEY DEVEREAUX, OLYMPIC HERO TURNED PREDATOR.

Everything inside me collapses.

All that remains is the echo of ruin.