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Before Third Light

Summary: Before the third light, Michael gently teaches Dottie that spreading the light matters—even when not everything can be fixed in one night.

Night 1

Content notes: discussions of homelessness, emotional hurt/comfort, child emotions, and found family dynamics.

Morning comes in slow and pale, winter light slipping through the blinds in thin stripes.

Michael is already awake. Dottie is not.

She’s sprawled across his chest like she fell there mid-thought, one sock missing, curls flattened against his collarbone. Her thumb is tucked in her mouth, her other hand fisted in the collar of his shirt like he might vanish if she lets go.

He doesn’t move.

Your side of the bed is empty. You’re already gone to the hospital. Jack’s door down the hall is open, bed untouched. The house has that quiet it only gets when the day starts without them.

Dottie stirs. Hums. Then her eyes crack open, she blinks up at him, pupils blown wide with sleep.

“Papa,” she whispers, reverent.

“Hey, Bug,” he murmurs, brushing a thumb through her curls.

She presses her face into his neck, warm and snuggly and perfect.

“Papa off?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Just me and you today.”

She smiles so big it feels illegal.

They stay like that for a while, no rush, no agenda, until her stomach growls loud enough to betray her.

She lifts her head, solemn.

“Papa. Dot hungry.”

He laughs quietly. “I had a feeling.”

Later, she’s perched on the kitchen counter in her pajamas, legs swinging while Michael flips pancakes one-handed. She narrates everything like it’s critical.

“Mama at da hospital,” she says.

“Mhm.”

“Unca Jack at da hospital.”

“Yep.”

She watches syrup pour with intense focus.

“Papa stay wif Dot.”

“Best plan I’ve heard all day.”

She grins, then suddenly remembers something important.

“Papa.”

“Yeah, Bug?”

“Today Han… Hanu…”

She struggles, face scrunching, frustration building.

“Hanooka.”

He hides his smile. “Close.”

She tries again, louder.

“Hanna-nuka.”

“Almost.”

She slaps her hands on the counter.

“Papa! Da light holiday!”

“That one,” he agrees warmly.

She nods, satisfied.

“Dot like light holiday.”

“Me too.”

She pokes at her pancake, thinking hard.

“Why we do da light holiday?”

Michael leans against the counter, towel over his shoulder. He considers her carefully.

“Because a long time ago,” he says, “people didn’t have much. But they shared what they did have, and the light lasted longer than anyone thought it could.”

Dottie looks toward the window, at the pale winter sun. “Light don’t wanna be alone,” she decides.

His chest tightens. “No,” he says softly. “It doesn’t.”

She smiles, syrup on her lip. “Dot help light.”

Michael reaches out, squeezes her knee. “You already do, Bug.”

Michael rinses the last plate and sets it in the drying rack. Then he turns back to where Dottie is still perched on the counter, feet kicking idly against the cabinet.

“Hey, Bug,” he says.

She looks up immediately. “Yeah, Papa?”

“Remember how you said light doesn’t wanna be alone?”

She nods. This is serious business.

“Well,” he says, leaning against the counter so they’re close, “there’s a word for helping light go places.”

Her eyes widen. A word.

“Tzedakah,” he says slowly.

She tries it, careful. “Tze…daka.”

“Pretty good,” he smiles. “It means helping people, not just because it feels nice, but because it’s the right thing to do.”

She tilts her head. “Like when I share snack?”

“Like that,” he agrees. “But sometimes it’s bigger than snacks.”

She frowns, thinking.

Michael continues, voice steady. “Hanukkah is about showing light. Lighting candles. Making the dark less dark. But tzedakah is about spreading it.”

He taps the counter gently between them.

“Showing light is important,” he says. “But spreading it, giving it to other people, that’s how it lasts.”

Dottie looks toward the window again, where the sun is brighter now.

“So… we give light away?”

“Yes,” he says. “And somehow, we never end up with less.”

She sits with that. Then her shoulders square, decision made.

“Dot wanna help.”

Michael’s smile is soft, proud, a little wrecked.

“I know,” he says.

Michael pulls a notepad from the junk drawer. It has half a grocery list, a phone number, and a doodle Jack left behind that looks suspiciously like a dinosaur in scrubs. He sets it on the table between them and hands Dottie a pen she’s absolutely not supposed to have unsupervised.

“We’re gonna spread light today,” he says. “Wanna help me figure out how?”

She grips the pen in her fist like it’s sacred and murmurs, “Okay.”

“Okay,” he echoes. ““Some people don’t have enough, and some people don’t have houses.”

Dottie’s face tightens.

“We can’t just say we want to help,” he continues. “We have to do it. That means making a plan.”

She nods solemnly, then immediately scribbles a jagged line straight off the page.

Michael watches, amused. “Strong start.”

“What we need?” she asks.

“Well,” he says, tapping the paper, “we need things that help people feel warm. And fed. And safe.”

She thinks hard.

“Snack.”

“Yes.”

“Blankie.”

“Sometimes.”

“Juice.”

“Definitely.”

She scribbles again, enthusiastic circles.

Michael writes beside her, translating toddler into adult.

“Socks. Gloves. Food. Juice.”

She leans over, squinting at his handwriting.

“Write pouches.”

He pauses. “Pouches?”

“Applesauce,” she clarifies patiently. “And yogurt. Squeeze ones.”

“Ah,” he says. “Good call.”

He adds it.

“And blue juice,” she says immediately.

He smiles. “Blue juice?”

She nods. “Da good one.”

“Of course it is.”

“And fish,” she adds, holding her hands up like fins. “Da gold ones.”

Michael laughs under his breath. “Goldfish.”

“Yes.”

He writes it down.

She watches, satisfied, then remembers something else.

“Write toys.”

“For kids?”

She nods hard. “Dey bored.”

That lands heavier than it should.

He adds it.

“Stuffies,” she says quickly.

“Already assumed.”

“And books,” she finishes, proud.

Michael looks at her, something warm cracking open in his chest.

“Books too,” he agrees.

Michael is halfway through adding another line to the list when Dottie suddenly gasps, like she’s remembered something critical.

“WAIT.”

He looks up. “What’s up?”

She squints at the paper, then at him, suspicious.

“Papa… you not know all stuff.”

He snorts softly. “Probably true.”

She slides off the chair and toddles toward the couch with purpose.

“Need Unca Jack.”

Michael blinks. “You want to call Jack?”

She nods. “Him brain diff’ent.”

That makes him laugh. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

He hands her the phone and hits FaceTime before she can accidentally open the weather app again. It rings twice. Jack answers mid-stride, fluorescent hospital lights flickering overhead.

“Hey, Bug—”

“UNCA JACK,” Dottie announces at full volume.

Jack’s whole face softens instantly. “Well hi there.”

She climbs onto the couch, holding the phone too close to her face.

“We makin light plan.”

Jack pauses. “Light plan.”

“Uh-huh,” she says. “For Hanooka.”

Jack nods like this makes perfect sense. “Okay. Big project.” Then he squints at the screen. “Hold on. Bug—are we buying stuff, or are we bringing stuff from home?”

“We buy,” Dottie says immediately. “We makin’ bags.”

“Go-bags,” Michael supplies from off-screen. “For the shelter.”

Jack nods again, locking it in. “Alright. Go-bags. Mission understood.”

Dottie points at the list, which Jack cannot see. “We get socks. An’ gloves. An’ pouches.”

“Important,” Jack agrees.

“An’ blue juice.”

“Critical.”

“An’ fish,” she adds. “Da gold ones.”

Jack doesn’t miss a beat. “Elite snack choice.”

She beams. “And toys,” she continues. “For kids.”

Jack’s expression shifts, subtle and thoughtful.

“Good,” he says. “Kids need stuff that feels like theirs.”

She leans closer to the screen. “Am I missin’ stuff?”

Jack hums, thinking. You can practically hear the gears turn, logic first, then heart.

“Well,” he says slowly, “do you have things that help people feel clean?”

Dottie blinks. “Clean?”

“Like wipes,” he says. “And toothbrushes. And soap.”

She gasps. “Teef brush.”

“Yep.”

She turns toward Michael, stage whispering, “Papa. Teef brush.”

Michael adds it to the list immediately.

Jack continues, “And maybe hats. It’s cold.”

She nods hard. “Cold bad.”

“Very bad,” Jack agrees.

She thinks again, then frowns.

“Unca Jack… kids cold too?”

Jack’s voice softens. “Yeah, Bug. They are.”

She presses her lips together, decision made.

“Den more kid stuff.”

Jack smiles at the screen. “You’re doing good work.”

She preens.

“Unca Jack,” she says suddenly. “You proud?”

Jack doesn’t hesitate.

“Always.”

She nods, satisfied, and hands the phone back to Michael like the meeting is adjourned.

Jack watches Dottie climb back onto her chair and grab the pen again, already back to business.

He looks back at Michael on the screen.

“She’s a good kid,” he says simply. “I miss Dot.”

Michael snorts. “Jack, are you serious right now.”

“What,” Jack says. “It’s been a long shift.”

Michael shakes his head, fond despite himself. “It’s been six hours.”

Jack shrugs. “That’s enough.”

Dottie pops back into frame, eyes wide.

“Awwww, Unca Jack,” she says sweetly. “You lobe me.”

Jack doesn’t even pretend. “Yeah, Bug. I do.”

She beams, pleased, and waves.

“Okay. Bye Unca Jack.”

And before he can say anything else, the call ends.

Costco hits them like a wall.

Big ceilings. Loud carts. Echoes that make every sound feel important.

Michael lifts Dottie into the cart seat and buckles her in. She grips the handle like she’s steering something heavy-duty.

“We stay wif Papa,” she says firmly.

“I’m right here.”

They make it exactly one aisle before Michael’s phone buzzes.

He glances at the screen and smiles. “Hey, Mama.”

The screen fills with your face, scrubs on, hair pulled back, hospital-bright lighting behind you.

“Dot baby,” you say immediately. “Where are you?”

Dottie leans forward, nearly headbutting the phone.

“We at Cost-co,” she announces proudly.

“Costco?” you laugh. “What are you doing at Costco?”

“We help da people,” Dottie says, like this should have been obvious. “We makin light.”

Your expression softens. “Oh. I love that.”

Michael angles the phone so you can see the cart already filling.

“Bulk snacks,” he explains. “Socks. Juice. Hygiene stuff.”

You nod, then squint at the list.

“Did you grab feminine products?”

Michael freezes.

He looks at the cart.

Looks at the shelves.

Then back at you.

“…Oh my God.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Michael.”

“I’m literally a doctor,” he says, mortified. “How did I not think of that?”

Dottie watches him carefully, head tilted.

You smile, smug but gentle. “Pads, tampons. Multiple kinds. People don’t always get a choice.”

“Right. Yes. Absolutely,” he says, already steering the cart toward the aisle. “Thank you.”

Dottie clears her throat loudly.

“Papa.”

“Yes, Bug?”

She wags a finger at him, full toddler scold.

“You a man.”

Michael blinks. “I—”

She nods, decisive. “Tut tut.”

You lose it.

Michael groans. “I walked right into that.”

Dottie smiles sweetly at the phone.

“Mama smart,” she says.

“I try,” you reply, still laughing. “I’ll see you both later, okay?”

“Okay,” Dottie chirps. “We get da stuff.”

Michael ends the call, shaking his head as he pushes the cart.

“Good thing I’ve got you,” he tells her.

She nods gravely.

“Yeah,” she says. “You need help.”

Michael parks the cart at the end of the aisle and crouches.

“Okay,” he says. “Papa’s just gonna grab one thing. I’ll be right there.”

He points. Ten steps. Fifteen, max.

Dottie nods, solemn. “I stay.”

“You stay,” he confirms. “Hands on the cart.”

“Hands,” she repeats, gripping the handle like a promise.

Michael makes it six steps before he hears it.

“Well aren’t you just the cutest thing.”

He turns.

A woman has stopped in front of the cart, smiling down at Dottie. Dottie smiles back immediately. Open. Fearless.

“Hi,” Dottie says. Then, very serious, “I Dorothea.”

The woman blinks, delighted. “Dorothea?”

She nods. “Yeah. ’Cause I on a mission.”

Michael straightens slowly, already smiling.

“That sounds important,” the woman says. “Are you shopping for a big family?”

Dottie shakes her head. “No. It’s Han… Hanooka.”

“Hanukkah,” the woman offers gently.

“Da light one,” Dottie agrees. “Papa an’ me spreadin’ da light.”

The woman’s smile softens. “That’s really lovely.”

“You should too,” Dottie adds, shrugging.

The woman laughs quietly. “I’m not Jewish.”

Dottie pauses. Thinks. Shrugs again.

“So?” she says. “Light still needs spread.”

Michael steps back to the cart. “Sorry. She just—”

“No,” the woman says. “She’s right.”

She looks thoughtful for a moment.

“I think we forget the light sometimes.”

Dottie nods, satisfied. “Okay. We help now.”

Checkout takes longer than Michael expects.

Not because the line is bad. Costco lines are always bad. It takes longer because the cashier keeps looking up.

First at the cart. Then at Dottie. Then at him.

Michael notices because that’s what his brain does. It tracks patterns, reads rooms, files away micro-expressions without permission.

“Well,” the cashier says, smiling as she scans another bulk box of snacks, “someone’s having a big day.”

Dottie straightens in the cart seat like she’s been addressed directly.

“We on mission,” she says.

The cashier’s smile widens. “A mission, huh?”

“It’s Han… Hanooka,” Dottie explains patiently. “Da light one.”

Michael feels his mouth twitch despite himself.

“That so?” the cashier says. Her gaze flicks back to him, warm, a little amused. “You make a pretty good dad.”

Michael opens his mouth. “I—”

“No,” Dottie says firmly.

He freezes. The cashier blinks.

“He married,” Dottie adds, nodding once like this is settled. “An’ busy.”

Michael closes his mouth. Correcting her feels unnecessary. Incorrect, sure. But unnecessary.

The cashier laughs, delighted. “Oh! My mistake.”

Michael clears his throat, defaulting to calm. “Right. Mission.”

She finishes scanning, still smiling as she tears the receipt free.

“Well,” she says, handing it over, “it’s nice to see people spreading a little light this time of year.”

Dottie nods like she’s been waiting for that exact line.

“Yeah,” she says. “People forget.”

Michael looks down at her, caught off guard.

The cashier shakes her head, fond. “Smart kid.”

“Very,” Michael says, and means it.

He pushes the cart away, receipt folded into his pocket, heart a little fuller than it was five minutes ago.

As they head for the exit, Dottie leans back in the seat, pleased with herself.

“I telling Mama,” she announces.

Michael arches a brow. “Oh yeah?”

“And Unca Jack,” she adds, decisive.

He huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head as the doors slide open.

“Of course you are.”

The red bullseye greets them the second they walk in.

Target is quieter than Costco, warmer, less echo and more color. Michael switches carts without thinking, easing Dottie out of the seat and letting her walk. She takes his hand like it’s part of the plan, swinging it once before squaring her shoulders.

“Okay,” she says. “Toys.”

“Figured,” he says.

She leads him straight there.

They’re halfway down the stuffed animal aisle when Dottie stops the cart with both hands.

“Papa.”

“Yeah, Bug?”

She looks at the dinosaur already tucked inside, then at the bins stretching down the aisle.

“How many we get?”

Michael crouches so they’re eye level.

“Well,” he says, “how many kids do you think need them?”

She looks down the aisle. Shrugs.

“Lot.”

“A lot,” he agrees. “So we pick a number and make sure we get enough.”

Her eyes widen. “I pick?”

“You pick.”

She straightens. “Fifty.”

Michael blinks once. Then smiles. “Okay. Fifty.”

Her mouth falls open. “Really?”

“Really. But we have to count.”

She nods, serious again. “Okay.”

They start with dinosaurs.

“One.” Two. “Free.” Four. “Pive.”

Michael doesn’t correct her. Just counts quietly along.

By twenty, she slows. By thirty, she leans against the cart. By forty, the numbers are mostly vibes. “Forty… nine… eleventeen…”

Michael laughs softly. “Almost there.”

When she hits fifty, approximately, she throws her arms up.

“DONE.”

“You did it,” he says.

“Dis one count too?” she asks, breathless, pointing at the lone bunny left on the shelf.

“Yes,” he says. “Every one.”

By the time they reach books, she negotiates.

“Papa. I count tens.”

He pretends to consider it. “Deal.”

She taps the spines.

“Ten.” “Twenty." “Firty.”“Forty.” “Fifty.”

She leans into his arm, exhausted and proud.

“We got enough?”

Michael looks at the cart. “Yeah,” he says. “We did.”

The kitchen looks like a small warehouse by the time everyone’s home. Target bags crowd the counters. Costco boxes sit open on the floor. The dining table has been fully overtaken. No order, just piles that make sense if you squint.

You’re still in scrubs, shoes kicked off under the table. Jack’s sleeves are rolled up, already opening boxes. Michael lifts Dottie into a chair and slides a juice pouch her way before she can demand one.

“Okay,” he says. “We make the bags.”

“We help,” Dottie agrees.

She grabs a reusable bag and immediately starts tossing things in with enthusiasm.

“Nope,” Jack says gently, intercepting a bottle of shampoo. “One of each.”

She squints at him. “Why.”

“So it’s fair,” you say.

She considers this. Nods. “Okay.”

They settle into a rhythm.

Socks. Gloves. Hand warmers. Snacks.

Dottie is firmly in charge of the kid bags, lining up stuffies, smoothing book covers, making sure each one gets two snacks.

“’Cause hungry make dem mad,” she reminds everyone.

Jack nods. “Rock-solid logic.”

She lasts exactly three minutes before gasping like she’s remembered something critical.

“MAMA.”

You look up. “Yes, baby?”

“And UNCA JACK,” she adds, swiveling in her chair so she has a full audience.

Jack pauses. “Uh oh.”

“There was a lady,” Dottie says gravely. “At Cost-co.”

Michael freezes mid-granola bar.

Dottie clasps her hands together, bats her eyelashes dramatically, and tilts her head to the side.

In a perfect sing-song imitation, she croons, “Youuuu a good papa.”

Jack’s mouth drops open.

You slowly turn to Michael. “Oh?”

Before either of you can say anything, Dottie straightens, face going completely neutral.

“Uh no,” she says flatly. “He married. An’ busy.”

Jack absolutely loses it.

“You… you shut her down?” he wheezes.

Michael closes his eyes. “She did.”

Dottie nods once. “I protect.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Thank you for your service.”

Jack wipes his eyes. “Iconic behavior.”

Dottie thinks for a moment, then looks back at you.

“Mama,” she asks, “why lady like Papa?”

You glance at Michael. He exhales slowly.

“Sometimes adults think other adults are… nice,” he says carefully.

“Nice like juice?” Dottie asks.

Jack jumps in immediately. “Yeah. Like juice.”

She frowns. “Blue juice?”

“The best kind,” Jack says solemnly.

Satisfied, she drops a stuffed bear into a bag.

They finish the last bag together.

The table is chaos, but the bags are neat.

Dottie leans against Michael, tired and proud.

“We help a lot,” she murmurs.

Michael kisses her hair. “We did, Bug.”

Jack ties off the final bag and sets it with the others.

“Not bad,” he says. “For one day.”

Dottie perks up slightly. “I tell Mama. An’ Unca Jack.”

Jack snorts. “Already did, kid.”

She smiles, victorious.

They load the car in near silence.

The bags are stacked carefully in the trunk. Dottie watches the last one go in, then reaches for Michael before anyone can ask. He lifts her easily, settling her against his chest.

The shelter parking lot is busy but calm. People coming and going. A building that looks ordinary if you don’t know what it holds.

Michael shuts the engine off but doesn’t move right away.

“Bug,” he says, voice low and steady. “We’re going somewhere that might feel different.”

She nods against his shoulder. “Different okay.”

“Different can be okay,” he agrees. “But it can also be hard to see.”

Dottie rests her cheek against his shoulder. “Okay.”

You step closer and tip your head up to her, eyes gentle.

“Hey, baby,” you say. “Some of the people here don’t have houses right now. So this is where they’re staying for now.”

Dottie frowns slightly. “Dis they home?”

“For now,” you say. “Yeah.”

Jack crouches just enough to be in her line of sight. His voice stays calm, even.

“And if it starts to feel buzzy,” he says, tapping lightly at his own chest, “you tell me or Papa. Buzzy means too loud, too sad, too much all at once.”

Dottie considers that.

“Like when brain go loud?” she asks.

Jack nods. “Exactly like that.”

Michael adjusts his hold, one arm solid around her back.

“We’re gonna use quiet voices,” Michael says. “We don’t run, we don’t yell. We’re kind, and we’re respectful.”

“Like house rules,” Dottie says.

“Exactly like house rules,” you smile.

She looks between the three of you, absorbing it all, then nods once.

“Okay.”

Michael presses his forehead to her curls. “If you decide you need to leave, you can with Uncle Jack and Mama and I can finish. No questions.”

She pats his cheek, serious. “I brave.”

Jack exhales softly. “Yeah. You are.”

Michael keeps her in his arms as they head toward the door. Dottie curls closer, one hand gripping his collar, the other already reaching for yours as soon as you’re close enough.

They go in together, not rushing, not hesitating, exactly the way they taught her to.

Inside, the shelter smells like coffee and clean laundry.

Not overwhelmingly. Just lived-in.

The noise is low, quiet conversations, the shuffle of shoes, a television murmuring somewhere down the hall. Michael keeps Dottie in his arms as they approach the front desk, where a woman with kind eyes and a clipboard looks up.

“Hi there,” she says. “How can I help you?”

“Hi,” Michael replies. “We called earlier. We brought go-bags.”

Her face brightens. “Oh, thank you. I’m Carla. Intake manager.”

Jack sets the first bag down carefully. “Adult and kid bags. Sorted.”

“That’s wonderful,” Carla says. She notices Dottie and smiles. “And who’s this?”

Dottie straightens proudly. “I Dorothea.”

Carla nods like that’s important information. “Nice to meet you, Dorothea.”

Michael lowers her to the floor, keeping his hand on her shoulder for just a second. “Stay where I can see you, Bug.”

“I will,” she promises, already scanning the room.

There’s a rug nearby. A handful of kids sitting cross-legged with crayons and blocks. A little boy pushing a toy car back and forth like it’s serious business.

Dottie wanders over.

She crouches, hands on her knees.

“Hi,” she says. “I Dorothea. But you can call me Dot.”

The kids look up.

She points between them decisively. “We friends now.”

No one argues.

She sits, takes a crayon, starts coloring like this was always the plan. She hands a block to one kid. Pushes the car back to the boy when it rolls away.

Michael watches from the corner of his eye, chest tight and full all at once.

“She okay?” Carla asks quietly.

Jack glances over, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “Yeah. She’s a little social butterfly.”

You don’t say anything.

You just watch your baby, curled on the rug with kids she met two minutes ago, earnest and gentle and exactly who she is, and feel something soft settle in your chest.

Dottie stands up a few minutes later, stretching, and wanders just past the rug, still within sight, still humming to herself.

She turns a corner near the hallway and bumps gently into someone.

“Oh!” she says, hands flying up. “Sowwy, sir.”

Dennis doesn’t move right away.

He’s still holding his coffee, fingers tight around the paper cup like it’s the only warm thing he’s allowed to have. He looks down at Dottie again, slower this time, really seeing her.

“It’s okay, sweet pea,” he says gently. “You okay?”

She nods. “Yeah.”

He offers a small, polite smile, already starting to turn.

Then she looks up.

Her eyes widen. Her mouth drops open.

She gasps.

“DEN?”

Dennis freezes.

She steps closer, squinting like she needs to be sure he’s real.

“You work wif Mama,” she says. “At da hospital.”

Something flickers across his face, surprise first, then something softer.

“…Yeah,” he says quietly. “I do.”

She tilts her head, curls bouncing.

“Oh.”

Then, immediate and earnest: “Hi.”

“Hi,” he echoes.

She studies him, serious now.

“You work wif Mama,” she repeats. “Why you here?”

Dennis swallows. He crouches down so he’s closer to her height, sets the coffee on the floor beside him.

“Sometimes,” he says carefully, “people you know need help too.”

She thinks about that, forehead wrinkling.

“Like…” She pauses, hands twisting together. “Like when you need somethin’…”

Her voice trails off. She tries again.

“But you no get it,” she finishes, frustrated with the words. “An’ you wait.”

Dennis’s chest tightens.

“…Yeah,” he says softly. “Like that.”

She nods, relieved she landed somewhere close enough.

“Well,” she says, already moving into solutions, “we can play.”

She gestures back toward the rug.

“And you eat des snacks,” she adds, pulling a granola bar from a kid bag like this was obviously the next step.

Dennis blinks. “Oh…”

“And,” she continues, warming to the idea, “I see you room?”

He hesitates. “My… room?”

She nods eagerly. “Yeah. I can ask Papa if we have sleepover.”

Dennis’s breath catches hard enough he has to look away for a second.

“That’s,” he starts, then stops. “That’s really kind of you, Dot.”

She pats his knee, businesslike.

“I ask,” she says. “You come color now.”

She holds out a blue crayon.

Dennis takes it.

“Okay,” he says softly.

He sits down on the edge of the rug, a granola bar in one hand, a crayon in the other, because a little girl decided that was what came next.

And for now, that’s enough.

Dennis sits on the edge of the rug like he’s not sure he’s allowed to take up more space than that.

He unwraps the granola bar slowly, careful not to crinkle the paper. Dot watches him with quiet focus, blue crayon still clutched in her fist.

“You remind me of my nephews,” he says after a moment, almost to himself.

She looks up. “Dot?”

“Yeah,” he says. “They’re loud. Always asking questions. Always hungry.”

Dot nods, serious. “Dat my people.”

He smiles at that, the kind that sneaks up on him.

“They live back home,” he adds. “Farm country. Chickens. Big yard.”

Dot’s eyes widen. “Papa make latkes.”

Dennis blinks. “He does?”

“Uh-huh,” she says proudly. “For Han… Hanooka.”

She pauses, searching for the right words. “Dey help.”

“Help how?” he asks gently.

She shrugs, like it’s obvious. “When you hungry. Or when you sad. Or when you miss.”

Dennis’s chest tightens.

“Sounds like a good Papa,” he says.

She nods. “Yeah.”

They color for a minute, quiet again. Then she speaks, softer this time.

“Before Papa,” she says, “it was just me an’ Mama.”

Dennis looks at her, careful not to interrupt.

“We okay,” she adds quickly. “But Papa help. He stay.”

Dennis swallows. “That matters.”

She nods, then pushes another snack toward him without ceremony.

“You need help too,” she says simply.

He doesn’t argue.

“Yeah,” he says. “I think I do.”

They sit there like that, coloring, sharing snacks, not fixing anything.

And for the first time in a long while, Dennis doesn’t feel like he’s explaining himself.

He just feels… seen.

Dot colors for another minute, humming to herself, blue crayon moving in slow, careful loops. Dennis finishes his granola bar, folding the wrapper the way people do when they’re trying to stay steady.

Dot goes still.

Like a thought has finally landed.

“Den?”

“Yeah?” he says, gentle.

“Papa know you here?”

Dennis stills.

He doesn’t look away, but his shoulders draw in just a little. He lowers his voice without realizing it.

“Oh…” He clears his throat softly. “No. I don’t think so.”

She blinks. “Mama?”

“No,” he says quickly. “They don’t know.”

She processes that, crayon hovering over the page.

“Okay,” she says slowly.

Dennis exhales, relief flickering across his face.

Then she adds, firm and clear, “We not tell.”

He nods. “Yeah. Let’s keep it just between us for now. A secret.”

Dot’s head snaps up.

“No.”

Flat. Immediate.

Dennis blinks. “No?”

She shakes her head, curls bouncing. “Unca Jack say grown-ups no ask Dot keep secrets.”

Something in Dennis’s chest tightens. Not panic, not shame, just the sudden awareness of being seen too clearly.

“Oh,” he says quietly. “He did?”

She nods. “Secrets bad. Sur-prises okay.”

Dennis rubs his thumb against his palm, then his fingers against each other without noticing he’s doing it.

“You’re right,” he says. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

She watches his hands. Then she tilts her head.

“Den,” she asks gently, “you feelin’ buzzy?”

He frowns, confused. “Buzzy?”

She nods, tapping her chest the way Jack showed her.

“When everything get too loud,” she explains, searching for the words, “an’ your body don’t know where to go. Hands do dis.”

She wiggles her fingers at him.

Dennis stills again.

“…Yeah,” he admits quietly. “I think I am.”

She brightens immediately. “Oh. I know how fix.”

Before he can ask how, she scoots closer and opens her arms.

“Jack hug,” she announces. “You gotta smoosh me.”

Dennis freezes. “I… Dot, I don’t…”

He looks around, voice lowering.

“Are you sure?”

She nods hard. “I tough.”

Dennis crouches carefully and wraps his arms around her. Not tight, not yet. Just enough to be there.

She frowns.

“No,” she says. “Smoosh.”

Dennis swallows.

Then he tightens the hug just enough. Firm, grounding, safe. The kind Jack taught her, the kind that tells your body you’re not floating away.

Dot sighs, content, cheek pressed against his shoulder.

“Yeah,” she says. “Dat better.”

Dennis feels it before he understands it, the way his shoulders drop, the buzzing in his hands easing, the room coming back into focus.

He pulls back slowly.

“…Thank you,” he says, voice rough.

She pats his arm, “You welcome.”

That’s when Jack’s voice cuts in.

“Dorothea Lynn.”

Dot freezes. Slowly, she looks up.

Jack stands a few feet away, posture casual but eyes sharp. The kind of stillness that means he clocked everything just a second too late.

“What’re you doing?” he asks, tone even but unmistakably Jack.

Dot blinks at him. “I helpin’.”

Jack’s gaze flicks past her to the man crouched in front of her. Dennis is still a little too close, still looking like he’s figuring out whether he’s allowed to exist.

“Uh-huh,” Jack says. “And who is this?”

Dennis straightens instinctively, hands lifting slightly like he’s already bracing for impact.

Before he can speak, Dot answers.

“Dis Den.”

Jack’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “And why is Den holding you?”

Dennis opens his mouth.

Dot beats him to it.

“He buzzy,” she says simply. “So I fix.”

Jack’s eyes snap back to her. “You what.”

Dennis clears his throat. “I… she offered a hug. I didn’t—”

Jack’s gaze sharpens, stepping closer. “Dorothea—”

“I asked,” Dot says, firm. “Unca Jack. I said smoosh.”

Jack stops.

Takes a long look at her. She’s calm. Steady. Not distressed. Not clingy. Just herself. He exhales through his nose.

“Okay,” he says. “We’re gonna talk about this in a second.”

Then his eyes lift back to Dennis’s face.

And freeze.

“Whitaker?”

Dennis swallows. “Yeah.”

Jack stares at him.

Once. Twice.

“What the hell,” he mutters.

Dot looks between them. “You know Den.”

Jack doesn’t answer right away.

He rubs a hand over his mouth, recalibrating hard and fast, then drops into a crouch beside Dot so he’s eye level with her.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

She nods. “Yeah. He better now.”

Jack glances at Dennis, then back at her.

“You did good,” he says finally.

Dot brightens. “I know.”

Jack stands slowly, turning his full attention to Dennis now. No heat, no accusation, just gravity.

“Alright,” he says. “You wanna explain why you're here?”

Dennis nods.

And for the first time since he walked through the doors, he doesn’t feel like he’s about to be told to leave.

Dennis looks up automatically, spine straightening on instinct.

“Dr. Abbot—”

Jack cuts him off without heat. “Hey. Kid.” A beat. “Just Jack. We’re not at work.”

Dennis swallows and nods. “Right. Sorry.”

Jack crosses his arms, eyes flicking once assessing and to where Dottie is back at the rug, coloring like nothing monumental just happened.

Then his gaze returns to Dennis.

“So,” Jack says quietly. “What’s going on?”

Dennis hesitates.

Jack exhales through his nose. “Does Y/N know you’re here?”

Dennis’s jaw tightens. “No.”

Jack’s mouth pulls thin. “Didn’t think so.”

Silence stretches. Not hostile. Just heavy.

“You know she loves you,” Jack says finally. “Right?”

Dennis lets out a humorless huff. “Yeah. That’s kind of the problem.”

Jack’s eyes sharpen. “Explain.”

Dennis looks down at his hands. They’re still now, but he presses his thumb into his palm anyway, like checking.

“Can you imagine,” he says slowly, carefully, “going to your boss—or your mentor—or someone who already thinks you’re capable—and saying, ‘Hey, by the way, I’ve been barely surviving and I don’t have a place to sleep’?”

Jack doesn’t interrupt.

Dennis keeps going, voice quieter but steadier now.

“And not having it feel… humiliating? Or like you’ve just confirmed every fear you ever had about being a screw-up?”

Jack swears under his breath. Not at Dennis. At the universe.

“So you decided to disappear instead,” Jack says.

Dennis winces. “I didn’t decide anything. I just… ran out of options.”

Jack rubs a hand over his face.

“She would’ve helped you,” he says.

“I know,” Dennis replies immediately. “That’s why I didn’t tell her.”

Jack looks at him, really looks this time.

“Whitaker,” he says, voice low. “You don’t get points for suffering quietly.”

Dennis’s shoulders slump. “I wasn’t trying to be noble.”

“Good,” Jack snaps. Then softer, “Because it’s not.”

Dennis swallows.

“You keep calling Y/N your mentor,” Jack says carefully. “You might wanna update her on that. Because from where she’s standing, you’re on the road to being one of her closest friends.”

Dennis huffs a disbelieving laugh. “She’s… she’s always been kind to me.”

“She cares,” Jack corrects. “There’s a difference. And she’s going to be livid when she finds out you were out here trying to white-knuckle it alone when she would’ve helped you make a plan. Any plan.”

Dennis’s shoulders tense. “I didn’t want to worry anyone.”

Jack’s voice drops. “Kid. You already do. That’s how caring works.”

Silence stretches.

“We would’ve helped,” Jack says finally. “All of us. Quietly. Respectfully. If you wanted it that way.”

Dennis hesitates. “I thought… maybe it was better not to say anything.”

Jack sighs. “Yeah. Dot covered that.”

Then Dennis adds, hesitant, “She told me grown-ups aren’t allowed to ask her to keep secrets.”

Jack’s head snaps up. “She did?”

Dennis nods. “Said you told her. About secrets being bad. Surprises okay.”

Jack lets out a slow breath. Something like pride sneaks into his voice before he can stop it.

“Good,” he says. “She listened.”

He looks back at Dennis, expression gentler than his reputation suggests.

“I know I can be rough around the edges,” Jack says. “But you’re one of ours. And we don’t leave our people hanging.”

Dennis breathes out, something loosening in his chest.

“…Okay,” he says quietly. “Maybe it’s time I stop pretending I can do this alone.”

Jack claps a hand on his shoulder. Not hard. Just solid.

“That,” he says, “is a damn good start.”

You feel it before you hear her.

That familiar, laser-focused stare burning into the side of your face, the one that means Dottie has something important and has decided you are the correct adult.

She appears at your side, hands clasped behind her back.

“Mama.”

You look down. “Hey, baby.”

“I found Den.”

You blink. “Who?”

She tilts her head, like you’re the one being confusing.

“Den.”

“…Den?” you repeat carefully.

She nods. “Uh-huh. Den Whit-uh-ker.”

Your stomach drops. Not all at once, but slowly, the way it does when your brain connects dots it wasn’t ready to line up yet.

You crouch immediately so you’re eye level with her.

“You found Dennis?” you ask, keeping your voice even with practice earned the hard way.

“Yes,” she says. “He here.”

Your mouth opens. Closes.

“He okay?” you ask.

Dot shrugs, but it isn’t dismissive. It’s thoughtful. Processing.

“He was buzzy,” she says. “But I fix it.”

You pause. “You… fixed it?”

She nods, proud but calm. “I gave him a Jack hug.”

Of course she did.

You close your eyes for half a second, then reach out and brush your thumb over her knuckles, grounding yourself this time.

“Thank you for telling me,” you say gently. “That was the right thing to do.”

She preens a little at that.

“Where is he now?” you ask.

She doesn’t hesitate. Just points.

“Over there. Jack talkin’ to him.”

Of course he is.

You glance up and spot them a few yards away. Jack stands stiff, hands in his pockets. Dennis looks smaller somehow, shoulders rounded inward like he’s bracing for impact.

You exhale slowly.

“Okay,” you tell Dot. “I need you to stay with Papa for just one second, alright?”

She nods immediately. “Okay.”

Michael is already there, like he felt it coming. He crouches, arms opening without a word.

Dottie climbs into him, wraps herself around his neck.

“Papa,” she murmurs.

“I got you,” he says quietly.

You press a kiss into her hair, then straighten and turn toward the two men across the room.

Jack clocks you immediately.

His jaw tightens. Not defensive. Guilty.

Dennis looks up next.

And in his eyes you see it all at once. Relief, fear, and the very specific dread of someone realizing they should have asked for help and didn’t.

You walk toward them anyway.

“Dennis,” you say gently.

He flinches. “Y/N.”

“Dot told me she found you.”

He exhales. “She did?”

“She said you were buzzy.”

Jack shifts beside you.

“I didn’t mean for—”

“Stop,” you say quietly. Firm, not unkind.

“You don’t apologize for existing in a place that helps people.”

Silence.

“How long?” you ask.

He hesitates. “A while. It started as couch surfing. I thought I had it handled.”

“And then?” you ask.

“And then I didn’t.”

You nod, steady.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because you’re my mentor.”

That lands wrong.

“Dennis,” you say, softer, “you’re one of my close friends.”

His breath stutters.

“I didn’t want you to feel obligated,” he says quickly. “Or guilty. Or like you had to fix it.”

“I don’t fix people,” you say. “I stand with them.”

He looks away.

“It’s not that bad here,” he adds. “It’s warm. There’s food.”

You let him finish.

“That doesn’t mean you deserve to do this alone,” you say.

“I didn’t want to be a burden.”

You shake your head. Slow. Deliberate.

“You are not a burden. You’re someone who should have had help sooner.”

His eyes shine.

“We don’t have to solve everything tonight,” you say. “But you don’t do this by yourself anymore. Okay?”

He nods. Once. Then again.

“Okay.

Michael hasn’t put her down.

He’s still holding Dottie against his chest, one arm solid around her back, her legs tucked in like she fits there. The shelter hums around them, distant voices and footsteps blurring into background noise.

She’s very still. That’s how he knows she’s thinking. “Hey, Bug,” he murmurs, thumb brushing slow circles between her shoulder blades. “You okay?”

She nods once, then hesitates. Shakes her head.

“Little,” she admits.

“Little buzzy?” he asks.

“Uh-huh.”

He adjusts his grip, grounding her with the familiar weight of him. “Wanna breathe with me?”

She presses her forehead into his collarbone. He counts softly under his breath. In. Out. Again.

After a moment, she lifts her head.

“Papa,” she says, serious. “Den sad.”

Michael’s chest tightens, but his voice stays steady. “Yeah. I think he is.”

“It dark for him,” she continues, searching for words. “I try show him da light.”

Michael swallows.

“I saw that,” he says quietly. “You did good.”

She relaxes just a little more at that, like she needed to hear it said out loud.

“But,” he adds gently, “sometimes when it’s really dark, one person can’t fix it all by themselves.”

She frowns. “I know.”

“So we help together,” he says. “Me. Mama. Jack. Dennis too, if he lets us.”

She considers that, thumb finding the seam of his shirt.

“Okay,” she says finally. “Together.”

Michael presses a kiss into her curls, lingering.

“I’m proud of you,” he tells her. “For being kind. And for telling Mama.”

She nods, satisfied.

“I brave,” she says again, less like a declaration this time, more like a fact.

“You are,” he agrees. “And you’re safe.”

She curls back into him, ready now.

Michael looks up, eyes finding you across the room where you stand with Jack and Dennis, the shape of what comes next already forming.

“Ready to go see Mama?” he asks softly.

Dottie lifts her head, gaze steady.

“Yeah,” she says. “We help.”

And together, they step back into the light they’re building, one careful plan at a time.

They gather a little off to the side, far enough that voices stay low, close enough that Dottie is still tucked into Michael’s arms, chin on his shoulder, watching Dennis with the serious focus of someone who has decided he matters.

Dennis stands across from them, hands folded, posture polite in a way that makes your chest ache. Jack leans against the wall, arms crossed, jaw tight but eyes alert. Michael stays still, solid, grounding, one hand resting at Dottie’s back like an anchor.

You break the silence first.

“Okay,” you say quietly. “We’re not doing this in a hallway. We’re not doing it standing. And we’re not doing it without a plan.”

Dennis opens his mouth. “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” you cut in gently. “But I want to.”

Michael nods. “We can talk options. No pressure. No assumptions.”

Jack adds, softer than before, “You get to say no. We’ll still help.”

Dennis exhales, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. “I… appreciate that.”

Dottie shifts in Michael’s arms, frowning.

Dottie looks up at Dennis, eyes bright like she’s just solved something important.

“You got nephews,” she says. “I can be nephew.”

Jack straightens immediately. “Absolutely not.”

Dottie blinks. “Why.”

Jack folds his arms. “First of all, you are not calling him Unca Dennis.”

Dennis looks like he might laugh and cry at the same time.

“Jack,” Michael warns.

“I’m just saying,” Jack continues, already dug in. “I’m a jealous man.”

Dottie studies him, unimpressed.

“Unca Jack,” she says patiently, “you hab to share.”

Jack scoffs. “I already share with Mama and Papa.”

She considers this. Nods once.

“Fine,” she says, turning back to Dennis. “Then we be besties.”

Jack opens his mouth. Closes it. “…I hate it here,” he mutters. Michael bites back a smile. Dennis just stares at Dottie, something soft and disbelieving settling in his chest.

Besties.

Yeah. He could live with that.

Dot listens longer than anyone expects her to.

She stands between Michael’s knees while the adults talk in low voices, plans, logistics, words like tomorrow and options and if he’s comfortable. Dennis keeps nodding, polite, guarded, like he’s bracing for something to be taken back.

Dot’s fingers twist in Michael’s sweater.

She’s quiet. Too quiet.

Then her face crumples, not loud, not screaming, just sudden and raw.

“Why,” she asks Dennis, voice wobbling, “you wanna stay here?”

The room stills.

Dennis opens his mouth. Closes it. “I just…”

“But you be alone,” she says, tears spilling now, frustrated and earnest. “Dis place loud. An’ dark. You said it dark.”

Michael tightens his hold instinctively.

Dennis crouches again, careful. “I won’t be alone, Dot. There are people here.”

She shakes her head hard. “Not your people.”

That lands.

Her chest heaves as she starts throwing solutions at the problem like she’s patching a leak with her bare hands.

“You can have my room,” she says immediately. “I sleep wif Mama.”

Jack blinks. “Hey—”

“Or,” Dot barrels on, pointing at him, “Unca Jack build bunk beds.”

Jack snorts despite himself. “I don’t—”

“OR,” she says, voice cracking again, “I stay here wif you.”

Absolutely not.

Michael cups her face gently. “Bug—”

Dennis’s eyes shine, wrecked and grateful and terrified all at once. “Dot,” he says softly, “that’s really kind. But you don’t have to fix this.”

She looks at him like that’s the wrong answer.

“But you scared,” she says. Not accusing. Just stating a fact. “When I scared, Papa stay.”

Dennis swallows hard.

“I know,” he says. “And I promise I’m okay tonight.”

She sniffles, wiping her nose on Michael’s sleeve without apology.

“You promise?” she asks.

“I promise.”

She studies his face, searching for the truth like she always does.

Then she nods, reluctant, brave, unsatisfied.

“Okay,” she says quietly. “But not forever.”

Dennis lets out a breath that sounds like relief and grief tangled together.

“Not forever,” he agrees.

Dot leans back into Michael’s chest, still watching Dennis like she’s filed him under ongoing concern.

Jack rubs a hand over his face, muttering, “Jesus Christ.”

You catch Dennis’s eye over Dot’s curls.

We’ll figure this out, your look says. Gentle. Relentless.

He nods once.

He believes you.

They’re standing by the door when it hits her.

Not when the bags empty.

Not when people thank them.

Not even when Dennis picks up his coffee again.

It hits when Michael shifts her on his hip and turns toward the exit.

She stiffens.

“No,” she says.

Michael pauses. “Bug…”

She twists in his arms, eyes locked on Dennis. “No. We can’t go.”

Dennis looks up. “Hey…”

She slides out of Michael’s hold and marches back across the room, sneakers slapping.

She stops in front of Dennis.

“You comin’,” she says. Not asking.

Dennis swallows. “Dot, I—”

“No,” she says louder. “You come home.”

Michael steps forward instinctively, but Jack catches his arm. Not stopping him. Grounding him.

“Bug,” Michael says gently. “Dennis might need to stay here tonight.”

Her face crumples.

“But he gonna be alone,” she says, voice shaking. “He scared.”

Dennis kneels slowly. Careful.

“Hey,” he says. “Look at me.”

She does, sobbing.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he says. “I promise.”

“But you sad,” she hiccups. “It dark.”

“…Yeah,” he says softly. “It is.”

She wipes her face hard.

“We bring light.”

“I know,” he says. “You did.”

Jack clears his throat. “Baby…”

Dennis lifts a hand. “Let me.”

He looks back at her. “Sometimes help doesn’t mean leaving right away,” he says carefully. “Sometimes it means staying one more night and trusting people didn’t forget you.”

She shakes her head. “We not forget.”

“I know,” he says. “That’s why this hurts.”

Michael pulls her back against his chest. She resists for half a second, then collapses into him, fists clutching his sweater.

“I don’t like dis,” she sobs.

“I know,” Michael murmurs, rocking her. “I don’t either.”

Dennis stands there, hands useless, eyes shining.

“I’ll see you again,” he says. “Okay?”

She peeks out. “Promise?”

“I promise.”

She nods, defeated.

“But we come back.”

“Yes,” he says immediately. “You do.”

As they leave, she twists in Michael’s arms.

“Dennis.”

He smiles. “Yeah?”

“We light still on,” she says fiercely.

His voice cracks. “I know.”

The door closes.

Dennis Whitaker stands there alone, but not forgotten, for the first time in a long while.

Home is too quiet when they get back. Not empty. Just hushed. Like the house knows they’re bringing something heavy in with them and is making room.

Michael sets his keys down and doesn’t turn on any extra lights. The glow from the kitchen spills into the living room, warm and low. Jack drops the last of the empty totes by the door and exhales like he’s been holding it in since the parking lot.

Dottie is still in Michael’s arms.

She hasn’t cried again, but she hasn’t unclenched either. Her fingers are twisted in his sweater, knuckles white.

You toe off your shoes and crouch in front of her, searching her face.

“Hey, love,” you say softly. “You wanna tell us what you’re feeling?”

She hesitates.

“I don’t like that he stay,” she finally says. Not angry. Just aching. “I don’t like he alone.”

Jack rubs a hand over his face and sits on the edge of the couch. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “That part sucks.”

Michael adjusts his hold, rocking her gently. “It’s okay to not like it,” he murmurs. “You can feel that.”

She sniffles. “We try help.”

“You did,” you say immediately. “You helped a lot.”

She looks at you, eyes shiny. “But he still there.”

You swallow. “Sometimes helping doesn’t mean taking someone home right away. Sometimes it means making sure they know they matter. That they’re seen.”

She considers that, chin tucked against Michael’s chest.

“We come back,” she says. Not a question.

“Yes,” Michael says without hesitation. “We will.”

Jack nods. “Scout’s honor.”

She huffs a tiny laugh despite herself.

Michael carries her into the living room and sits with her on the couch. You sit beside them. Jack pulls a blanket over all three of them without comment.

For a few minutes, nobody talks.

Then Dottie lifts her head.

“Papa,” she says quietly. “It dark for Dennis.”

Michael closes his eyes.

“I know,” he says. “That’s why tonight matters.”

Later, the menorah is set on the table.

Two candles ready. The shamash already lit.

Dottie stands between you and Michael, small hands resting on the edge of the table. Jack lingers a step back, arms crossed loosely, eyes softer than he’d ever admit.

Michael takes a breath.

Not rushed. Not performative.

Just real.

“We light this candle,” he says gently, “for the people who need light tonight.”

Dottie nods. “Like Den.”

“Like Dennis,” he agrees. “And like anyone who’s scared. Or lonely. Or waiting.”

He lights the second candle.

The flame catches, steady and bright.

Michael bows his head slightly, not just for tradition, but intention.

“May the light we have reach the people who need it,” he says quietly. “May it remind them they’re not forgotten. And may we keep showing up, again and again, until the dark isn’t so heavy.”

Dottie watches the flames.

Then, solemn and fierce, she whispers, “We light still on.”

Michael smiles, throat tight. “Yes, Bug. It is.”

Before the third light, the house holds the glow. So do they.

The house is humming in that post-bedtime way that isn’t really bedtime yet.

Lights low. Dishwasher humming.

Dottie sits at the kitchen counter in her pajamas, legs swinging, working very seriously through what Jack has labeled a midnight snack and what Michael would absolutely call a bribe to prevent emotional collapse.

Jack leans against the counter across from her, arms crossed, watching her dismantle a handful of crackers like they’ve personally offended her.

She crunches. Thinks.

Crunches again.

“Unca Jack.”

He hums. “Yeah, Bug.”

She tilts her head, studying him in a way that feels uncomfortably perceptive for someone with crumbs on her chin.

“So,” she says casually, “you jealous of Den?”

Jack chokes.

Actually chokes.

He turns his head, coughs once into his elbow. “Excuse me?”

She shrugs, unbothered. “You say no Unca Dennis. Dat sound jealous.”

Jack blinks at her. Considers denying it.

Doesn’t.

“I wouldn’t say jealous,” he says carefully. “I’d say… selective of who gets your love.”

She squints. “Dat same.”

“It is not,” he argues.

She crunches another cracker. “You share Papa.”

“Yes.”

“You share Mama.”

“Yes.”

“You share me?” she asks, suspicious.

Jack’s face softens before he can stop it. “That one’s non-negotiable.”

She nods, satisfied.

“But,” she adds, “you share with Den.”

Jack exhales through his nose, slow. “Den’s… complicated.”

She watches him. Really watches.

“He lonely,” she says simply.

Jack looks away for a second. When he looks back, his voice is quieter.

“Yeah,” he admits. “He is.”

She slides one cracker across the counter toward him like it’s a peace offering.

“You don’t gotta be scared,” she tells him. “Light don’t run out, Unca.”

Jack picks up the cracker. Holds it. Doesn’t eat it yet.

“You know,” he says, “you’re not wrong very often.”

She beams. “I know.”

She yawns, hard enough to wobble.

Jack pushes off the counter and steps closer. “Alright, hero. Midnight snack complete.”

She reaches up without looking.

He lifts her easily, settling her against his shoulder. She curls in, thumb finding his hoodie string like it belongs there.

“Unca Jack?”

“Yeah?”

“You still my best Unca.”

Jack huffs a soft laugh. “Good. Because I’m not sharing that title.”

She smiles into his shoulder.

“Okay,” she murmurs.

Hi babes 🕯️✨

Okay so this one is… a tiny bit late (like three days late, oops). Life happened, but the Hanukkah series is absolutely continuing and the next nights are already in progress.

Thank you for being patient and for loving these as much as I love writing them 🕯️💛

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