Page 23 of Let it Crackle
Ten years ago, I was standing in the middle of a library with a laminated card and a desperate hope she’d say yes. Now I’m Maddox Cole—full-time firefighter, part-time station mentor, soccer coach to tiny tyrants, husband to a bestselling novelist, and dad to four wild kids who somehow have all of Maya’s stubbornness and none of her volume control.
Five kids, if you count Basil, our old mutt, who’s currently drenched in baby puke and zero shame.
I walk in from the garage, wiping grease off my hands with an old firehouse rag, and just stop for a second. Foam swords. Glitter explosions. A baby gnawing on a board book like it owes her money. And Maya at the center of it, standing in the middle of the storm, radiating this tired magic that still stops me in my tracks.
“Just checking,” I say, leaning down to kiss the top of her head, “you still writing… or shopping for your next book boyfriend?”
She swats my chest with a dish towel. “You wish you were fictional.”
I grin. “Babe, I’m the blueprint.”
And honestly, she’s not wrong. I’m still broad-shouldered and cocky, still the guy who flips to the last page of her drafts just to mess with her. But I’ve softened in all the ways that matter. These days, I spend less time charging into burning buildings and more time fixing leaking faucets, hauling snack coolers to soccer practice, and making sure Maya remembers to eat something besides granola bars when she’s on deadline.
When her brain locks up, I find her in our little converted sunroom—the one we turned into a library. She’ll be curled up between the shelves, eyes haunted with storylines and self-doubt, and I’ll just sit there, read beside her, breathe beside her, remind her she’s built entire worlds from blank pages before.
“You’ve got the signing next week,” I say, running a hand over her shoulder.
She nods. “Mostly ready.”
I tilt my head. “You’re nervous.”
“A little.”
I step in behind her, close enough to feel the warmth of her back against my chest. “Your readers adore you. And so do I. Even if you kill off the main character again.”
“It was poetic,” she mumbles, like we haven’t had this argument twelve times.
“It was traumatic,” I whisper, brushing a kiss to her neck. “We’ll debrief in bed later.”
She snorts. “After snacks, bedtime tantrums, and five rounds of ‘please, just brush your teeth’?”
“Obviously.”
The twins are still sword-fighting in the hall. And our eldest—God help me—has somehow gotten her hands on glitter again.
But my chest feels so full I don’t even care.
This life—this loud, messy, beautiful life—is more than I ever thought I’d have. It’s baby vomit and deadline panic and Maya’s soft fingers tugging at my shirt. It’s grocery lists scrawled on the backs of royalty check envelopes. It’s that damn library card still living in my wallet, edges worn and corners curled.
I cross the room, scoop up the baby from the playpen. She immediately stops crying and fists her chubby hands in my shirt, pressing her cheek to my neck.
“She’s got your temper,” Maya says with a tired smile.
“And your stubborn streak,” I shoot back, swaying gently as I rock our girl.
We meet in the middle, our foreheads touching. No grand speeches. No big declarations.
Just us.
The quiet kind of love.
The kind you write stories about.
The kind that lasts.
Later That Night
The house is finally still.
