Page 11 of Judge's Justice

“Your mama's right.”

“You sure you’re not a strong superhero?”

I glance at Nora, who's standing at the stove with her back to us, shoulders shaking slightly. She's laughing silently.

I sign back to Grace. “I'm not a superhero. Just a man who helps people.”

“That's what superheroes do.”

Hard to argue with that logic. Nora turns around, two plates in her hands, and sets them on the table. Her eyes are still red-rimmed, still tired.

"Sit," she says. "Please."

I sit.

And I know, somehow, that everything just changed.

Chapter 3 - Nora

I watch Judge eat breakfast at my kitchen table, and I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing.

This man, this enormous, scarred, dangerous man who broke another man's arm like it was nothing, is sitting across from my daughter, signing to her about her pajamas. Grace is beaming at him, her whole face lit up in a way I haven't seen since we left home, and I'm standing at the stove with a spatula in my hand wondering how my life became this in less than twelve hours.

Yesterday, I was on a bus. Today, I'm making eggs for a motorcycle club vice president who spent the entire night outside my house protecting us from people I didn't even know existed.

Grace taps the table to get my attention, then signs. *Judge says his motorcycle is called a Harley. Can I see it after breakfast?*

I look at Judge. He's watching me, waiting for my answer, his expression completely neutral. Letting me decide without pressure.

"Maybe," I sign back to Grace. "If Judge has time."

"I have time," Judge says out loud, then signs it for Grace.

Grace pumps her fist in the air like she just won something.

I turn back to the stove before either of them can see my face. Before they can see that I'm about two seconds away from either crying or laughing or both. I came here for quiet. For safety. For a place where Grace and I could figure out what our lives look like now that everything we knew fell apart.

And instead, I got a war, a man who knows sign language and a five-year-old who thinks she just made friends with a superhero.

"You don't have to do this," I say, still facing the stove. "Stay here. Eat breakfast with us. Show Grace your motorcycle. You've already done more than enough."

"I know I don't have to." His voice is low, rough around the edges. "But I'm here anyway."

I don't know what to say to that. Don't know how to explain that kindness from a stranger feels foreign right now. That I'm not used to men who do what they say they're going to do, who protect without asking for something in return.

My ex would've left the second things got complicated. Would've made it my problem to solve. Would've told me I was being dramatic, that I was overreacting, that nobody was really in danger and I just wanted attention.

Judge stayed outside my house all night in the cold.

I flip the last of the eggs onto a plate and bring it to the table. Sit down across from him and Grace. My daughter is already halfway through her toast, telling Judge about the bus ride in rapid sign language: how the bathroom was tiny, how Mama let her have two cookies even though cookies aren't breakfast food.

Judge watches her hands. Nods. Signs back. “Two cookies sounds perfect for a bus trip.”

“That's what I said!” Grace beams at me. “Judge agrees with me, Mama.”

"Of course he does," I mutter, but I'm smiling despite myself.

Judge's eyes flick to me. Something changes in his expression. Softer, maybe. Or maybe I'm imagining it. Maybe I'm so desperate for someone to be kind that I'm reading things that aren't there.