“You okay?” I asked, softer than I meant to.
She nodded, didn’t look up. “Yeah.”
“You sure?” I pressed, because careful doesn’t mean blind.
A beat. “No,” she breathed. “But I want to be.”
I didn’t push the why. She’d hand it to me when she was ready. I just made the yes easier.
“Come on,” I said, kissing her forehead, tasting salt and skin. “Water. Then couch or bed—your call.”
She shifted off me slow, and the way she winced—barely there, but I felt it—lit something like alarm braided with tenderness. I pulled my pants up, found her tank in the tangle, eased it over her head. She didn’t protest. That told me more than a paragraph.
In the kitchen, I poured water. She took three sips, set the glass down like the smell bothered her, then leaned on the counter with eyes closed.
“You want ginger tea?” I asked. “Crackers?”
She scrunched her nose the same way she had at the food. “Maybe tea. Crackers… no.”
I put the kettle on and leaned next to her. The overhead light made her skin look ashen in a way that wasn’t her. I touched her temple with the back of my hand—cooler than before, but fatigue has its own shine.
“You should’ve told me you were off all week,” I said finally. Not accusation—just truth.
“I know.” She opened her eyes. There was apology there, but behind it, something else. Fear? Shame? “I didn’t want to make it real.”
“What does ‘it’ mean?” I asked. Quiet. Gentle.
Her throat worked. “Just… the feeling that something’s changing and I can’t control it.”
The kettle hissed like punctuation. I turned the flame off, poured over ginger, let it steep while I looked at the woman I’d been trying not to call mine. She doesn’t spook on a job site. She doesn’t flinch at heat or risk. If she was rattled now, the danger was inside, not outside.
“Okay,” I said. “Then let’s do what we can control. Tonight, you rest. I’ll grade here.” I nodded at my bag by the door. “I’ll stay if you want. If you don’t, I’ll come by in the morning.”
Her eyes softened. “Stay.”
“Good,” I whispered, and that word felt like landing.
We carried tea and water to the couch. She slid under the throw, let me tuck it around her hips, then put her feet in my lap like she’d been doing it for years. I rubbed the arch of her foot with my thumb until her breathing slowed. Quiet spread. The clock ticked. Out on the street, a siren wailed, then faded.
“You ever notice,” she said, small, “how fast good things start to scare you?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Usually means they matter.”
She looked at the ceiling for a beat. “I keep thinking about Sunday. You with my family. Daddy laughing at your dumb Steelers takes.” A ghost of a smile. “The way my mom watched me. Like she was… seeing me. I don’t know why that made my chest tight. It did.”
“Because you’re not used to being seen that close,” I said. “Not without bracing.”
She blinked slow. “Am I that obvious?”
“No,” I said. “But I’m paying attention.”
Her eyes shined in a way that made my chest ache. She looked away, then back. “Quentin…”
“Mm?”
“I don’t know how to do this,” she whispered. “Whatever we’re doing. I feel ridiculous saying that at this age, but I don’t.”
“You are not ridiculous.” I made sure each word landed. “You’re brave. You don’t know it because bravery rarely introduces itself. But you came to dinner. You let me in this door when it would’ve been easier to say you were busy. You ask me to kiss you when you could pretend you didn’t want it. That’s brave.”
