His gaze drops to my mouth, then back. A private smile ghosts his lips. I steady my cup with both hands and take a slow sip. Tom coughs into what might be a laugh. Anne studies her eggs intensely.
Wesley’s breath skims my ear, low and dark. “I’ll show you ‘stud,’ doll.”
I nudge his ribs. “You already are.”
He grins—slow, satisfied, so smug I could throttle him.
His dad sets down his coffee.
“Good to have you home, son.” His tone is casual but weighted. “Been a while. Your mom was starting to think you forgot where you came from.”
The words are kind, but I feel Wesley tense. His palm stills on my thigh, the lazy circles stopping mid-trace.
“Just busy, Dad. Season’s been?—”
“Busy. I know busy.” His dad sips his coffee. “We just closed a contract with three restaurants in Seattle. Good accounts. Your mom’s been running logistics till midnight.”
“That’s great, Dad.”
“Honest work.”
“Business good this year then?” Wesley’s tone has lost its playful edge.
“Can’t complain. Levi’s been running the second boat. Good kid. Reliable.” A pause, loaded. “He knows the operation inside and out now.”
The words are followed by terse silence. Then, “We saw you on that billboard in Anchorage. The sports drink one.” Another beat. “Your mom took a picture.”
Erik snorts into his orange juice. Levi stares at his plate.
Wesley’s jaw ticks. “It’s different work. Doesn’t make it less real.”
His dad lifts his hands in easy surrender. “Didn’t say it wasn’t real, son. Just different. Like you said.”
The quiet that follows is thin and sharp.
I squeeze Wesley’s knee under the table. He doesn’t look at me, but his hand finds mine and holds on firmly.
His mom clears her throat brightly. “So! Tonight’s the Harbor Bar. Whole town goes out Christmas Eve. It’s tradition.”
“Sounds fun,” I say, grateful for the redirect.
Wesley’s shoulders ease slightly. “We’ll be there.”
Anne beams. “Perfect. But first, Harbor Lights Festival this afternoon. Can’t miss that either.”
“More traditions.” Wesley glances at me. “You up for it?”
“Sure.”
The whole table moves around each other without thinking. His mom topping off coffee, his dad passing the jam straight into Erik’s waiting hand, Lars pretending not to watch us but still pushing the toast rack closer to me as if I belong here. It isn’t choreographed; nobody’s angling for credit. It’s just…easy. Warm. Claimed.
His mom clears her throat. “Well, you two should probably get ready. Wesley, show Joy where the extra scarves are?”
“Got it,” Wesley nods, pulling at me.
I siton the edge of the bed, tugging on thicker socks. Wesley stands by the window, staring out at the snow-covered yard.
His shoulders are stiff. The easy warmth from breakfast is gone.
