She beamed up at him like he’d just walked on water. “You take nine hours to drive here and you think I’m not going to belistening for the engine the second it gets dark? Don’t be stupid.” She reached up and cupped his face. “Hi, baby.”
Ansel ducked a little, hugged her tight. His body softened in that specific way people do when someone who raised them is near. Like he didn’t even realize he’d been carrying tension until it unspooled before her.
Then she pulled back and looked past him, and her whole face lit up again. “Andyoumust be Juniper.” I froze. I hadn’t expected her tobeam. I hadn’t expectedanyof this.
“I — uh — yes. Hi.” I gave a too-fast wave. “Sorry it’s so late.”
“Oh please.” She waved me off, already pulling me into a hug like we’d met a dozen times. She was smaller than I expected. Warm. She smelled like chamomile and almond extract. “You think you’re the first girl I’ve welcomed into this house after a long drive and a string of dramatic press releases?”
Ansel groaned behind her. “Ma.”
“I’m kidding,” she said sweetly. Then looked back at me, and with a dramatic stage whisper, “You are.”
I laughed, nervous. “Well, I’ve been behind most of his recent press releases, ma’am.” I shifted uneasily. “I tried to warn him.”
She grinned at that — and then, softer, gentler, she spoke again. “You’re safe here, sweetheart.”
It broke something in my chest.
“Now,” she clapped her hands, stepping back into the cozy little kitchen that smelled like cinnamon and dish soap, “I was going to wait until morning, but I’ve got a pie cooling and a pot of tea and a very curious desire to heareverything.”
Ansel shot me a look. “We’re doomed.”
“I’mnotscary,” his mother protested, opening the cabinet for mugs.
“You used to be atherapist,” he said. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”
She winked. “Well. At least I didn’t ask if you’re sleeping together.”
I choked on air.
Ansel just muttered, “Ma,” and reached for the kettle.
“Come, come, loves, bring your tired selves into the living room and tell me about your drive.”
The couch was old but soft, worn in all the right places. A blanket the color of old sunflowers was pulled across our laps, and Ansel’s mother was puttering around in the kitchen still — pretending she wasn’t eavesdropping while claiming she was just “tidying.”
The room was quiet, the kind of quiet that had shape, memory,meaning. The kind that made it easy to breathe.
Ansel’s arm was stretched behind me, not quite touching, but close. His thumb had been brushing against the back of my neck on and off for the last ten minutes, I’m not even sure he realized he was doing it. Almost like it was just muscle memory.
Almost like this was how italwayswas when we were together.
I felt — anchored. Maybe a little floaty, but safe.
He leaned toward me, voice low. “You holding up okay?”
I nodded, head tipping against the back of the couch. “Your mom’s really sweet.”
He gave a little smile, soft and crooked. “Yeah. She’s the best person I know.” There was something in his voice — like he wasn’t just saying it, like heneededme to know it.
I wanted to ask more. I wanted to press my face into his shoulder and whisper thank you. I wanted to crawl into his lap and sleep for three years. Instead I just mumbled, “Don’t tell her I almost cried over her tea.”
“Oh, she knows,” he murmured, grinning now. “She definitely knows.” I laughed. It came out loopy, a little broken with exhaustion. My head dipped again, this time to his shoulder. And I hadn’tmeant to close my eyes, hadn’t meant to lean forward — but once I did, I couldn’t stop it.
His fingers stilled at the nape of my neck.
“You’re falling asleep,” he said.
