He crouched to her level, ruffling her curls. “Only the best for my new favorite tornado.”
Winnie darted back into the house, probably to find something cool to show her new friend, no doubt.
I propped a hip against the doorjamb. “You seem like a man who has a lot of tornadoes in his life,” I said before I could stop myself.
He looked up at me, slow and amused. “Nah. I’ve got a type. One-socked women with coffee stains and a death glare.”
My mouth opened—then shut again.
From inside my house, something crashed and I closed my eyes.
“I’m on it,” he said, already stepping inside like he belonged.
He set the drinks on the counter, scooped up the cereal box from the floor, and caught Winnie mid-spin before she collided with the table. “All right, small but mighty,” he said to her, “let’s find those socks before your mom self-destructs.”
I just stood there, stunned, while he moved through the kitchen like he’d been doing it for years.
“Selene?” he said, glancing at me over his shoulder. “Why don’t you go take five? Put on something without coffee in the fabric. I’ve got this.”
I didn’t move.
“Seriously,” he said, softening. “Go. I’ve got this.”
And, apparently, he did.
I hesitated at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for him to second-guess himself, to need direction, to prove I couldn’t let go even for five minutes.
But he didn’t. He just moved around like the kitchen belonged to him, Winnie trailing behind like he was the sun and she was some wild little planet in his orbit.
I turned and climbed the stairs—quietly, reluctantly—listening as his voice drifted up through the old floors, low and calm and steady.
And somehow that was the part that undid me most.
When I came back down, the kitchen was still a mess, but somehow the noise had settled. Winnie munched on a granola bar at the table, swinging her legs under the chair and humming to herself like this was any other day. Austin leaned against the counter, one ankle crossed over the other, sipping coffee likehe belonged there—like this wasn’t the weirdest morning of my week.
I stayed in the doorway, arms folded, trying not to overanalyze the fact that he’d poured Winnie’s milk into a mason jar because he couldn’t find her cup, or that she’d happily accepted it without a second thought. Or that he had somehow managed to talk her into putting socks on without either of them ending up in tears.
“She’s a negotiator,” he said, eyes flicking toward me as he handed her a paper towel. “I think she could run a boardroom if the snacks were right.”
“She’s five,” I muttered, but the corner of my mouth tugged up anyway. “And she’s not supposed to eat in here without a plate.”
He held up both hands like I’d caught him mid-crime. “Noted. Next time, full table settings and linen napkins.”
I stared at him. “There’s not going to be a next time.”
Austin just shrugged and took another sip of coffee. “Okay.”
I crossed the room and grabbed a banana, peeling it with a little more force than necessary. “I mean it.”
He nodded. “I know.”
“I’m serious.” My hand propped on my hip.
Austin smiled. “I can tell. You’ve got your serious banana-eating stance going.”
I looked down at the banana like it had betrayed me, then exhaled hard. “I don’t like needing help.”
Austin’s voice was laced with understanding. “Most people don’t.”
