I trailed beside them, a few paces slower, letting the two of them take the lead. From the outside, we probably looked like a family. The thought knotted something deep in my gut. It wasn’t unpleasant, just ... dangerous.
I saw the way a woman slowed her car just slightly as she passed. The way a man nodded politely and then glanced back a second time. People in town were noticing.
Austin, of course, was oblivious.
He didn’t see the glances. Didn’t clock the subtle curiosity in the expressions of the other parents lingering at drop-off. Why would he? He wasn’t the one doing calculus in his head over how it might look—him, younger, tattooed, handsome in that distractingly rough-cut way. Me, older, composed, trying not to fidget with my sleeve or wonder whether they thought I was babysittinghim.
When we reached the school steps, Winnie dropped Austin’s hand to hug my waist. “Are you coming with me today?”
“Just to the door, kiddo,” I said, brushing a crumb from her cheek. “You’ll have a fun day—you’ve got music.”
She lit up like a sunrise. “We’re learning to play ‘The Ants Go Marching.’ Austin, you’ll love it.”
“I can’t wait,” he said, pressing a hand over his heart.
At the doors, she kissed me and ran inside, her little backpack bouncing behind her.
The walk back was quiet at first. Our steps fell in rhythm. Austin didn’t fill the silence and didn’t reach for banter. That was something I’d come to notice about him—he had this way of not needing to talk just to fill space. Sometimes he simply let silence breathe.
Still, I felt the weight of curious eyes. Other parents milled about the schoolyard, saying goodbyes, sipping coffee fromtravel mugs as they chatted. A couple of moms glanced our way, the polite kind of curious that wasn’t quite gossip. I didn’t blame them. I was aware of us too. Me, walking beside a man who was younger and indecently handsome. Tattooed forearms, work boots, and a worn ball cap pulled low. He had a look—the kind that made people glance twice.
Austin, of course, was still completely unaware.
He turned to me as we rounded the corner. “Do you always wear heels on Tuesday mornings?”
I glanced down at my boots—block-heeled, leather, more fashion than function. “I have a meeting in town.”
He nodded. “You clean up nice for a school drop-off.”
I lifted an eyebrow. “I wish I was in sweatpants right now.”
His mouth curved.
We stopped at the crosswalk, waiting for the light. I folded my arms, trying to ignore the warmth blooming at the base of my neck. “Are you always this charming before nine a.m.?”
Austin crossed behind me, making sure I was on the inside of the sidewalk. “Only when I’m walking back with you.”
There it was again—that unstudied, easy confidence that never tipped into arrogance—and it was doing something to me. Something traitorous.
The duplex came into view—two connected units with matching cedar siding and flower beds that Austin had sneakily weeded last week while I was working late. He hadn’t even mentioned it. I just came home to tidy mulch and a clipped hydrangea bush, like it had magically fixed itself.
I unlocked the door and stepped inside first, toeing off my boots. Austin followed and headed toward the kitchen like it was second nature now.
The door clicked shut behind him, quiet and certain.
In the stillness that followed, the house exhaled—just a soft settling of silence—but I felt it in my chest like a shift, like something was changing.
Austin moved through the kitchen with an ease that made my stomach twist. He didn’t ask where things were anymore. He didn’t hesitate when he opened drawers or reached for the bag of coffee. He knew where I kept the mugs. Which one was mine. The stupid pink one with the cracked handle and faint lipstick ghost that wouldn’t scrub off.
He set his own tumbler under the machine, waiting for the slow, steady drip to finish. Then he rinsed my cup from the morning and turned it upside down beside the sink.
He didn’t say anything, because he didn’t need to.
It had become a ritual of sorts—small, unspoken, and somehow intimate. The cup was always there when I wandered out mid-morning between meetings, warm from the rinse, placed precisely where I would reach without thinking. The first time it happened, I nearly dropped it, heart lurching with the simple suggestion ofthoughtfulness. Now I just stared at it, quiet, like it had said something too loud in the hush of the kitchen.
“I’ll get that later,” Austin said, tapping a finger on the loose drawer handle. His voice was casual, easy—already halfway out of the moment. “It’s coming off the track.”
He pulled his travel mug free, screwed the lid on tight, and ran his hand over the back of his neck. I watched the movement, the long line of muscle shifting beneath the sleeve of his shirt. His biceps stretched the cotton just enough to draw the eye—and mine went there, traitorously.
