I stared at the upturned mug by the sink for a long moment before finally moving to grab my laptop.
The scent of pepperoni,fresh basil, and melted cheese drifted through the kitchen, warm and savory and comforting in a way that made the place feel like a real home—like something we’d built together without meaning to.
Winnie sat cross-legged on a barstool at the counter, her little fingers greasy from tugging cheese off her second slice. She’d insisted on the “special pizza,” the kind with stuffed crust and pineapple, and had declared it the “best idea ever” at least three times already.
Austin leaned against the opposite counter, one ankle crossed over the other, sipping from a glass of soda like he wasn’t aware of how domestic the entire scene looked. His sleeves werepushed up, forearms streaked with flour where he’d helped cut up Winnie’s pizza into small squares. She’d pressed a sticker from her pizza box to his shirt and dubbed him the “Cheese Boss.” He had obliged without complaint.
My heart ached in that hollow, unfamiliar way it did when something felt both perfect and unsustainable.
He caught my gaze and smiled—lazy, lopsided, the kind that felt like being let in on a private joke.
“You know,” he said, glancing at Winnie, who had now moved on to arranging pepperoni slices into a face on her plate, “I think she’s finally accepting me as a full-time member of the club.”
“Don’t get cocky,” I warned, reaching for another slice. “You still haven’t passed the bedtime-story trial.”
“Oh, I’m saving my best material for that.” His voice was low, teasing.
Winnie let out a dramatic yawn, arms stretched high, and declared, “My tummy is sleepy.”
“Is that so?” I raised a brow. “This is the first I’m hearing of this expression.” I moved toward her to tickle hertired tummy.
“It means,” she said between giggles, “it’s time for Austin to read me a story.”
She slid off the stool, fingers reaching for his, and she dragged him toward the stairs, her trust tethered between them like a string.
I’d managed to wrangle her to the bathroom sink first, washing her hands and face before brushing her teeth. Her lids were heavy, and I would have bet good money she’d be sound asleep in a matter of minutes.
When we finished, I followed them into Winnie’s room and leaned against the doorframe as Austin settled into the little armchair in the corner of her room. She climbed into bed withher stuffed giraffe and handed him a pink hardcover book with sparkles on the spine.
He didn’t hesitate. Instead he opened the book and began reading in a ridiculous accent that made Winnie dissolve into peals of laughter. He even did voices.
I stood there and stared. I watched the way his voice softened in the quiet parts and the way his fingers turned the pages with care. Her breathing slowed and she reached out to touch his arm as she finally drifted off.
Eventually he closed the book. Winnie’s lashes fluttered against her cheeks, her hand still resting against his forearm.
I stepped in and gently lifted her wrist to tuck her in. “Night, bug,” I whispered before dropping a kiss into her hair.
She barely stirred.
Austin rose, and for a moment we just stood there—together, alone, surrounded by glow-in-the-dark stars and the faint hum of the white noise machine.
I turned off the bedside lamp and nodded toward the hallway. We moved in silence until we reached the kitchen again, now dim and quiet and smelling faintly of garlic and pepperoni.
Heavy moments passed as I stared up at him.
His throat cleared. “I should head out,” he said, glancing toward the back door.
I hesitated, thumb circling the lip of my wineglass on the counter. “Thanks. For ... everything.”
His eyes met mine. “Anytime.”
He meant it. That was the dangerous part. My eyes dipped to his lips for a fraction of a second.
What would happen if I let it all go and kissed him?
A yearning ache bloomed low in my belly. Too scared, I nodded and turned to start rinsing the plates. He gathered his hoodie from the peg by the door and slipped out without another word.
Only after the door closed did I finally exhale.
