I busied myself wiping the counter, even though it didn’t need it. My mind felt louder than the music. Louder than the dishes or the hum of the fridge.
It wasn’t just that he stayed.
It was thewayhe stayed.
Unrushed. Unbothered. It was as if I didn’t need to be entertaining or funny or accommodating. It was almost like it was enough that I was just here, in my kitchen, breathing beside him.
I swallowed hard and leaned against the edge of the counter, watching him stack the glasses to dry.
Brian used to do the dishes, too, at first. He’d tell me to go sit down, to rest. That I did too much and I’d believed him.
Until it changed.
Until I was doing too little, asking too much, being too needy, too tired, too soft. Until the very things he’d once found endearing became evidence of my failure.
A different ache bloomed behind my ribs. I shook it off and reached for the wine, pouring the last splash into my glass.
Austin turned to say something but paused, eyes searching mine.
“You’re somewhere else,” he said.
I forced a smile. “Just tired.”
He didn’t press, and I was grateful, because the truth was tangled and complicated.
The truth was, he made me feel too safe, too solid, and that was the danger. Not because I didn’t want it, but because a part of me was starting to believe he might actually be different.
That maybe I wasn’t the only one here hoping this could be more than what we were pretending it was.
I looked over at him again, lit by the glow of the kitchen light, jaw shadowed with stubble, towel slung over his shoulder like he was made to be in this exact moment.
And still humming.
Heaven help me, I was starting to hope.
I expected him to make a move, maybe kiss me again or reach for more. Instead, he rinsed the last dish, shut off the tap, and turned to me with a smile that didn’t ask for anything. “I think you should take a bath.”
The words caught me off guard. “I—what?”
“You’ve got the house all to yourself.” He nodded toward the hallway. “Go take a long, hot bath. Put on music. Breathe.”
My instinct was to deflect—to say I didn’t need that. To stay standing in this kitchen like I had something to prove, but Austin was already drying his hands. He walked past me and upstairs toward my bathroom like it was a foregone conclusion. I followed him up, and by the time I stepped in behind him, steam was curling against the mirror as the tub filled.
He reached for a bottle and held it up, his eyes flicking to mine. “Is lavender honey okay? I found it in the linen closet.”
I nodded. He had found the bubble bath tucked behind the soaps I used only when I wanted to pretend I was the kind of woman who had time for long soaks and luxury.
“I knew it.” He poured slowly, letting it foam and build, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Knew what?” I stepped closer.
His cheeks pinched. “That you’re a bubble bath girl.”
“I’m a haven’t-had-a-minute-to-myself-in-months girl,” I said dryly.
He chuckled, then straightened. I realized, too late, that he wasn’t leaving.
Austin stepped close, hands finding the hem of my dress. He didn’t say anything—just waited, eyes steady on mine, giving me every chance to back out.
