A sly half smile lifted one side of his mouth. “Because I’m starving, and if I stay here much longer, I’m going to eat whatever weird cheese you’ve got aging in that fridge.”
I snorted. “It’s not weird. It’s imported.”
His face twisted in disgust. “It’s moldy and suspicious.”
I rolled my eyes. “Fine. Let’s go get something, but I’m not changing.”
His gaze swept over me slowly, taking in my faded jeans and soft, loose sweater like I was wrapped in silk. “You’re perfect.”
Heat licked up my neck. “Where did you have in mind?”
“There’s that little place on the corner. The one with the red vinyl booths and the pancakes as big as your head?”
“Trudy’s?” I asked.
He snapped his fingers. “That’s the one. But I need to stop by my place first—wallet, hoodie, maybe shoes ...” He looked down at his socked feet, one brow raised. “Unless we’re going for full domestic bliss and you want to hold hands while wearing house slippers.”
The wordsdomestic blissclanged against something inside me, but I shoved it aside. “Grab your stuff. I’ll lock up.”
We walked the short distance to his apartment side by side, the wind tugging strands of hair from my ponytail and making the hem of my sweater flap against my thighs. It wasn’t cold yet, not really, but the air had that soft bite that hinted at what was coming.
He reached his door first and held it open with a little bow. “Welcome to my humble ... rental.”
The space was not exactly what I expected.
There wasn’t clutter, but it felt temporary, like someone who hadn’t fully unpacked. The couch was clean but threadbare, a mismatched blanket draped across the back like it had been stolen from an old camp trunk. His familiar pair of worn boots sat beside the door. The coffee table was stacked with a few books, a sports magazine, a half-finished water bottle, and a single photo in a basic black frame.
I paused.
In it, two boys grinned at the camera—one older, arms thrown around the shoulders of a younger kid with sun-bleached hair and a stubborn chin.
Brody and Austin.
I moved closer, studying the way the boys leaned into each other, full of that unspoken trust that lives between kids before the world gets too loud.
Austin returned from upstairs, now wearing a faded gray hoodie and jeans that hung low on his hips. He saw where my gaze had landed and paused, something flickering behind his eyes—quick, unreadable.
“That was the only summer we got to spend together,” he said, his voice quieter. “Before the moms put an end to it.”
I knew a little bit about Clint Sheperd’s history. He was a well-respected officer who had cheated on his wife, Terri, and gotten the other woman pregnant—with Austin, presumably. It made my heart hurt to think of their cute little kid faces and how they were allowed only a single summer together. It was a time before adolescence and adult drama sank its claws in.
I offered a soft smile. “You kept it.”
His shrug was casual, but the muscles in his jaw tightened just enough for me to notice. “It’s the only picture I had of us. Figured it deserved a frame.”
I didn’t ask why it was the only one. I didn’t have to. Some wounds don’t bleed—they calcify.
I stepped forward and brushed my hand lightly across his as he passed.
Austin looked at the spot on his hand where I’d touched him, but changed the subject. “You ready? I found out the hard way that Trudy’s closes early if they’re short on staff.”
“Let’s go,” I said, letting him nudge us past the moment, but I stored the flicker of pain away.
The walk into town was quiet at first, but not uncomfortable. Our strides synced without even trying. His shoulder bumped mine once, and neither of us moved away.
It felt like something new—like playing house, but outside the house.
We passed the bookstore, the fire station, and a chalkboard sign outside the coffee shop that readPumpkin Everything. People waved and I waved back. A few glanced curiously between us.
