Linc opened the front door, and the smell of leather and cedar hit me hard. It wrapped around me, feeling both familiar and grounding. It was him. It was home. But it was also suffocating. I stood in the doorway, clutching my bag to my chest, my pulse thrumming.
“This isn’t permanent,” I whispered.
Behind me, Lincoln brushed past, carrying two of my suitcases like they were weightless. “You talking to yourself already? We’ve barely started.”
“Just marking the days until I can move back to my own space,” I shot back.
He placed the boxes in the bedroom, straightened, and looked at me with an expression I couldn’t read. “Your own space won’t be possible for quite some time. This’ll have to do.”
His words stung more than I wanted to admit. My chest tightened, but I forced a bright smile that felt like glass cracking. “Then I guess I’ll just have to find a place you won’t be in.”
Lincoln groaned. “God help me.”
I followed him up the stairs, the floorboards creaking softly beneath our feet. He walked into one of the bedrooms and set my suitcase down with a thud. The zipper burst open, scattering clothes across the floor. Of course, it had to be the bag with my lingerie.
My stomach flipped.
“My room’s the one to the left,” he said.
“You don’t sleep in the room downstairs?” I asked as he turned to go.
“Nope, that was for us. Didn’t feel right to be in there without you.” His voice was gentle, but it settled in my chest like something too heavy to lift. Three years ago, walking away had seemed like a brave decision. Now, it just felt like a wound I’d never let heal.
I didn’t go downstairs right away. I unpacked, checked emails, ran through a few orders for my business, anything to delay facing him again. When I finally emerged, the smell of chili simmering filled the air, warm and spicy. Lincoln’s boots sat neatly by the door, his jacket draped over the back of a chair.
I stood in the kitchen doorway, my hip aching, ribs stiff, arms crossed. He was at the stove, stirring the pot as if it were second nature. Steam curled into the air, catching the light from the window, and for a strange moment, I felt something inside me unclench.
“You don’t measure anything, do you?” I asked, watching him dump in more spice.
“Don’t need to.”
“Some of us like food that doesn’t taste like fire,” I said, stepping closer.
He glanced over, lips twitching. “Relax, princess. You’ll live.”
I hated the way my mouth wanted to curve in response. I remembered how many nights we’d lived on his cooking, sitting on the porch until the stars came out. Before everything fell apart.
I turned away, setting the table, fetching the beer he liked from the fridge. My hand shook as I poured my water. “This doesn’t mean we’re playing house.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” he murmured.
We ate in near silence. The scrape of spoons, the low hum of the heater, the rhythmic tick of the clock filled the space. Every time his knee brushed mine, heat rippled up my leg. I told myself it was just the small table.
After dinner, he tried to shoo me to the couch while he washed dishes, but pride made me insist. I rolled up my sleeves, ignoring the pain in my ribs, and scrubbed the plates until my arms ached.
Lincoln moved in behind me, close enough that I could feel the warmth of him at my back. He reached past me to rinse a bowl, his arm brushing mine.
“Careful,” he said low. “You’ll make yourself even more sore than you are now.”
I froze. The plate slipped under the suds. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t act like you still get to care.” The silence that followed was heavy.
Finally, he stepped back. “Fine. Do whatever you want, Tin.”
The nickname still hit like a soft blow. It shouldn’t have made me feel safe, but it did.
