“Tall enough,” I mutter, because that’s easier than saying, They’re up there because I don’t use them unless someone I care about is here, and that’s only been Tiffany and the occasional biker I’m too annoyed to tell to go home.
Holley gets on her toes trying to reach one.
I take exactly two steps and pluck it down for her.
She pretends not to notice how close I stand.
I pretend not to notice how good she smells—like soap and warm skin and the lingering hint of my sheets.
“Thank you,” she says, smiling over her shoulder.
My heart does something stupid in my chest.
I cover it with a grunt and go sit at the table before she notices.
But she does notice. She always notices.
She sets the mug down, pours coffee, and then carries two plates of eggs and toast over like it’s normal. Like she’s done it for years. Like this is her kitchen too.
And maybe that’s the part messing with my head the most.
It feels right.
It feels like something I want.
And that scares the hell out of me.
She slides into the seat next to mine—not across, not at a polite distance, but close enough that our knees touch.
“You okay?” she asks.
“Fine.”
She gives me a look that says: stop lying.
“I’m fine,” I repeat, slower, because that’s the version of the truth I’m willing to give.
She takes a bite of toast, watches me silently for a moment, then says, “You’re doing that thing where you stare at the table like it offended you.”
“The table’s innocent,” I say.
She bumps her leg against mine. “Then tell me what’s bothering you.”
“Nothing.”
“Tony.”
I sigh, run a hand through my hair. “I’m adjusting.”
Her brow lifts. “To what?”
I gesture vaguely around the kitchen. “This.”
She blinks. “A kitchen?”
“No,” I say. “You. In it.”
Her cheeks warm.
