“That’s true,” Falkor admits, looking almost sheepish. “I was too worried. You were gone for so long. All I did was watch the clock. Kept listening for the sound of a car pulling up.” His eyes get a little hazy, and his voice trembles. “I was so worried they’d caught you. I’m so glad you’re both okay.”
My chest tightens.
Wren’s eyes are shining with unshed tears. She leans down and wraps her arms around Falkor’s shoulders, hugging him tight.
“Thank you for everything,” she tells him.
He pats her arm, his own eyes misty. He clears his throat. “I’m glad I can help. Even if it’s just in this small way.”
“It’s not small,” Wren whispers against his shoulder. “It’s everything.” After a moment, she pulls back and gives him a watery smile. “Now, go to bed. We’ve got this.”
Falkor nods, standing slowly. His movements are stiff, like his bones ache.
“You’re good kids. Both of you.” He shuffles toward the hallway, then pauses and looks back. “I really do love having you here. This old house feels alive again with voices in it. With people to care for.”
“We love being here too,” Wren says, smiling.
I nod.
Falkor gives us one last smile before disappearing down the hallway.
The kitchen falls silent, and instantly the tension builds.
Wren and I just stand there for a moment, looking at the table full of dirty dishes. Then she moves, clearing the plates.
I grab a few glasses and follow her to the sink, setting them down on the counter. She scrapes the leftover food into the trash while I turn on the faucet, testing the temperature with my fingers until it runs hot.
I squirt dish soap into the filling sink, watching it foam up.
Wren brings over the last of the dishes and sets them on the counter next to me. Then she grabs a dish towel and positions herself to my right, ready to dry.
For a while, we work in comfortable silence. I wash, she dries.
It’s…peaceful.
I hand her a clean plate, and our fingers brush. That familiar spark of electricity shoots up my arm. I know she feels it, too, because her breath catches for a second.
Neither of us acknowledges it.
I finish washing the last pot and drain the sink, then grab a clean cloth from the drawer and start wiping the counter.
Wren finishes drying the dishes and puts them away in the cabinet. Then she wipes down the table.
When she’s done, she turns to me.
“I guess Falkor could scent you on me earlier,” she says. Her voice is careful, like she’s testing the waters of a conversation neither of us wants to have.
I nod. “Yeah, that’s probably it. I mean, it would’ve been hard to miss. It’s not like we could run straight for the shower when we got home. We had to greet Falkor first.”
She nods, leaning on the edge of the kitchen table. She’s wearing black spandex pants and a simple gray T-shirt. More of the gym clothes we took.
Nothing fancy, yet she somehow manages to look amazing.
I lean back against the counter, crossing my arms over my chest, facing her.
“He was so worried when we left,” Wren says.
The silence stretches between us again.
