After shooing Dean away to help Grant, I’m left in the kitchen for a few blissful minutes by myself again.
I take the time to pour the pasta back into the pot and bring it back over to the stove where the sauce is still simmering.
Combining it, I knead it together until everything’s nice and coated in a thick layer.
By the time I’ve got the garlic bread toasting in the toaster oven next to the microwave, Grant finds his way back into the kitchen.
He comes up behind me, his movements slow.
When he leans over my shoulder to peek at the pot, he’s close enough that I can feel the faint brush of his sleeve against my arm as he leans forward.
He hums approvingly, the sound rumbling in his chest. “You make this from scratch?”
I give a little shrug, trying to play it off as no big deal. “Yeah. I’m not an expert by any means but I’m pretty good at finding random stuff and putting it together. Hopefully it turned out good.”
Grant’s eyes flick up to mine, unreadable. “Richard’s lucky to have you around.”
The words are said with barely a thought, but something about the way he says it lands heavy over me.
He doesn’t mean for it to be a jab, I know that. There’s no judgment in his tone, no pointed edge. But the guilt still blooms fast and hot anyway.
He’s lucky to have you around.
Except I haven’t been.
The thought of my dad sitting here alone in this house, heating up leftover takeout and falling asleep in that worn recliner because the upstairs floor has gotten too quiet after I’d gone off to college is enough to make my stomach twist.
“I…yeah,” I manage after a moment, forcing a small smile. “Table all set?”
Grant nods once.
“Great. Let me grab the garlic bread.”
I glance at him from the corner of my eye while moving around the kitchen, studying the profile of his face—the strong line of his jaw, the faint scar near his temple, the way his brow furrows when he watches me move.
There’s something about him that feels settled.
Like he’s seen enough of the world to know exactly where he stands in it and isn’t afraid to show it.
I like that in a man.
He carries the pot into the dining room after I plate the garlic bread, the steam trailing after him in a thin ribbon.
The sound of his footsteps fade into the dining room, replaced by the low murmur of Dean and Callum’s voices as they pull chairs out and settle in.
Before following him, I turn back toward the pantry and tug it open.
I scan the rows until I spot a bottle tucked far into the corner, half-hidden behind a box of instant mashed potatoes and a jar of olives.
The glass is dusty, the label curling slightly at the edges, but the dark red liquid inside gleams when I pull it into the light.
I turn it in my hand, reading the name I don’t recognize:Cabernet Sauvignon.
Probably cheap.
Definitely old.
It had been gifted to Dad years ago during one of those raffle prizes from a local charity auction around Christmas time.
