The air thickens, charged with the ghosts of that weekend. It’s there in the way he looks at me, in the way my pulse stutters under his gaze.
Suddenly, I can feel the memory like it’s happening all over again: his hands, callused but careful, tracing fire across my skin.
His voice, gruff at first and then bleeding into gentleness, unraveling into something that almost sounded like a plea as I came undone in his arms.
In the dim glow of my dad’s living room, he’d touched me like he was trying to memorize me.
Every sigh, every tremor, every quiet laugh I couldn’t hold back, he’d been the anchor I didn’t know I needed.
His softness had been hidden under all that quiet strength.
And for a brief, dangerous moment, I’d let myself believe it could be more than what it was.
Grant clears his throat suddenly, cutting through it.
The sound snaps me back to the present, to the shop, to the smell of pine and cranberry melts and the faint creak of the wooden floor under his boots.
He shifts his weight, rubbing the back of his neck. “I…came into town for your dad’s birthday. We all did, actually.”
My eyes widen as the realization sinks in.
Of course.Of course.
It’s not the first milestone they’ve returned for.
How could I have not thought of that?
Dad’s been wishy-washy about his plans since I asked last week.
It makes sense why he didn’t have anything solidly planned.
My throat tightens as I nod slowly. “Right. His big five-oh.”
Grant’s mouth twitches, a mix between a smile and a grimace.
“Yeah. He’s…making a whole thing out of it this time. Said he wanted to do something special with all of us. You, me, Dean, Cal…and,” he hesitates, eyes flicking to me, “his grandson.”
The word hits me like a physical blow.
My heart stutters in my chest, the air leaving me all at once.
It’s as if the entire shop goes silent, and just the echo of that word rings in my ears.
Grandson.
Oh god.
I can feel his eyes on me, unblinking, searching.
He’s studying me the way only Grant can.
Waiting for me to flinch, to look away and give myself away.
He doesn’t say another word, but he doesn’t have to. The weight of his silence does all the talking for him.
He’s watching my every movement—the subtle rise and fall of my chest, the slight tremor in my hands where they rest at my sides.
He’s looking for the smallest crack in my expression, for any sign to confirm what, deep down, I think he already suspects.
