I turn to find him standing at the top of the staircase, clutching his worn backpack like a security blanket. He’s changed out of the too-big clothes from earlier into jeans and a sweater that actually fit. But his eyes remain too serious and watchful for a seven-year-old.
“Does it work?” I ask.
I meant what I told him in the car. None of this is his fault, and he doesn’t deserve to bear the brunt of my frustration.
He nods, pointing toward the living room. “Mama used it sometimes when the power went out. There’s wood on the back porch.”
“Smart kid,” Ethan says, running a hand through his hair, dislodging cobwebs but leaving a smudge of grease on his forehead that I have a ridiculous urge to wipe away.
Ethan moves past me, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. His rolled up sleeves reveal the strong forearms I used to trace with my fingertips during lazy Sunday mornings. I force myself to look away before my body can fully remember how those muscles felt flexing under my touch.
“I’ll check the flue and get a fire started,” he adds.
“I’ll see what’s in the kitchen,” I say, more to escape the suddenly suffocating atmosphere than because I’m particularly eager to inventory Britney’s food supplies.
The kitchen is a disaster, just like the rest of the house. Dirty dishes fill the sink, and the refrigerator hums like it’s on its last legs.
But when I open the cabinets, I’m surprised to find them reasonably well-stocked. Canned goods, pasta and rice. The basics of survival, if not exactly gourmet dining.
Britney might have been a terrible mother and an even worse sister, but at least she kept food in the house.
I’m pulling ingredients for spaghetti when I hear Ethan’s voice drifting from the living room, as he talks Axel through the process of building a fire. Something about kindling and airflow and the importance of dry wood. The kind of practical knowledge a father might pass down to his son.
My hands still on the can of tomato sauce I’m holding.
His son.
The thoughts I’ve been avoiding all afternoon. The reality I’ve been pushing away since the moment my sister announcedher pregnancy. Because if I let myself acknowledge their relationship, I might just lose what’s left of my composure.
“The trick is to start small and build up,” Ethan is saying, his voice carrying that easy authority he’s always had with practical things. “You want the fire to have room to breathe.”
“Like this?” Axel asks, and there’s something tentative but eager in his voice.
“Perfect. You’re a natural.”
For all his protests about not wanting to take custody, for all his cold dismissal in the social worker’s office, he’s being incredibly gentle with Axel. Patient in a way that reminds me of the man I fell in love with. The one who could fix anything and never made me feel stupid for not knowing how.
I dump the tomato sauce into a pot and try to focus on cooking. But I can’t stop listening to their conversation, can’t stop cataloging their voices and the way they both have that same habit of thinking before they speak.
From the living room, I hear the fire catch with a soft whoosh, and I gravitate toward the sound, drawn by the light and heat to find Ethan and Axel sitting cross-legged on the floor, feeding small pieces of wood to the growing flames.
“Smells good,” Ethan says without looking up, and it takes me a moment to realize he’s talking about the sauce simmering on the stove.
“It’s just jarred sauce and whatever pasta I could find,” I say, settling onto the sagging couch and tucking my feet under me. “Nothing fancy.”
“Still smells good.” This time he does look at me, and there’s something soft in his expression. His gaze lingers on my face for a beat too long, and I catch him studying my lips before he looks away. “Remember that time in college when you tried to make dinner for my birthday and nearly burned down your dorm kitchen?”
I can’t stop my smile. “The smoke alarm went off three times. My RA thought there was an actual fire.”
“You cried because you thought you’d ruined everything,” he continues, and when he grins at the memory and my stomach does a traitorous flip. “But it was still the best birthday dinner I’ve ever had.”
The moment stretches between us, and for a few seconds, we’re not two people destroyed by betrayal and heartbreak. We’re just Ethan and Cassidy, remembering what it felt like to be young and stupid and completely in love.
Then Axel shifts beside the fire, and reality crashes back over me.
“I should check on dinner,” I say, jumping up from the couch.
In the kitchen, I stir the sauce with shaking hands and try to get my breathing under control. This is temporary, I remind myself.
