“Last chance to run,” I murmured.
He glanced over at me, mouth twitching. “Is that for me or for you?”
“Definitely you,” I said. “Once you enter, you may never be allowed to leave.”
“Good,” he said, and there was nothing joking about that word at all. “I’m counting on that.”
The porch light clicked on before we reached the steps.
The door opened halfway, and my mother peeked out like she’d been listening for the sound of tires on snow. Her face broke into a smile that undid something behind my ribs.
“Amelia,” she said, pushing the door all the way open. “You made it.”
“We made it,” I corrected, stepping aside so she could see him.
Levi straightened a little, not in that parade-ground way, but in the quiet, respectful way he used with people he cared about. Or wanted to.
“Mrs. Emerson,” he said. “It’s good to finally meet you.”
“Jo,” she said immediately, wiping her hands on her sweater before offering one. “I’m only Mrs. Emerson when I’m signing petitions.”
He shook her hand, careful and firm, like he was afraid he’d break her if he used his full strength. Her eyes flicked to me over his shoulder, and the look there—fondness, relief, naked curiosity—made my throat feel tight.
“Come in, come in,” she said, stepping back. “It’s freezing out there. Your father’s pretending he isn’t peeking through the kitchen window.”
“I heard that,” Dad called from somewhere inside. “And it’s called situational awareness.”
Levi’s mouth curled. “I like him already.”
We stepped into the warmth.
The house hadn’t changed much. Same narrow entryway, same cluttered corkboard with overlapping appointment cards and political cartoons, same coat hooks overloaded with winter gear. The smell was the same, too—onions and garlic and something yeasty rising on the counter.
Home. Layered with new edges now, new shadows, but still home.
By the time I’d kicked off my boots and hung my coat, Dad appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, dish towel over one shoulder.
He took Levi in with a single, thorough look. Not hostile. Just … measuring. The way he’d once looked at my first DSLR, weighing its capabilities and flaws.
“Mr. Dane,” he said, offering a hand.
“Mr. Emerson,” Levi said. “Call me Levi.”
Their grips met in the air between them, two men trying not to squeeze too hard and failing.
“Name’s solid,” Dad said, releasing him. “I had a dog named Levi once.”
“Dad,” I groaned.
He grinned at me unabashedly, then turned back to Levi. “You take care of my girl down there in your billionaire bunker?”
“Every second I get,” Levi said, simple and unflinching.
Something in my father’s shoulders eased.
“Then you’re welcome at my table,” he said. “Come on. Soup’s on. Your mother’s been stress-cooking since you texted from the airport.”
Dinner was loud and normal and strange all at once.
