“You’re staring,” Delaney says without looking up. She folds a T-shirt with military precision—corners tucked, edges aligned. Efficient. Like everything she does.
“Just thinking.”
“Dangerous habit.” She sets the shirt in the box and reaches for another. “You might hurt yourself.”
Kitty laughs from the doorway, where she’s been hovering with a roll of packing tape and watery eyes. “She’s been like this all morning. Extra prickly.”
“I’m not prickly. I’m efficient.” Delaney’s jaw tightens. “The faster we do this, the faster it’s done.”
Her hands hesitate over a small jewelry box—cheap wood, chipped at the corners. She opens it, and I catch a glimpse of a thin tarnished chain with a charm attached before she snaps it shut and tucks it into the box with more care than anything else.
Her mother’s, maybe. The only thing she kept.
“That’s the last of it,” she says, straightening. “Told you it wouldn’t take long.”
Kitty’s face crumples. “Laney?—”
“Don’t.” Delaney holds up a hand, but her voice softens. “Don’t make this a thing. I’m moving fifteen minutes away. You’ll see me constantly. I’ll probably still steal your coffee.”
“It’s not the same.”
“No.” Delaney crosses to her sister and pulls her into a hug. “It’s not. But it’s good. This is good.”
I look away, giving them the moment. My eyes land on the boxes again.
I want to fill her life with things that matter. Starting now.
The drive to Stoneridge takes twelve minutes. Delaney spends eleven of them staring out the window, one hand pressed flat against the box in her lap like she’s afraid it’ll disappear.
“You okay?”
“Fine.”
“Laney.”
She exhales. “It’s stupid. I’ve moved a hundred times. Apartments, sublets, that one month we slept in the car. This shouldn’t feel different.”
“But it does.”
“Yeah.” She turns to look at me. Her eyes are guarded, but underneath—underneath is something that looks almost like hope. “It does.”
I reach over and cover her hand with mine. She doesn’t pull away. Her fingers are cold, and I rub my thumb across her knuckles until they warm.
“Different can be good,” I say.
“So I keep hearing.”
We pull up at Stoneridge, and I park nose-out like always. Force of habit. She notices—she notices everything—but doesn’t comment.
I’m out of the truck and around to her side before she can open her door. She rolls her eyes but lets me help her down, and I usethe excuse to keep her hand in mine for an extra second. Her palm fits against mine as if it was made to be there.
Mine,something in me growls.She’s mine and she’s here and?—
“I can carry my own stuff,” she says when I reach for the boxes.
“I know. Let me anyway.”
“Daniel—”
