I move too fast, suddenly aware of the living room. The throw blanket on the couch is folded neatly, but one pillow is slightly off-center. Daisy’s coloring book is on the coffee table. A stuffed bear is propped against the armchair because she insists it needs to “watch for bad dreams.”
All of it feels too intimate for his eyes.
Like I’ve been walking around in a robe and forgot to tie it.
“Sorry,” I say automatically, reaching down to straighten the pillow that doesn’t need straightening. “It’s a little messy.”
His mouth twitches. “It’s not messy.”
“It is to me,” I mutter, scooping up the coloring book and stacking it with the library books. My hands need a job. My brain is too loud without one.
He watches me, and I can feel the weight of his attention like heat against my skin.
“You always did that,” he says softly.
I freeze, coloring book in hand.
“Did what?” My voice comes out thin.
“Made things look put together and comfortable,” he says. “Even when you weren’t.”
My throat tightens. I set the book down carefully, as if it might break.
“That was a long time ago,” I say.
“Yeah,” he replies. There’s something in his tone that says he doesn’t think time erased as much as I want to make it seem.
Daisy comes skidding into the kitchen, hands wet, cheeks glowing. She’s already in her daisy pajamas, her hair damp and brushed back. She looks like a kid who thinks life is good and safe and full of surprises that end with spaghetti.
“Okay,” she says, hopping onto a stool at the island. “Dinner time.”
I laugh despite myself. “Someone sounds hungry.”
“I’m starving,” she declares.
Brendon leans a hip against the counter, giving Daisy his full attention. “What kind of spaghetti? With meatballs? Or just sauce?”
“With the good noodles,” Daisy says seriously. “The curly ones. And garlic bread.”
Brendon nods like this is an official order. “Curly noodles and garlic bread. Got it.”
Daisy’s grin spreads so wide it makes my chest ache.
I grab a pot, fill it with water, set it on the stove. My movements are automatic, calming. Cooking is one of the few places I don’t second-guess myself anymore. It’s simple. Feed your kid. Keep the house warm. Keep the lights on.
Keep going.
Brendon shifts. “Do you want me to help?”
My first instinct is to say no. Not because I can’t use the help, but because letting him help means letting him belong.
But Daisy is watching us, her gaze bouncing between us like she’s trying to connect invisible dots.
“Sure,” I say carefully. “You can set the table?”
He nods, relief flickering across his face like he’s grateful for the assignment. He opens drawers without asking, stopping when he realizes he doesn’t know where anything is. That, at least, gives me some control back.
“The plates are in that cabinet,” I say, pointing. “And the forks are there.”
