Brendon blinks, caught off guard. “You saved your own life by listening to the sitter and getting out when she told you.”
“But you carried me,” Daisy says, matter-of-fact.
He glances at me again, and something passes between us that makes my stomach flip.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “I carried you.”
My throat swells again, and I rush to finish dinner. We sit at the table, and Daisy talks between bites, sauce on her chin, telling the story again. She adds details that didn’t happen. She embellishes. She makes Brendon sound like a superhero who walked through fire like it was nothing.
Brendon doesn’t correct her. He just smiles and listens.
That’s what gets me.
Not the rescue. Not the uniform. Not the way he looks older and broader and impossibly real.
The way he listens to my kid like every word she says is fascinating.
He eats too, politely, even though I can tell he’s tired. His gaze keeps drifting around the house. Not in judgment. In quiet observation.
As if he’s trying to learn the shape of my life.
I hate how much I want him to like what he sees.
After dinner, Daisy hops down and announces she’s going to brush her teeth. Leaving the two of us alone in the kitchen with the clink of plates and the hum of the refrigerator.
Brendon stands and starts clearing dishes before I can stop him.
“You don’t have to,” I say, but it comes out less firm than I intend.
“I know,” he replies, stacking plates carefully. “I want to.”
He carries them to the sink. I move beside him, turning on the water, letting it run hot. I roll up my sleeves, because if my hands are busy, maybe my thoughts won’t be.
We fall into a rhythm: he rinses, I wash, I pass, he dries. His forearms flex as he dries. There’s a faint scar near his wrist I don’t remember. He’s lived a whole life I don’t know anything about.
My heart hitches again.
“You own the café,” he says, like he’s confirming something he wasn’t sure he had the right to know.
“Yeah,” I answer, forcing casual. “I bought it three years ago.”
“That…” He exhales, almost a laugh. “That suits you.”
“What does that mean?”
“That you did it,” he says, voice low. “You always said you wanted something that was yours.”
I swallow hard. I did say that. Back when we were kids and our dreams felt like things we could just reach out and grab.
Back when my mom was still alive. Back when I didn’t know what it felt like to build a life out of ashes.
“You kept tabs on me,” I say before I can stop myself.
He stills, dish towel in hand. “I did.”
“How?” My voice is sharper than I intend.
He looks at me, steady. “My mom still lives here. She talks. The town talks. Social media exists.”
