That gets something. A half-smile. A little exhale through his nose. Not quite forgiveness, but not judgment either.
Progress.
Maybe.
“Dr. Quinn said you need fluids. Food. Sleep.” His voice is like rain. Rejuvenating and fresh.
“Sounds fake,” I whisper.
Beck rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue. He just watches me, like he’s still not sure I’m real.
And honestly?
I’m not sure I am, either.
Some days, I wish my life was nothing but a bad dream I could shake myself awake from.
Because this shouldn’t be happening. I shouldn’t be in this house. In this bed. Wrapped in the scent of the only guy who ever looked at me andsawme. All of me.
Not the rebel girl who wants drama. Or the Marsh daughter with expectations pressing down on her.
But I’m broken now.
And he still hasn’t told me to leave.
Why hasn’t he kicked me out?
I would kick me out.
He disappears for a minute. I hear cabinets open, the quiet clink of a mug, the low hum of his kettle coming to life. The sounds are so normal they almost hurt, heavy with something familiar that I haven’t allowed myself to think about in a very long time.
When he comes back, he’s carrying a steaming mug in one hand and a small plate in the other. Toast. Just toast with a little butter, cut diagonally like he used to do when I’d show up at hisplace half-starved after shifts at the flower shop. Back when the worst thing in my life was being too tired to make myself dinner.
My chest twists.
“I didn’t know what you could keep down,” he says gruffly, setting the plate on the little table by the bed. “Figured bland was better.”
I swallow, ignoring the sting behind my eyes. “Thanks.”
He doesn’t respond. Just hands me the mug. Warm ceramic against my palms, smelling of chamomile and a hint of honey.
My favorite.
He remembered.
After all these years.
“Don’t gulp it,” he warns, settling into the chair across the room. “You’ll make yourself sick.”
“Yes, Dad,” I mutter, but the words come out too soft to land with any real bite.
He huffs, but his gaze is still locked on me, careful and assessing.
I take a small sip, then another, the tea sliding warm down my throat. My stomach growls at the smell of toast, but it feels wrong to eat in front of him like this. I might as well be taking something I haven’t earned.
Still, I force myself to pick up a triangle, breaking off a corner to nibble.
After a while, the silence turns thick and awkward. I glance up to find him rubbing a hand over his jaw, as if he’s working up to something.
