But the moment’s gone. And now, with Kate’s suitcases lined by the door and the morning sun bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows, everything feels rawer, more fragile.
Dean is in the kitchen. And of course, he’s not the kind of man who throws together cereal and burnt toast. No—he’s a man who conquers breakfast like it’s a battlefield.
He set the long dining table as if he were hosting a banquet, with crystal glasses catching the light and fresh linen napkins precisely folded. Platters steam with golden croissants, their edges flaking at the faintest touch. There’s a stack of crepes as thin as silk scarves, dusted with powdered sugar and crowned with blackberries that glisten like jewels. Fresh-squeezed orangejuice glows in a crystal decanter beside a pot of coffee so rich it perfumes the whole room.
He moves through it all like a king presiding over his kingdom, sleeves rolled up, veins flexing as he pours melted chocolate into a porcelain dish like even sugar should bend to his command.
Kate sits at the table, still groggy, hair tied up in a messy bun, her oversized hoodie swallowing her frame. She yawns, completely oblivious to the storm that’s still raging between me and her father.
“Jesus, Dad,” she mutters, reaching for a croissant. “This isn’t breakfast—it’s Versailles.”
Dean smirks faintly, setting the pot of coffee down. “It’s called effort, Kate. Something you’d understand if you ever cooked anything more complicated than ramen.”
She rolls her eyes, but there’s fondness in them. Familiar banter. Easy.
And then her gaze slides to me. “Don’t let him fool you—he only cooks like this when he wants to impress someone.”
Heat scorches my cheeks before I can stop it, and Dean’s eyes flick to mine, sharp, knowing, lingering a second too long. My chest tightens.
Kate, of course, notices none of it. She’s too busy piling her plate high, laughing as she butters bread with far too much enthusiasm.
I can’t eat. My stomach is in a knot, too twisted with the taste of last night, too full of the unspoken hanging heavy between me and the man across the table.
It’s the strangest contradiction—lavish abundance on the table, but every bite feels laced with absence. Soon Kate will be gone, and then it will just be me. And him.
And I don’t know if I’m ready for that.
The smell of coffee is too rich, too dark, clinging to the back of my throat. I stir a sugar cube into the porcelain cup in front of me just to keep my hands from shaking, watching the swirl of white dissolve into black.
Kate chatters on, filling the silence the way she always does. “So, when I get back, I’m telling you right now, Brooklyn, you are not allowed to let my plants die. Last time you left the monstera by the window and it got crispy.”
I manage a smile, nodding like my chest isn’t aching. “I’ll keep them alive. Promise.”
Her grin is wide and easy, and I hate I envy it. She does not know that the surrounding air is dangerous, charged, like we’re all sitting at the edge of a live wire.
Dean doesn’t say much. He doesn’t have to. He sits at the head of the table, his fork moving in slow, deliberate motions, cutting into a stack of crepes with the precision of a man who never loses control. But every time my eyes flick to him—against my better judgment—I catch him already looking at me.
Not in a way Kate would ever pick up on. He’s too skilled at hiding in plain sight. But I feel it in my bones. The weight of him. The claim in his silence.
I force myself to reach for a croissant, tearing a piece off to distract myself. Flakes scatter onto the plate, soft and golden, and I chew even though my throat is too tight to swallow.
Kate leans back in her chair, sipping orange juice like champagne. “This is insane, Dad. Seriously. Do you even know how much food you made? You trying to feed a small army?”
Dean wipes the corner of his mouth with a linen napkin, his voice smooth, unreadable. “It’s your last morning here. I thought it deserved something more than dry cereal.”
“God, you’re so dramatic,” Kate laughs. “But I’m not complaining. This is better than any other brunch spot.” Sheglances at me, eyes twinkling. “See? He’s not all business. Sometimes he surprises you.”
The spoon trembles in my hand, rattling against the cup. I drop it too quickly, pretending it’s fine, pretending I’m fine.
Dean’s gaze pins me in place across the table, sharp enough to strip me bare. His daughter sits right there, blissfully unaware, and still—still—he looks at me like he already knows what I taste like. Like he’s remembering.
“Brooklyn?” Kate nudges me. “You okay?”
I clear my throat, plastering on a smile that feels brittle. “Yeah. Just… not that hungry.”
“Good thing Dad made enough for me, then,” she teases, reaching for another crepe.
Dean’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, and my pulse stumbles. I don’t know why it feels like punishment, but it does. Like my refusal to eat what he made is some kind of rebellion he won’t forget.
