I settled onto the bed beside her, handing her a fork. "Your mom sounds like she was good at that."
Joy nodded, taking a bite of omelet. Her eyes closed briefly, a soft sound of approval escaping her. "She was. Is. She's ... she's everything."
Something in my chest shifted.
"My mom used to let us sleep in her bed when we were sick," I said, the words coming out before I could stop them. "All of us. Seven boys, piled in like puppies. She'd make soup and read to us and pretend she wasn't exhausted."
Joy's gaze softened. "That sounds perfect."
"It was the safest I ever felt," I admitted. Then paused, frowning. "Isn't that strange?"
"No," Joy said immediately. "It's not strange at all."
I stared at my plate, not sure what to do with the weight of that memory now that it was out in the open.
Joy shifted closer, her knee brushing mine under the sheet. "Tell me about your family."
I took a bite of toast, chewing slowly, buying time.
"Six brothers," I said finally. "All military, like me. Grew up in Montana. Middle of nowhere. We camped, hunted, fished, rode horses when we could afford to keep them. Tended livestock. Generally made our mother want to pull her hair out."
Joy smiled. "I doubt that."
I didn't disagree.
Because she was right.
We'd been good kids. Rough around the edges, sure. Wild in the way boys raised in the mountains were wild. But good.
Up until my father died. Or disappeared. Or whatever the hell had happened to him.
After that, things changed.
I changed.
But I didn't tell Joy that. My life was changing, but not that fast. Not yet.
Instead, I let her fill the silence.
And she did—easily, naturally, like she was used to carrying conversations when other people went quiet. She told me about her shop. About Britney, who was young and eager and sometimes tried too hard. About brides who cried over bouquets and grooms who forgot anniversaries and needed last-minute arrangements. About her family on Wadmalaw Island—her parents, her siblings, the farm that had raised them all.
Her voice washed over me, warm and steady, and I realized something startling.
If I lost my voice forever, I could listen to her for an eternity.
How strange to think that way.
How dangerous.
I finished my omelet and reached for the coffee pot I'd brought in. "Refill?"
She held out her mug with a smile. "Please."
I poured, watching the steam curl up between us, and felt something settle.
Peace, maybe.
Or the beginning of it.
