"Here." I reached for the bouquet. Our fingers brushed in the exchange. It was brief, electric, and impossible to ignore. "Let me find something worthy of these. They're beautiful."
"They're just wildflowers," he said, but he looked pleased.
I busied myself finding a tall mason jar and filling it with water, arranging the blooms as artfully as I could manage while he stood there with his hands empty, looking unsure of what to do with them.
"Sit," I said, nodding toward my small kitchen table. "I promise the chair can handle you. It's sturdier than it looks."
"That's exactly what they said about the school chairs." But he moved toward the table and sat carefully, the wood creaking in mild protest beneath his weight. "Those mostly held up."
"Mostly?"
"There was one concerning moment during the craft event. I tried not to breathe too deeply."
I laughed, the sound surprising me with its genuineness. "Coffee's fresh. Just made it. Cream? Sugar?"
"Black is fine."
"A purist. I should have guessed."
"I like things… simple," he said. "Uncomplicated. Simple is good."
I brought two steaming mugs over and settled into the chair across from him. The wildflowers sat between us on the worn wooden table, a riot of color against the plain surface. For a long moment, we just sipped our coffee in a strangely comfortable silence. It was charged but not awkward.
"How's Sarah doing?" I asked finally, finding the safest thread to pull.
He relaxed visibly at the question, the tension in his broad shoulders easing. "Good. Really good, actually. She painted a bee with her new watercolors. It's... abstract."
"Abstract good or abstract concerning?"
"Abstract'I'm hanging it on the fridge and hoping it's not a cry for help.'" A faint, self-deprecating smile touched his lips. "I told her it was beautiful. She said I was lying but she appreciated the effort."
"Smart kid."
"Too smart. She gets that from Rebecca." His smile faded slightly. "She hasn't mentioned the incident from the party again. Whatever you said to her in that bathroom really stuck."
"I'm glad it helped. What did she tell you about our conversation?"
"Just that you said her mom would be proud of her bee cake. And that her feelings aren't wrong, just feelings." He met my eyes, genuinely curious. "What else did you say? How did you calm her down so fast?"
"Just a few things to validate her emotions and let her know that I understand how she feels." I traced the rim of my mug absently.
"Simple as that?"
"Kids don't need complicated explanations, Cole. They just need permission to feel what they're already feeling. Adults make everything harder than it needs to be."
He was quiet for a moment, turning his mug slowly in those massive, capable hands. "I don't always know how to give her that permission. Rebecca would have known instinctively. She was all warmth and light and intuition."
"Tell me about her," I said softly. "Rebecca."
The words came out before I could second-guess the intimacy of the request. He looked up, something flickering in his blue eyes—surprise, then gratitude for the invitation.
"She was warm," he said slowly, carefully choosing each word. "Pure, genuine warmth. The kind of person who made everyone feel like the most important person in the room just by paying attention to them." He almost smiled at a memory. "I'm more..."
"Pragmatic?"
"I was going to say 'emotionally constipated,' but pragmatic works too. Sounds more dignified."
I laughed again, and he seemed pleased by the sound.
