I sighed with fond exasperation. Cole's mouth twitched with suppressed amusement.
"Caterpillar emergency?" he asked.
"Constant vigilance required with this group." I turned back to him, refusing to let the important moment slip away entirely. "You're not just improvising, Cole. You keep showing up for Sarah when she needs you to."
"That's just?—"
"That's loving her," I interrupted firmly before he could dismiss it. "The best way you know how. And honestly? It's a pretty wonderful way."
He was quiet for a long moment, his jaw working with suppressed emotion.
"What if my best isn't enough?" The question was barely a whisper, as if giving it full volume would make it too real, too dangerous.
"It is." I reached out without thinking, covering his hand where it rested on his knee. His skin was warm, the calluses rough against my palm. He went very still, barely breathing. "Sarah adores you completely. She feels safe with you. She knows in her bones that you're her person. That's what matters, Cole. That's everything."
He looked down at our joined hands, then back at my face. The raw vulnerability in his expression nearly undid me completely.
"The foster homes weren't all bad," he said slowly, not pulling away from my touch. "Some were just... empty. You'd sit at dinner and no one would ask about your day. Come home with a good grade and no one would even notice."
"That sounds just as bad."
"It was efficient." His mouth twisted slightly. "You learn not to want things. Not a hug, not praise, not seconds at dinner. Wanting was just a shortcut to inevitable disappointment."
"But you wanted things anyway."
"Rebecca did. She wanted everything, in her loud, reckless, unapologetic way." His voice softened with memory. "I just wanted her to be okay. To be safe. Now I want Sarah to be okay. And I don't know if wanting something hard enough is ever enough to make it actually happen."
"It's a start," I said quietly. "Wanting is always the start of everything."
We sat with that for a moment, letting it breathe. The children's laughter drifted back, punctuated by Leo's excitedannouncement that the caterpillar had made a break for freedom into the tall grass.
"What about you?" Cole asked, his thumb moving almost imperceptibly against my hand, sending electricity up my arm. "What do you want, Emma?"
The question caught me completely off guard. I looked away, toward the mountains I'd learned to stop seeing.
"My dad calls," I heard myself say, the words escaping before I could stop them. "Every single week, like clockwork. And I just... can't make myself answer."
"Why not?"
"Because every conversation becomes a minefield. He'll casually mention my mom's favorite recipe, or ask if I've visited Lily's favorite trail lately." I swallowed hard against the tightness in my throat. "It's not his fault. He's grieving too, probably worse than me. But talking to him makes everything real again. Makes me face the family I couldn't manage to keep together."
"So you built yourself a new life where the reminders are different."
I looked at him, startled by his quiet perception. "Yes. Exactly that."
"Does it actually work?"
I managed a small, fragile smile. "Sometimes."
The afternoon sun had shifted while we talked, casting long golden shadows across the weathered porch boards. Dust motes floated lazily in the warm light like tiny stars. I realized, with a start that quickened my pulse, that the careful foot of space between us had vanished entirely somewhere in our conversation. Our shoulders were nearly touching. My hand was still resting on his.
Close enough to smell sawdust and pine soap and something warm underneath, the fresh mountain air woven into his very skin.
He turned his head slowly. Our eyes met and held.
The easy, comfortable rhythm of shared confidences evaporated instantly, replaced by something else entirely. Something that made the air feel thick and charged, every other sound receding to a distant hum. His gaze dropped to my mouth for just a fraction of a second before snapping back to my eyes. Color touched his high cheekbones.
This was a terrible idea. I was having it anyway.
