The warmth that’s been sitting in my chest since Seattle settles deeper. Being here with him isn’t new, but it feels steadier now, like we’ve finally caught our breath.
The plates have cooled, but neither of us moves to clear them. The house feels wrapped in that soft kind of silence that doesn’t ask to be filled—just shared.
Declan leans back in his chair, one arm resting along the table edge. “You know,” he says, voice low, “it’s strange watching them from the bench again.”
I tilt my head. “Yeah?”
He shrugs, rolling the glass between his palms. “Used to drive me insane. Now it just feels… like time passing until I’m ready. That’s progress, right?”
“Definitely,” I say softly. “The kind most people don’t manage under this kind of pressure.”
His mouth curves, not quite a smile. “You sound like a therapist.”
I grin. “Occupational hazard.”
He huffs out a quiet laugh, and for a moment the space between us feels weightless—like we’re suspended in this small, stolen slice of calm.
Sophie’s rehearsal calendar is held up by magnets, crooked on the fridge door. The days are marked in bright purple for rehearsals, gold for playoff games, a few empty squares waiting. The sight makes something gentle pull in my chest.
“She’s excited about her musical,” I say.
His gaze flicks over his shoulder and softens. “Yeah. She’s been humming that song for weeks. Probably sick of hearing me tap along on the counter.”
I laugh. “I doubt she’s sick of that.”
He meets my eyes again, and this time there’s no wall at all.
“You make things feel… lighter,” he says finally, almost like he didn’t mean to let it out loud.
The words land somewhere behind my ribs, steady and certain. “You do too,” I answer, quieter than I mean to.
He looks at me for a long beat before leaning forward, fingers brushing a stray strand of hair behind my ear. The touch is unhurried, the kind of careful that says he’s still learning this—us—and doesn’t want to rush what’s already right here.
“Dinner turned out okay, then?” he murmurs.
“Better than okay,” I say, the smile tugging before I can stop it. “I’d call it a win.”
He chuckles, low and easy. “I’ll take the assist.”
I shake my head, but the warmth doesn’t fade. If anything, it spreads—quiet, sure, the kind that doesn’t need grand declarations to feel real.
His words are still hanging in the air when a car pulls up outside. Headlights sweep briefly across the kitchen wall, then fade.
Declan frowns, half rising from his chair. “Sophie’s not supposed to be back until tomorrow.”
My stomach drops, heat crawling up the back of my neck.
Before I can think, the doorbell rings.
He’s already moving. I stay where I am, heart suddenly alert, half a glass of wine still in my hand—caught between fight and freeze.
From here I can see the reflection of the foyer light on the floor, the long shadow of him opening the door.
“Maya started feeling sick after dinner,” Erin’s saying, her tone apologetic but brisk. “Thought I’d drop Sophie here on my way to the pharmacy.”
“Oh,” Declan answers, steady but caught off guard. “Yeah—of course.”
Then, a pause—Erin’s voice sharpening a notch. “Is that Charlotte’s car in the driveway?”
