“Hey,” he says casually.
His face says something closer to alarm.
Then his brow furrows. “You’re dressed.”
“I know you like to take full ownership of dad duty,” I say, smiling as I lean in for a quick kiss, “but I can at least help with breakfast.”
His expression doesn’t change.
“Breakfast,” he repeats slowly.
I squint at him. I’m not entirely convinced this man is functional on one hour of sleep.
His eyes flick to my face, sharper now. “You haven’t checked your phone yet.”
I shake my head. “Casualty of yesterday’s dumpster fire. My phone. My one-of-a-kind sunglasses from Ricardo Ricci.” I lift my hands in defeat. “Basically, the universe is gently suggesting that selfies are the antichrist.”
His features soften.
Then he sweeps me into his arms and presses a kiss to the top of my head. And just when I think my lumberjack couldn’t be more perfect, he says, “We’ll get you a new phone today.”
For a long moment, we just stay like that. No rush. No noise. Just the quiet sway of us standing together.
I melt into his warmth and let the world wait its turn.
Before my thoughts drift somewhere dangerous, toward things I shouldn’t want, I pull back. “What would you like?” I tap his chest. “Migas are my specialty.”
His blue eyes go pale. I may have short-circuited him.
I’m not convinced he knows what I’m talking about, so I explain. “Migas. Scrambled eggs folded with crispy tortilla strips, onions, peppers, a little heat, a lot of comfort. Breakfast.” I smile. “A hug with a kick.”
He says nothing. Just opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.
“But if you think the kids would prefer to wait for Gabe…” I add, already pivoting, “though I’m not sure he’ll be here this early. He was entertaining what I can only assume was an attractive contortionist or two?—”
“They can’t eat,” he says flatly.
I blink. “What do you mean, they can’t eat? Of course, they can eat. Between Connor and Ollie alone, I might just dump the migas into a trough and call it a day.”
He shakes his head, dragging a hand down his face. “I mean, they can’t eat until we get to where we’re going.” He gestures vaguely, like the explanation is floating just out of reach.
Something in my chest stills. I fold my arms, studying him.
“Oh.” I tilt my head. “You’re leaving?”
The thought lands like an ax. Like he can’t get out of here quickly enough.
Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am.
Ugh. What is it with men?
He reaches for me immediately, hands settling on my shoulders. “We’re leaving,” he says carefully.
Right. We. As in them.
I jerk my shoulder back. “I heard you the first time, Harrison.”
“I’m saying this all wrong.” He struggles for words, fingers worrying the silicone ring on his hand.
