One corner of his mouth tipped up. “We’re in a kitchen.”
Before she could protest, he was already moving, sleeves rolled up, rifling through the refrigerator as if he belonged there. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”
She leaned against the counter, watching as he pulled out eggs, cheese, and a few vegetables. “You’re going to make me an omelet?”
“Damn right I am,” he said, grinning over his shoulder. “Sit. Talk. I’ll cook.”
“How did you guys get here so fast?” she asked.
“I heard Sasha and Conner talking about coming after last night's game, and I asked to tag along.”
“You guys didn’t have to do that.”
He turned around and looked at her holding the spatula. “Hillary, that’s what friends do . . . and we’re friends, right?”
“Yeah, we are,” she said, biting her lip and finding it hard to meet his eye.
He turned around and added some cheese to her eggs before asking. “So is this where you grew up?”
“Yeah, Sydney and I grew up here. It seems like a lifetime ago.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I never would have imagined that this is where you came from . . . shit. That probably came out wrong, there’s nothing wrong with it —”
“It’s fine,” she said, stopping him. “I take that as a compliment, actually.”
“What was it like?” he asked as he stirred the eggs in the pan.
“Suffocating.”
He huffed out a laugh.
“I mean, there are good things too. I have the best sister in the world, and I’ve tried my best to protect her from all the bullshit. But pretty much when I graduated from college, I left and never looked back.”
Murphy chopped and whisked, nodding as he listened. No judgment. No advice she hadn’t asked for. Just a steady, quiet presence.
By the time he slid the plate in front of her, golden and steaming, Hillary felt lighter than she had since arriving. She took a bite and groaned. “This is the best omelet I’ve ever had.”
He laughed, leaning on the counter. “Told you.”
Everyone else in the house was asleep, the silence broken only by the hum of the fridge and the sound of her fork on theplate. And for the first time since she’d come back here, she wasn’t drowning.
She was decompressing. Breathing.
Because Murphy was the best. She’d known it before, but now she was sure.
By the time she finished the last bite of the omelet, she felt something she hadn’t in days—almost human again. She set her fork down, leaning her elbows on the counter.
“Thank you,” she said softly. Her voice wavered despite her best effort to keep it even. “For coming. For . . . all of this. It means a lot to me.”
Murphy didn’t brush it off the way people usually did when she tried to show gratitude. He met her eyes, steady and certain. “I’d do anything for you, Hillary. You know that, right?”
Her throat tightened. She wanted to look away, to throw up her usual wall of sarcasm or professionalism, but she couldn’t. Not when he was looking at her like that, like she was someone worth showing up for.
She swallowed hard. “You shouldn’t. I don’t deserve?—”
“Stop,” he cut in gently, but firmly. “You do. You deserve someone in your corner. You deserve more than this cold house and all that weight on your shoulders. If you let me, I’ll be there. For whatever you need.”
The lump in her chest swelled, threatening to spill into tears. She blinked quickly, pressing her lips together. Vulnerability wasn’t safe, not here, not for her. But she couldn’t deny how good it felt to hear those words. To believe, even for a moment, that he meant them.
