The lights dim. The movie starts—Moana, which I genuinely love. I’m nothing if not a sucker for Disney movies, romanticcomedies, Pixar, anything that makes me cry happy tears at the end. The world is hard enough without seeking out darkness in my entertainment.
Besides, there’s nothing better than watching a room full of kids experience a story together, their faces lit up by the screen, completely lost in the magic of it. Even the parents seem to relax, leaning back on their blankets, letting themselves be transported, too.
I stay at the snack table through the first half, restocking popcorn bags and making small talk with parents who drift over for refills. Then Mrs. Patterson comes back from her break and waves me off, so I start circulating. Walking the perimeter of the gym, checking on kids, answering whispered questions from parents about next week’s schedule, making sure nobody’s causing trouble in the dark.
A kid needs help finding his mom. Another kid spilled her juice box and needs napkins. Eventually we start running low on cups at the snack table, and I volunteer to grab another pack from the supply closet down the hall.
I slip out through the side door, letting it close softly behind me. The corridor is dim and quiet, lit only by the red glow of the emergency exit signs. The sounds of the movie are muffled now, distant singing and laughter filtering through the walls. I take two steps and walk directly into someone.
“Sorry—“ I start, stumbling backward, and then a hand is on my waist, steadying me. I look up.
It’s Theo.
His jacket is draped over one arm. He must have come out to grab it from the coat rack by the entrance, but he’s not moving toward the door. He’s not moving at all. His hand is still on my waist, fingers spread across my side.
“You okay?” His voice is low.
“I’m fine,” I manage, but it comes out breathless. Neither of us moves.
We’re alone in the hallway. No kids, no parents, no onewatching. Just the two of us and the dim red light and the muffled sound of music through the walls. His hand is still on my waist, thumb resting just above my hipbone, and he’s not letting go. He’s looking at me with that same intensity from Friday night, the same look he had right before he kissed me against my door.
The whole world narrows down to his hand and his eyes and the six inches of charged air between us. I don’t breathe. I’m not sure he does either.
He exhales slowly. His hand tightens on my waist and his fingers dig in slightly. I feel every point of contact like a brand. The warmth of him bleeding through the thin fabric of my shirt.
I thinkthis is it, this is the moment?—
A door opens somewhere down the hall. He lets go.
“I should get back to Chloe,” he says.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “Enjoy the movie.”
He holds my gaze for one more second and then turns to walk back through the door into the gym. I’m left standing alone in the dim hallway, pulse racing, skin still tingling where he touched me. Sophie was right. He’s not uninterested.
He’s hanging on by a thread.
And I don’t know whether I want to give him space to figure his shit out, or grab that thread and pull until the whole thing unravels.
CHAPTER 11
Theo
Alex and I are in my kitchen by late morning, the counters covered with everything we need for Thanksgiving dinner. The turkey is prepped and ready for the oven, the potatoes waiting to be peeled, and the good china stacked by the sink.
We drove into Seattle before dawn to volunteer at the downtown shelter, same as we do every year. We decided early on that if we were going to make our living feeding people who could afford thirty-dollar entrees, we should also spend time feeding people who actually needed it. So every Thanksgiving, we close the restaurant for a few days to give staff a paid break, and Alex and I make the rounds at the local community kitchen and the Seattle shelter instead. It’s become one of my favorite traditions.
Now we’re home, prepping for the family dinner, moving around each other with the kind of efficiency that comes from running a restaurant together for years. Alex has been talking nonstop about a place he visited in the Napa Valley last week—Solstice Estates—a hilltop property with old stone buildings and private terraces.
Alex is always chasing the next idea, always leaning toward what’s coming instead of what already works. Sometimes I wonder how long Dark River will hold him. He loves the restaurant, loves what we’ve built, but there’s a quiet restlessness in him when he talks about places like that.
“It’s not just a winery,” he says, dicing onions with the same effortless speed that still impresses me. “It’s more like a hub. They work with small vineyards and winemakers who would never survive on their own, help them with distribution, marketing, branding, the whole business side. Everything’s intentional. Elevated, but not pretentious.” He glances up at me, eyes bright. “I want to see if we can get access to a few of their producers. Not as some mass thing, just special bottles. Build a menu around stories people don’t usually get to taste.”
I’m nodding along, but my mind keeps drifting to places I’ve been trying not to let it go. I haven’t seen Emma in over a week, and the distance hasn’t helped the way I thought it would.
“Taste this.” Alex holds out a wooden spoon with stuffing on it. “Tell me if it needs more sage.”
I take the bite and let the flavors settle. Bread, butter, herbs, celery, onion. “Yeah, it needs more. And maybe a little more butter.”
