Now I’m standing at the sink beside my husband, and I can’t get a grip on myself.
Every single concern I had about their visit has been shoved to the back burner, because nothing compares to quietly brushing my teeth next to him. It’s a normalcy that soothes my nervous system.
Sure, we’ve fallen into patterns around here since I moved in—laundry, dishes, a dinner schedule, early mornings. Every single one adds another layer to the intimacy blooming between us.
I can’t believe the way I nearly lost my mind over washing dishes together, when this was waiting in the wings.
It’s too easy to swoon over the way he slips notes into Phoebe’s lunchbox without telling anyone. I only know they exist because Phoebe tells me at pickup, like it’s classified information. Or the way he never lets laundry sit too long in the washer, no matter how busy his day gets.
He quietly ties up all my loose ends.
But this? This is different.
I stand at the sink with an unflattering headband pushing my hair back and a freshly scrubbed face, wearing plaid flannel pajamas that Abby ambushed me with like a Christmas missile. I didn’t realize how exposed I’d feel over something so stupidly normal.
Or how much I’d enjoy it.
Aiden steps up to his sink (yes, we have his-and-her sinks, and it’s amazing), already brushing, foam at the corner of his mouth. He meets my eyes in the mirror and smiles around his toothbrush.
It shouldn’t be attractive.
It absolutely is.
“What?” The question comes out garbled.
“Nothing,” I say quickly, squeezing toothpaste onto my brush. Way too much.
Everyone knows there’s an appropriate ratio, and mine is off now. He quietly watches me struggle with it, as if it’s premium entertainment.
“You always do that,” he says.
“What?”
“You do everything like you’ve got some invisible bar you’re trying to meet.” He points his toothbrush at my reflection. “I’m going to tell everyone you oversqueezed the toothpaste.”
My cheeks heat before my lips shift to a smile.
“I’ll tell everyone you squeezed from the middle.”
His eyes glint. “You’re feisty about toothpaste.”
I snort and nearly spit toothpaste everywhere. “Says the man who’s got a whole system of mouth care. I bet you got a prize at every dentist appointment.”
He laughs—really laughs—and the sound ricochets off the tile, warm and ridiculous and domestic in a way that makes my chest tighten.
We brush in companionable chaos, alternating rinsing and spitting as if we choreographed it. It feels like we’ve done this for half our lives, even though this is the first time we’ve gotten ready for bed at the same time.
At one point, we reach for the towel on the bathroom counter at the same time, and our shoulders bump.
“Sorry,” we say at the same time.
We freeze, then catch each other’s eyes in our reflections.
There’s a subtle shift, where it doesn’t quite feel socuteanymore. It’s nothing big or dramatic, just an awareness that we’re stepping into a new, cozy territory.
One that’s entirely too easy.
It was never this easy with my ex-husband. We might as well have been roommates.
