Emma's at the stove when we walk in, stirring something in a big pot. Maya is beside her, chopping vegetables. Max is weaving between Maya's legs, meowing for attention.
"Smells good," Chase says, kissing Emma's temple. "What're we having?"
"Pasta. Maya's making her famous marinara." Emma tastes the sauce and makes a face. "Needs more salt."
"It's perfect," Maya says, but she adds salt anyway.
I grab water from the fridge and lean against the counter, watching them work. They move around each other with easy familiarity: Emma pointing out where things are, Maya adjusting the seasoning, both of them laughing about something.
This is what normal looks like. Cooking dinner, talking about nothing, and Max being a nuisance.
Except every time Maya turns, every time she reaches for something, I'm hyperaware of her body. The way her jeans hug her hips, the way her shirt rides up when she stretches for a spice on the top shelf, the way her curls are piled on top of her head with a few strands escaping to frame her face.
She catches me staring and holds my gaze for two seconds before looking away, color rising in her cheeks.
"Jackson, can you set the table?" Emma asks.
"Yeah. Sure."
I move on autopilot. Plates, silverware, napkins. Ethan's already in his high chair, banging his spoon and demanding "Pasta! Pasta!"
"Someone's excited," Chase says, ruffling his son's hair.
"He's been talking about pasta all day," Emma laughs. "So Maya promised him she'd make her special sauce."
"It's just marinara," Maya says, but she's smiling as she brings the pot to the table.
We eat as a family. Emma talks about her doctor's appointment: everything looks good with the baby, they're thinking about names, but can't agree on anything yet. Ethan throws more food on the floor than he eats, delighted every time Max appears to investigate the mess.
"This is really good, Maya," Chase says around a mouthful of pasta. "You should cook more often."
"Don't encourage her," Emma jokes. "She'll take over my kitchen."
"Your kitchen could use some taking over," Maya fires back. "You keep your spices in alphabetical order. That's psychotic."
"That's organized!"
"Our mom used to do that," I say. "Drove Dad crazy from what she said. He could never find anything."
The conversation flows easily comfortable, and for a moment, I can almost forget the tension humming beneath it all. Almost forget that in a few hours Maya's going to come to my room and everything between us is going to shift.
But then she reaches for the water pitcher at the same time I do, and our hands brush. The contact is brief, accidental, but I feel it everywhere. She pulls back quickly, eyes meeting mine for half a second before she looks away.
Emma doesn't notice. Chase doesn't notice. But I do.
Maya's quiet but present. She's eating, which is good, and engaging with the conversation when Emma asks her questions. But I can feel the tension radiating off her, the same tension that's been building in me for three days.
After dinner, Emma and Chase take Ethan up for bath time, and Maya helps me load the dishwasher.
"You played well today," she says quietly.
"Thanks. How'd you know?"
"Chase mentioned it. Said you were on fire."
We work in silence, her loading, me drying and putting away. The kitchen feels too small suddenly, too warm.
"Maya—"
