“Nope,” he says, laughing softly and stepping in behind me. His chest presses lightly to my back as he reaches around me for the spatula, his hands steady over mine. “But you’re close.”
So are you.
And I’m really enjoying it.
His voice is calm, encouraging, and the way he guides my wrist—slowly, patiently—makes something flutter in my chest. “Like this,” he murmurs. “Gentle. Let it cook before you try to move it.”
I nod, swallowing. “You’re very good at this.”
“At breakfast?” he asks.
“At…helping,” I answer.
He pauses, then smiles. “I like helping you.”
“You help Connor too. You’re a natural with him, you know?”
His demeanor turns inward, his vulnerability starting to show. “You think so?”
“Mhmm. It’s fun to watch you two. He’s idolized you for years and you’re just so…” I shrug. “I don’t know, calm, with him. Like you’ve had a relationship with him for years. He really listens to you.”
“Hmm.” He nods but doesn’t say more. I wonder what he’s thinking and am about to ask him when the eggs are ready to be plated.
They turn out edible. Just barely.
We sit at the island with mismatched plates and mugs of coffee, the morning sun pouring in through the windows. It feels…domestic. Comfortable. Like something we could get used to if we let ourselves.
I poke at my omelet. “I swear I’m competent in other areas of life.”
“I’ve seen your career,” he says dryly. “I think you’ll survive a bad egg.”
I smile but then grow quiet and he notices almost immediately. His eyes soften before he asks, “You’ve gone quiet. Where are you?”
My fork clinks against the plate. “Connor.”
The playfulness drains from his face, replaced by something steadier, more resolute. “Yeah,” he says. “Been on my mind too.”
I push my now scrambled eggs around my plate. “We can’t keep pretending. He’s bound to notice things eventually, and if he doesn’t, anybody else could. If some other kid at school notices and asks him about it…”
Harrison nods. “He deserves the truth from us. Both of us.”
“You still want to tell him together?” I ask, studying his face.
“Of course. It’s the only way that makes sense,” he says without missing a beat. “Shows him we’re solid. That this isn’t something either of us is walking away from.”
My throat tightens. “What if he hates me?”
“He might be angry,” Harrison admits. “But I’d rather face that than keep lying to him, wouldn’t you?”
“Yeah, you’re right.” I blink back the heat behind my eyes. “How do we even start?”
Harrison takes a sip of coffee. “Why don’t you bring him here. I’ll make dinner. Something he likes. We can all spend time together first, and then we can talk. No rush, no interruptions. Just us.”
I picture Connor here in this room, at the counter helping Harrison cook, his hockey jersey on, his laugh filling this space. “Okay,” I whisper. “Dinner here. Then we tell him. Together.”
Harrison’s hand finds mine across the island, his callused thumb tracing circles on my skin. “Whatever happens after, I’m in this for good. You know that, right?”
I squeeze his fingers. “I know.”
