“Proud of you.” He takes the bag, fingers brushing mine. “How’s the leg?”
“Sore. Worth it.”
Inside, the house smells faintly of cleaning supplies and coffee. The good kind—a hint of pine missed with the best fresh-ground dark roast.
While he puts the groceries away, I sink onto a stool at the island. The quiet between us is comfortable now, not loaded like it used to be.
“You talked to Thorn?” I ask.
He glances up. “He texted. Patrols are still circling.”
I nod, tracing the edge of the counter with my fingertip. “I saw him at the market. He said the same.”
He exhales slowly, leaning against the counter. “Good.”
“Not at all odd that he showed up at the store right when I did. Or that he kept an eye on the parking lot the entire time.” I don’t mind that he did it, but I’d like him to own up to it.
There’s a long pause. Then softly, almost like he’s confessing something, he says, “I keep thinking he’s going to call again.”
I meet his gaze. “You mean your dad.”
“Yeah.” His voice goes rough. “And I keep thinking—if he does, maybe I should answer. Just to know what he wants.”
“Silas—”
“I won’t. I know it’s not smart. But part of me…” He trails off, shaking his head. “I hate waiting for it.”
I understand. Waiting is its own kind of cruelty.
I reach across the counter, covering his hand with mine. “Then don’t wait. Live. Practice. Yell at rookies. Make pancakes. Let the rest be noise.”
He studies me for a long moment, thumb brushing the edge of my wrist like he’s trying to memorize the shape of it. “You’re good at that.”
“What?”
“Making the impossible sound simple.”
“I fake it well.”
He smiles, the tired kind that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Still works.”
The afternoon drifts by in the form of lazy snuggles and television. Aubrey gets home, dumps her bag by the door,and immediately starts asking to go buy pumpkins so she can bedazzle them.
By sunset, the house glows soft and gold. Silas sits on the couch untangling lights while I string new ornaments. He’s muttering under his breath about knots when the doorbell rings. The sound snaps through the quiet, sharp enough to make us both freeze. Silas sets the lights down slowly, every muscle going still.
“Probably a delivery,” I say, but my voice isn’t steady.
He moves toward the door anyway, glancing at the side window before unlocking it. A package sits on the porch, brown box, no return label. My stomach drops as he bends to inspect it before tilting the top toward me.
A. Harrison
Aubrey.
He hesitates before bringing it inside carefully and setting it on the counter. The tape isn’t secure, and the handwriting is unfamiliar but neat. Inside rests a snow globe. Steele Arena sits under falling glitter. There isn’t a note.
“Could be from Hannah or someone else at the rink,” I say, though I’m not sure if I believe it.
He studies the globe for a beat longer, jaw tight. Then he sets it on the mantle, out of reach. “Probably.” He doesn’t believe his words either.
