The way he leans over my desk to ask me something he already knows the answer to—just so I’ll look up at him?
It’s ridiculous.
And completely, stupidly endearing.
Because that man could have every answer in the world, and he’d still find a reason to hover close, to catch my eyes, to give me that lazy, devastating smile like I’m the thing he’s hungry for.
And the way he lights up when I bring him a sandwich?
You’d think I was handing him the last meal on earth.
He doesn’t just smile—he beams.
Like I’m offering him treasure.
Like I’m the most thoughtful woman to ever butter bread and slap meat between it.
And maybe that’s what guts me the most.
The way he sees me in all the smallest, quietest ways.
He notices when I’m tired.
When I’m cold. Or hungry.
When I don’t ask for anything—but maybe wish I could.
The boots were the first thing that broke me a little.
Then came the coat.
It’s a good one.
Thick. Weatherproof. Stitched with reinforced seams and a soft lining that makes it feel like armor.
It’s gorgeous.Warm. Expensive.
I don’t know how to accept things like this.
Not from a man.
Not from anyone.
No one’s ever really given me much before—besides grief or expectations.
Not my mother.
Not Dan.
So when Thatcher hands me this coat, tags still on, and says, “Try it on, Baby Girl,” like it’s no big thing?
I feel my throat go tight.
I tell him I’ll pay him back. I insist.
And he just shakes his head, like I’ve said something absurd.
Then he kisses me.Hard.
