Her expression softened, something thoughtful settling in. She took a breath, like she was about to step into deeper water.
She was quiet for a moment, then looked up at me again. “Can I ask you something else?” Her eyes flicked to mine. “You can tell me it’s none of my business.”
“Ask,” I said. Whatever it was, I wanted to meet her there and tell her everything.
She hesitated, fingers worrying the edge of her cocoa mug. “Tilly’s mom,” she said softly. “Is she… around? Does she ever spend time with her? Only if you want to talk about it.”
I glanced past her for a second—to the stainless counters, the prep sink full of warm water, the oven ticking softly. The Pennywhistle kitchen was closed and quiet, the kind of quiet that settled into your bones once the rush was gone. I turned back to her.
“Her name is Juliette,” I said. “We dated in Portland. It was easy in a way you tell yourself won’t matter later—too easy, too shallow. I didn’t understand at the time how wrong that could be.” I reached for a towel, drying my hands slowly. “When she got pregnant, she was honest with me. Motherhood wasn’t something she wanted. Not now. Not ever.”
Eliza stayed where she was, leaning lightly against the counter, listening without filling the space.
“But I knew what I wanted,” I went on. “I wanted Tilly. I asked for custody, and Juliette agreed.” My throat tightened, familiar and steady all at once.
Her shoulders eased, like something inside her had unclenched. “You chose Tilly,” she said quietly. “All in.”
“All in,” I echoed.
She stood, stepping closer without seeming to realize she was doing it, close enough that I could smell her perfume, sweet and floral. “She’s lucky,” she said.
“Sometimes,” I admitted, rubbing the back of my neck, “I still worry I’m not enough. That one day she’ll wonder why she wasn’t enough to make her mom stay.”
Eliza reached for me then, her fingers wrapping around my forearm, grounding and sure. “You are,” she said immediately. “I’ve seen you with her. I know what a good father looks like.” Her thumb brushed once, deliberate. “And you’re it, Nate.”
The words settled between us. The kitchen seemed to hold its breath—the hum of the fridge, the faint click of cooling metal, the smell of baked pastry lingering in the air. Neither of us moved.
“Thank you for trusting me with that,” she added softly.
I swallowed. “Thank you for asking.”
Another pause. Longer this time. Charged.
She glanced at my mouth, then back to my eyes, like she was deciding something she already knew the answer to. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” she said quietly.
“You don’t have to,” I said, just as quietly.
Her hand tightened on my arm. “Okay...”
That was it. The last thread holding us still.
She stepped into me, and then she kissed me—slow and sure, like she’d finally stopped arguing with herself.
We didn’t speak after that. Not until the timer dinged and the kitchen filled with the smell of golden, buttery crust, herbs, and something that felt like hope.
We pulled apart, breath mingling in the hush that followed, and I turned away right as the oven timer chimed again. With a shaky laugh, I reached for the mitts and opened the oven, the rush of heat brushing my face as I pulled out the pot pies, their golden tops bubbling with promise.
She cut into the pie, and we shared a fork, laughing over who got more of the filling.
When we stood to clean up, she turned. I turned, too.
And then she kissed me again.
It was soft at first. Gentle. Her lips brushed mine like a question, one I answered with a careful hand at her waist. For a moment, all I could feel was the soft press of her lips, the way her hand found mine and held on just long enough to steady us both. The world outside faded, the only sound was our breathing as we lingered there, suspended between this moment and what we might become.
The world narrowed to the gentle pressure of her mouth and the faint taste of sage and thyme lingering between us. My breath caught as her hand settled on my jaw, her thumb tracing a slow, trembling line along my cheekbone. Time stretched, the oven’s warmth cocooning us as the quiet of the kitchen wrapped around the delicate spark blooming in my chest.
I let myself hope—just a little as her breath mingled with mine, slow and uncertain, as we drew closer still, letting the moment unfurl between us. I felt her pulse flutter under my fingertips, a steady reassurance that echoed the quiet hope settling in my chest. For the first time in a long while, it was enough just to be here—just to feel her, to share the lingering flavors we’d created together and promises neither of us dared to speak aloud.
