“Also,” I added, because self-preservation occasionally visits me, “we should probably not make out while the sauce is unsupervised.”
He huffed a laugh and stepped back an inch, hands warm at my waist for one last second before he let go. “Saving our dinner,” he said as he stirred the sauce. “One respectable simmer at a time.”
“Exactly,” I whispered.
“I like you here,” he said, as if he'd sensed my thoughts. “In my house. In my kitchen. It feels like you’re meant to be here.”
“Thank you,” I said, and felt the truth of it click into place.
Nate wiped his hands on a towel; I smoothed my sweater and tried not to look like my mouth still tingled from his kiss.
“You ready?” he asked, softer than before.
“For spaghetti?” I asked. “Absolutely.”
“For…” He gestured between us, helpless and hopeful.
“I’m ready for slow,” I said. “And for small. And for this.”
Something in him eased—some tightness I hadn’t realized he held. He nodded, eyes bright. “This,” he echoed, and the word felt like a promise we were allowed to keep.
Chapter 19
Nate
The garlic bread had just hit that perfect, precarious point beneath the broiler between golden and reckless when Lois lifted her head and gave a single, dignified woof. Truck in the driveway. Right on time.
Eliza stood at the stove, cardigan sleeves pushed to her elbows, stirring the sauce with an easy, careful hand like she’d been born knowing how to coax it to perfection. We’d finished the salad together, set the table, and pretended not to notice how often our shoulders found each other in the small kitchen. At the sound of tires on gravel, she glanced at me, then stepped back from the doorway.
“I’ll stay out of the way,” she said softly, that small, careful smile in place. “Go get your girl.”
“Don’t leave,” I said, barely above a breath. I felt silly, but I couldn’t stop the words from coming out.
Her eyes flicked to mine. “I’m right here, Nate. I’m not going anywhere—promise.”
“Okay.” I felt stupid, but I couldn’t help myself.
I slid the bread out of the oven, cracked the window over the sink, and wiped my hands exactly as my grandfather’s pickuprumbled to a stop. The screen door squeaked; I met them in the entryway.
Tilly barreled in first—pink tights, sparkle skirt, dance bag bumping her knee. “Daddy! I got all the steps right today!”
“Because you’re amazing and you practice hard,” I said, lifting her for a squeeze. Over her shoulder, I caught Grandpa’s look, warm, knowing, taking in the house that smelled like an Italian restaurant and a night trying to become something.
He sniffed appreciatively. “That bread smells like perfection. Just like your grandma’s.”
“Spaghetti night,” I said, setting Tilly down. She immediately took off her shoes with the urgency of a tiny diplomat late to a summit.
Grandpa leaned an elbow on the door frame and gave me one of those looks that saw past the paint. “How’s that heart of yours?”
“Fine, I hope,” I said.
He tipped his chin toward the kitchen—toward the quiet presence he hadn’t seen but probably sensed. “You always did give your best things time.”
“I’m moving slow,” I said, low. “She’s worth being patient for. Worth not pushing.”
“Good.” Two fingers tapped my shoulder, familiar as breathing. “You don’t have to convince the right person to stay, son. Just give them somewhere worth coming back to.”
“Grandpa!” Tilly stage-whispered, bouncing on her toes. “Can I show Daddy my star hands and tell him about how I didn’t mess up even once?”
