“Did he now?” I say, folding my arms.
Dan glances up at me from the carpet, hair a mess, cheeks flushed, eyes bright.
And there it is. That look. The one I thought had disappeared. It only lasts a second. But it’s real.
“Morning,” he says.
“Morning.”
The kids scatter toward the kitchen at the mention of breakfast, leaving Dan and me alone for a brief, fragile second.
I move toward the coffee machine and that’s when I see it.
A yellow sticky note. My stomach flips.
Let’s get milk together after work
No hearts. No dramatic flourish. Just that. I hold it between my fingers longer than necessary.
He’s behind me now. Close enough that I can feel the heat of him, but not touching.
“I figured,” he says carefully, “we need milk.”
“Right,” I reply. “The kids are annoyingly dependent on it.”
A ghost of a smile.
“I thought… maybe we could walk. After work, Just us.”
It’s small. It’s ordinary. It feels monumental.
“You don’t have football after work?” I ask.
“Cancelled,” he says. Then, after a beat, “I cancelled it.”
That lands. He cancelled something. For this.
“For milk?” I tease lightly.
“For milk,” he says. Then quieter, “For us.”
There’s something raw in his expression. Like he’s bracing for rejection.
I swallow. “Okay,” I say. “Milk sounds good.”
The tension shifts. Not gone. But softer.
Oscar barrels back in demanding toast. Ruby follows, now wearing one of Dan’s shoes. Sophie is narrating something at high speed. Dan steps toward the hallway, grabbing his keys.
“I’ll be home at two,” he says.
There’s hesitation in the air. Something unspoken.
He steps closer instead. Not a dramatic kiss. Not a sweeping gesture. Just his hand briefly brushing my waist as he passes. It lingers. Intentional.
I look up.
He looks back.
