The light’s on over the sink, but the rest of the house is dim, that late evening blue creeping in through the windows. I rinse the last plate, set it in the rack, and turn to the hallway.
That’s when I see her.
Delaney.
Sitting at the coffee table, hunched over her phone. Shoulders curled, elbows tucked in, trying to take up as little space as possible. The overhead light casts a ring around her, leaving the rest of the room shadowed.
She’s completely still.
I hang back in the doorway, just outside the cone of light, instincts reacting before my brain catches up. Years of reading skittish animals has trained me to stand where they can see me, but not feel cornered.
Her thumb moves across the screen once, then stops. Her jaw tightens. Her lips press together. Her eyes go glassy with emotion that doesn’t belong on her face.
Sadness.
No. Not just sadness.
Hurt. Old hurt.
The urge to fix it hits me, sharp and instinctive, the way I’d step in if a horse started trembling on the cross ties. Loosen the rope. Lower my voice. Make space.
I shouldn’t watch her in this way.
I know that.
Doesn’t stop me.
As if feeling it, she looks up.
Our eyes lock.
And as if someone flipped a switch, her whole expression shifts.
“Oh!” she says too brightly. “Hey. I, uh… didn’t mean to hog the room.”
She says it, expecting to be in trouble.
I step fully into the room slowly, letting my boots scuff the floor so I don’t spook her more.
“You’re not hogging anything,” I say. “It’s your home as much as ours now.”
Her mouth twitches. “Tell that to the sacred pantry.”
“That was Boone,” I remind her. “He made the pantry sacred. We were all fine living in confusion.”
A tiny laugh escapes her. It doesn’t reach her eyes.
“You okay?” I ask finally.
There’s a beat.
“Yep.”
Lie.
“You sounded more convincing when you said the mushrooms weren’t in crisis.”
“I’m fine, Caleb.”
