The problem isn’t that he asks.
It’s that I want to answer.
“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
He doesn’t buy it. I can feel his gaze on the side of my face. Sturdy, assessing, heavier than his hands had felt on my waist.
I stare at the oil in the pan as if I can will it to shimmer faster. “You?”
He grunts.
Boone’s patented version ofnot fine.
“How’d the school thing go?” I ask carefully.
His silence stretches a fraction too long.
“You know,” he continues, finally. “Fire trucks, foam, kids trying to set each other on fire.”
“Standard Monday.”
“Yeah.”
In the reflection of the stove hood, I can see him leaning back against the counter, arms crossed, jaw tight. The memory is grinding his teeth from the inside.
“Sadie have fun?”
Another pause.
“She said she did.”
My stomach dips.
“But…” I nudge softly.
He exhales through his nose, harsh and frustrated. “But she’s been quiet since.”
I turn my head just enough to see him.
“Someone said something,” he adds, eyes on the floor.
“Who?”
He hesitates, then shakes his head once. “Doesn’t matter.”
It does. Obviously.
It matters to him.
Which means it matters to me.
But I don’t push.
From what I’ve seen, Boone pushes everything else. The work, the ranch, the finances, people who try to lean on him too hard. He’ll face down a storm or a broken fence without flinching. But when it comes to his own hurt, his own history, his own kid… he retreats into this controlled, tight-lipped shell that doesn’t leave much room for anyone else inside.
I get that more than I want to.
“You’re a good dad.”
