“She has her eye on you for her grandson.”
She snorted. “Her grandson is seventeen.”
“She’s planning ahead.”
“Remind me to send her a fruit basket.”
They fell into the easy rhythm they’d developed. He plated the pasta while she poured wine, moving easily around each other in her small kitchen. It still surprised her sometimes, how quickly this had become normal. How natural it felt to share space with him, to navigate the domestic choreography of an evening together.
Don’t get used to it,a voice whispered.You always get used to it, and then you have to leave.
She pushed the thought away. That was old Sara talking. New Sara—Fairhaven Falls Sara—was staying put.
“You’re quiet,” he said.
“Thinking.”
“About?”
“Furniture.”
His ears tilted. “Furniture?”
“I need a new bookshelf.” She gestured vaguely towards her living room, where a battered IKEA unit sagged under the weight of her paperbacks. “That one’s been to five apartments with me. It’s held together by hope and wood glue.”
“Five apartments.” His hands stilled on the plates. “You’ve moved five times?”
“Seven, actually. But the bookshelf only came along for the last five. Which is probably four too many—” She stopped, suddenly aware of the shift in the room’s energy.
Ben had gone very still. Not his usual controlled stillness, but something sharper. His ears were flat, his shoulders rigid, his blue eyes fixed on her with an intensity that made her pulse skip.
“Seven times,” he repeated. “In how many years?”
“Um.” She did the math. “Ten? Eleven?”
“Why?”
The word came out rough. Almost angry.
“Different reasons.” She turned back to the wine, needing something to do with her hands. “Three times in college. Twicebecause of bad landlords, and once because it was cheaper. After that it was because I was changing jobs. The usual stuff.”
“That’s not the usual stuff. That’s—” He stopped, jaw working. “Sara. Why did you move seven times in ten years?”
She could lie. Make a joke about her adventurous spirit or her inability to commit to a zip code.
But he was looking at her with those intense blue eyes, and she found herself telling the truth instead.
“Because I never felt like I belonged anywhere,” she said quietly. “Every place I lived, I kept waiting to feel… settled. Rooted. But it never happened. So eventually I’d pack up and try somewhere new, thinking maybe the next town would be different.”
“And now?”
“Now what?”
“Do you feel settled here?”
The question shouldn’t have hit as hard as it did. But something in his voice—a barely concealed desperation—made her chest ache.
“I don’t know yet,” she admitted. “It’s only been a couple months. Ask me again in?—”
