A flicker of something crosses her face. Not anger. Not hurt. Recognition.
“You don’t have to do that,” she says quietly.
“I know.” But I do.
Because if I stand across the counter from her one more time and watch her mouth press against the rim of a mug while she smiles at me like I’m something steady and safe, I won’t hold the line.
She doesn’t argue.
She just nods once and turns to pour another cup for herself.
That’s what unsettles me. Her cool confidence, like she’s not rattled in the same way that I am her.
The next few days follow the same pattern.
I come home later. I leave earlier. When she talks, I answer. When she laughs, I don’t linger. When she reaches for something near me, I step back instead of forward.
And she doesn’t chase. She doesn’t flirt harder. She doesn’t try to provoke me. She simply moves through my house like she belongs here. Like she’s not waiting for me to make up my damn mind.
Lacee notices before I do.
“Why are you being weird?” she asks one evening, feet tucked under her on the couch.
“I’m not.”
She squints at me. “You are.”
Tessa looks up from the kitchen table, where she’s helping with math homework.
“Am I weird too?” she asks lightly.
Lacee shakes her head. “No. Just him.”
Tessa smiles. Not smug. Not victorious. Just… steady. That smile burns worse than anything.
Later that night, after Lacee’s asleep, I sit on the porch alone.
I expect her to stay inside but she doesn’t.
The screen door creaks open.
She steps out in one of my old sweatshirts—one I tossed over a chair weeks ago and she claimed without asking. The sleeves swallow her hands.
“Mind if I join you?” she asks.
“You don’t need permission.”
She sits across from me instead of beside me.
“So,” she says, folding her legs beneath her, “are we going to talk about it?”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
Her brow arches. “You’ve been calling me ‘Miss Tessa’ in front of Lacee.”
“She’s ten.”
“You’ve never done that before.”
