I stand in the hallway pretending to wipe down the baseboards just so I can listen. His voice lowers when he talks to her. Soft. Steady. Protective.
“I love you, Lace.”
“I love you more, Dad.”
“Not possible.”
Silence. A kiss on her forehead. The creak of her bedroom door closing. When he turns and sees me standing there, cloth still in my hand, something shifts in his expression.
“You spying?” he asks.
“Monitoring quality control.”
He steps closer. Close enough that I can smell smoke and cedar on his skin.
“How’d I do?”
I tilt my head like I’m inspecting him. “You’re adequate.”
He huffs out a laugh. “Adequate.”
“For a grumpy firefighter.”
He leans against the wall, arms folding across his chest. His biceps flex under the worn cotton of his t-shirt and I have to force my gaze up.
“You keep calling me grumpy,” he says. “I’m going to start charging rent.”
“For what?”
“For living in your head.”
I roll my eyes and brush past him toward the kitchen. He catches my wrist before I can go far. Not rough. Just firm. Intentional.
“You’re not subtle,” he murmurs.
“Neither are you.”
His thumb brushes the inside of my wrist, slow and distracting.
“You think I don’t see the way you look at me?” he asks.
Heat floods my chest. “You’re imagining things.”
“Am I?”
He steps forward. I step back. My spine hits the counter. There’s nowhere left to retreat.
His voice lowers. “You get quiet when I get close.”
“I’m not quiet.”
“You are right now.”
I swallow. He watches the movement.
“You don’t have to run every time I look at you,” he says softly.
“I’m not running.”
