It’s loud. Messy. Alive.
And I’m standing in the middle of it holding a paper plate of potato salad like I belong here.
Lacee grips my hand, tugging me toward the dessert table. “They made brownies with caramel inside,” she whispers like it’s classified information.
I laugh. “Lead the way, boss.”
She beams at that and pulls me through the crowd, weaving between boots and turnout coats and coolers. She doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t question. Her fingers are warm and sure around mine.
She chose me faster than I was prepared for.
The first time I braided her hair for her dance class, she studied herself in the mirror and said, “You do it better than Dad.”
The first time I showed up at her recital, she ran into my arms before she ran to Sawyer.
And tonight, she’s wearing a little sundress and keeps introducing me to people as, “This is Tessa. She lives with us.”
Lives with us.
The words still make my chest tighten.
“Don’t eat too much sugar,” Sawyer calls from across the bay, his voice carrying easily over the noise.
Lacee rolls her eyes dramatically. “He says that but then he eats half the brownies.”
“I heard that,” Sawyer calls.
I glance over at him.
He’s leaning against the side of Engine Two, arms folded, sleeves pushed up. The evening light cuts across his shoulders. He’s laughing at something Ash says, head tipped back, throat exposed.
He doesn’t look braced anymore.
He looks open.
When he catches me staring, his mouth curves slowly.
That look isn’t new. But it’s different now. There’s no apology in it. No restraint.
Just claim.
My stomach flips.
Lacee tugs my arm again. “Come on.”
We load up two brownies and I wipe caramel off her fingers with a napkin. She doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t stiffen.
She leans into me like it’s natural.
“Do you think Dad’s happy?” she asks suddenly.
The question lands soft but heavy.
I crouch a little so we’re eye level. “Yeah,” I say honestly. “I do.”
She studies my face like she’s checking for cracks.
“He laughs more.”
