“He does.”
“He doesn’t get that quiet look as much.”
My throat tightens slightly. “You notice that?”
She nods seriously. “He was always sad about mom before.”
Mom. The word still carries weight. Not sharp. Not accusing. Just real.
I don’t flinch. I don’t rush.
“I think loving someone new doesn’t make the old love smaller,” I say carefully.
She considers that. “Like when I got a stuffed puppy and still loved my old teddy bear?”
“Exactly like that.”
She nods, satisfied.
“I like you,” she says, simple and direct.
My chest warms.
“I like you too, Lace.”
She grins and darts off toward the kids building a tower of paper cups.
I straighten slowly, eyes finding Sawyer again. He’s watching us.
When I walk back toward him, he doesn’t move away from the engine. He waits.
“You survive the sugar rush?” he asks.
“Barely.”
He steps closer. Not touching. Just close enough that the air shifts.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
“I am.”
“You sure?”
“Why do you ask like that?”
He studies my face. “You handle this well.”
“This?” I gesture around us.
“This.” His voice lowers slightly. “My world.”
I hold his gaze. “It doesn’t feel like I’m borrowing it.”
His jaw tightens briefly.
“Good,” he says.
“Why?”
