That got a quiet laugh out of him. “That’s either comforting or deeply unsettling.”
“It’s comforting,” I said. “Like some things didn’t change just because everything else did.”
He tipped his head to look down at me, eyes dark and warm. “Tell me about your mom.”
I shifted so I could see his face better, propping myself on my elbow. “She’s fine. Still in Austin. Still single. Still insists she’s not lonely, even though she has adopted her fourth cat.”
His mouth twitched. “Fourth?”
“Fifth, actually,” I corrected. “But she says one of them doesn’t count because it’s ‘emotionally distant.’”
He laughed then, a real one, chest lifting beneath me. “That tracks.”
“She’s leaned into it,” I went on. “Cat hair on everything. Talks to them like they’re roommates. Sends me pictures of their food bowls like it’s a family update.”
“She always had opinions,” he said fondly. “About everything.”
“She still does,” I said. “She just directs them at cats now instead of me. Well, most of the time.”
His thumb brushed my hip, slow and thoughtful. “I’m glad she’s okay.”
“Me, too,” I said. Then, after a beat, “My dad is in Dallas. Remarried a few years ago.”
Wyatt raised his brows slightly. “How do you feel about that?”
I shrugged. “The new wife is … fine. Nice. Tries hard. We’re polite. But we’re not close. Dad feels like someone I visit on holidays instead of someone I call when something happens.”
He nodded, understanding written all over his face. “So … Christmas negotiations could get interesting.”
I snorted. “Oh, absolutely. We’d need a spreadsheet.”
“Alternating years?” he offered.
“Or,” I said, smirking, “we could start the tradition where everyone comes to us.”
His eyes flicked to mine, something warm sparking there. “I like the way that sounds.”
“Charleston Christmas,” I said. “Lights. The harbor. No snow to shovel.”
“Sold,” he said immediately. “Thanksgiving, too.”
“Greedy.”
“I’m decisive.”
I smiled, then noticed the way his gaze softened, drifted somewhere past me.
“What about your mom?” I asked gently.
His jaw tightened—not sharply, just enough to signal something tender underneath.
“She’s in Marfa,” he said. “Memory care facility.”
I waited. Didn’t interrupt.
“It’s … the best place we could find,” he continued. “Private. Calm. Good staff. She’s safe. Comfortable.”
“But,” I said quietly.
