She snorts. “Seems hereditary.”
That earns a twitch of a smile out of me, but it doesn’t stay. There’s too much noise in my head. Too many implications, my family fired at her like confetti cannons.
The moment we’re all piled back into the cars, the quiet hits like a slap.
Lucky sits beside me in the truck, hands folded in her lap, gaze fixed out the window at the passing trees. She’s not tense… exactly. Just wound tight. Like she’s thinking too much.
Or maybe I am.
About the jacket.
About the glasses.
About what she said—and didn’t say—back at dinner.
I clear my throat. “They overwhelmed you.”
She huffs a tiny laugh. “Maybe a little.”
“They’re… a lot.”
“They’re wonderful,” she says quickly. “Just—loud.”
“Understatement of the century.”
She laughs again, softer this time.
It hits me in the sternum.
“I brought you with me to the restaurant. I wanted you there.” I swallow. My throat feels tight. “I just didn’t want them all over you.”
She gives a soft laugh. “Ethan, your family being nice to me isn’t a tragedy.”
“It’s not that.”
I’m staring at the road, but I see the dinner table, Mum’s raised brows, Charlotte’s smirk.
“It’s—They think things.”
“Like what?”
“That you’re… important.” The word leaves me before I can tame it. “Important to me.”
She goes still. I feel it more than I see it.
The stop sign comes up too fast; I brake too hard. Brilliant.
“Are you angry about that?” she asks gently.
“No.”
I shake my head, exhale.
“No, I’m not angry. I just… don’t know how to do this without messing it up.”
Her silence isn’t judgment. It’s something else. Soft. Dangerous.
I drive the rest of the way with my heart in my throat.
