I shrugged. “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s… strange. But a good strange. Brings back a lot of happy memories.”
He studied me for a long moment. “If it feels too strange, say so. I’ll give you space.”
“I don’t need space,” I said, the words slipping out faster than I meant them to.
His jaw flexed, and something flickered in his eyes. Surprise, or maybe it was something darker.
Finally, he said, voice lower, rougher, “Good.”
He said only that one word, but the air between us stilled for a heartbeat before it slowly charged with something I could almost taste on my tongue. “Marcus…”
My former stepfather pushed off the counter, took one slow step closer, but didn’t touch me. He stood a few feet from me, close enough that I could feel the warmth coming off him and smell charcoal smoke and clean sweat on his skin.
“It’s been a long time, Lila,” he breathed. “I’m glad you’re back where you belong.”
My breath hitched. “Yeah.” It was all I could say, and I was surprised I’d been able to form a coherent word given how flustered I felt.
He looked down at me, his towering height making me feel small, petite even. His gaze searched mine. For one suspended second, I thought he might close the last bit of space between us.
Then he stepped back. “Get some rest,” he said, turning toward the hall. “Big week coming up.”
He walked away, and I stood frozen in the kitchen, heart slamming against my ribs, skin buzzing like static.
I stayed there a long time, staring at the empty doorway, replaying every glance, careful word, and fraction of space he’d closed and then opened again.
A part of me—the part I’d tried to forget—wasn’t sure I could keep it buried any longer.
Because my thoughts about my former stepfather crossed every line. I felt ashamed and guilty for thinking these things about my mother’s ex-husband, but they were so strong, so present, there wasn’t any way for me to stop them.
And I didn’t know if I wanted to.
Chapter Two
Lila
The next morning, I woke up tangled in the old quilt, sunlight slicing through the lavender curtains and reminding me of when I used to live here.
My body was restless, as if the house had slipped under my skin overnight and refused to let go. Downstairs, I could already hear Marcus. I closed my eyes and listened to the low gurgle of the coffee maker, the soft clink of a spoon against ceramic, and the faint scrape of a chair being pulled out.
Marcus had never been one to sleep in, and I guess some things didn’t change.
I stayed in bed a minute longer, staring at the ceiling cracks I used to trace like constellations when I was eighteen and couldn’t sleep. Back then, the house had felt too small and too full of rules and expectations.
Marcus had been this distant, solid figure. He was always gone before dawn most days and home after dark. We’d barely overlapped in the same space for more than a handful of evenings a week. And then I’d been too busy packing for college, obsessing over dorm assignments and course schedules, to notice much beyond the fact that he made Mom happy for a while. Or so I’d thought.
But now the house felt different. Smaller in some ways and bigger in others.
I knew we’d have to talk about the divorce. I knew he probably needed someone to listen to him even if he’d never admit it.
I dragged myself up, pulled on soft leggings and a loose cropped tee, and walked downstairs barefoot. The kitchen smelled like strong coffee and frying bacon. Marcus stood at the stove, and the muscles in his forearms flexed as he flipped the bacon in one skillet and finished scrambling eggs in another. He didn’t turn, but he knew I was there.
“Coffee’s hot,” he finally said, voice still rough from sleep. “Mugs are in the usual spot.”
I crossed the room, grabbed the chipped blue mug I’d always claimed as mine, and added a shit ton of milk. The first sip burned my tongue in the best way.
He set plates of scrambled eggs, crispy thick bacon, and buttered toast on the table. I sat on the chair opposite him. We ate in near-silence for the first few minutes with the only sounds being the scrape of forks and the hum of the refrigerator. It felt strangely domestic, like we were picking up a routine we’d never really had.
Eventually, he broke it. “Sleep okay?”
