“Hey,” he says, his voice low and warm.
“Hey,” I reply, trying not to sound as breathless as I feel. “Did you win at whatever Manmorial competition you were dragged into?”
“Cornhole champ,” he says smugly. “Not to brag, but Jake cried.”
I laugh as I walk to the island. “Please tell me there’s video.”
He laughs, and the sound hits low in my stomach, making it flutter and twist into a deep ache. I’m not sure when I started liking the sound of his laugh, but I do. When I reach the island, I see it: a small package on the counter, wrapped in brown kraft paper and tied with a simple navy ribbon.
“What is this?”
“Open it,” he says casually, but I swear there’s a hint of excitement in his eyes.
I pause. Gifts aren’t really a thing in my world, not unless they’re corporate swag or half-hearted PR gestures. I can’t remember the last time someone gave me something just because. Part of me braces for a joke, a gag, something ridiculous that’ll make me roll my eyes, because, if it is real, if it’s thoughtful, I’m not sure what to do with that.
I tug the ribbon loose and slowly unwrap the paper.
Inside is a charm bracelet. There’s a microphone, a tiny, folded newspaper, and three round silver discs, each engraved with a word: “Voice,” “Vision,” “Power.” The last charm is a little scroll that reads: “OTRC – 3 YRS.”
My heart catches, the kind of stutter-step that steals your breath before you even realize you’ve lost it. I stare at it, completely still. He remembered. Not just the name of my podcast. Not just the anniversary. But the way I talk about it. What it means to me.
“Lucas…”
“I saw it when I was picking something up for Grant. The charms felt like you.”
I swallow hard. My eyes sting, and I have to look away for a second to regain my balance. Because this? This isn’t part of the deal. This is real. Personal. Disarming.
I run my fingers over the metal. “No one’s ever bought me something like this.”
He shrugs. “Well, I’m honored to be the first.”
I don’t know what to say. Which is rare.
There’s a beat of silence, warm, full, and charged. I feel it in my chest. In the space between us. In the way he’s lookingat me like I matter. Like he sees through all the noise and still chooses to stand here anyway.
Before I can stop myself, I reach for him.
My arms wrap around his waist, and I press my face into his chest. The fabric is soft beneath my cheek. He remembered. Something small, maybe, but it means everything. Now I’m standing here, hugging the one man I’ve called my sworn enemy for years. Somehow, he’s become the person I want to share things with.
His arms slide around me like they’ve been waiting for the invitation. One hand settles at the base of my spine, and the other slides smoothly up my back. Neither of us lets go. Not right away.
“You hungry?” he asks finally.
“Starving.”
“Good. I made us your favorite pasta to celebrate.”
“You cooked for me again?”
“Don’t look so surprised,” he deadpans. “Here, let me put that on you.”
I watch as he takes the bracelet from my hand and latches it around my wrist. His hand holds on to mine for a beat, and I look up at him, realizing there’s nothing fake happening here anymore.
He drops my hand and flashes his most charming smile. “Let’s go eat.”
twenty
. . .
