He shrugs. “A few shifts here and there. The site’s dead right now.”
That’s bullshit, and we both know it. He hasn’t worked full-time in years. After he lost his corporate job, he picked up shifts at a warehouse. Now he’s with a construction crew because the last warehouse he worked for let him go for showing up drunk too many times.
I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out an envelope. “Here.”
He eyes it warily. “What’s that?”
“Cash.”
“I don’t need your money.”
“Yeah, you do,” I say flatly, setting it on the table beside him. I pick up the stack of bills and shove them in my pocket. I’ll pay those later.
He stares at the envelope for a long moment, then picks it up, flipping it between his fingers. “You shouldn’t be doing this.”
“I know.”
“But you keep showing up anyway.”
I look down at my hands. Calloused. Strong. The hands of a man who’s built a life out of sheer determination—but here Iam, sitting in a house that is full of regret, giving money to the one person who doesn’t deserve it.
“Yeah,” I murmur.
For a moment, the corners of his mouth twitch—something almost like a smile before it fades again.
He nods. “Your mom would’ve been proud. She had a soft streak too.”
The words hit hard. I swallow, throat tight. “Yeah,” I say quietly. “She would’ve.”
The game resumes, commentators droning on in the background. I stay a few minutes longer, until the silence turns from uneasy to unbearable.
When I finally stand, he doesn’t look up. “Don’t come back next week,” he says, his voice a little softer this time. “I don’t need you.”
I hesitate in the doorway. “We’ll see.”
He lifts his can in a half-hearted salute. “Drive safe, kid.”
Outside, the night air is cold and sharp, and it stings my lungs when I take a deep breath. I get in the truck, start the engine, and rest my head back against the seat.
I drive the deserted, tree-lined stretch back to the highway, trying to shake the unsettled feeling that always seems to linger after these short visits. I turn on the radio, the road disappearing into pitch black beyond the reach of the headlights. Eventually, I leave the dilapidated little house behind me, and my thoughts return to Madeline—the only person who’s managed to make me feel even more off-balance than the man I can’t stop coming back to.
By the time I pull into the Cove lot the next morning, I’ve had two coffees and not nearly enough sleep to make up for the long drive last night. The glass facade catches the early light, clean and sharp, reflecting the mountains behind me.
Inside, it’s quiet. Desks sit empty, screens dark. The only sounds are my footsteps and the low buzz of the building waking up. Chloe’s already here at reception, the lone sign of life this early. Stillness doesn’t happen often around here, so I take a second to appreciate a rare peaceful moment without my phone buzzing or someone banging on my office door.
And then I see her.
Madeline’s at the shared worktable, her laptop open in front of her. There’s a steaming mug of tea in front of her and a neat fan of sticky notes spread out like she’s preparing for battle. Each one is perfectly aligned and color-coded—a military operation in pastel.
I pause a few feet away, pretending to read something on my phone when really, I’m watching her. The way she absentmindedly taps her pen against her lower lip when she’s thinking. The way she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear without breaking focus. The way she stiffens ever so slightly but doesn’t look up when I approach, as if she felt me coming.
“Morning,” I say, setting my folder on the table.
“Morning,” she echoes, continuing to type.
That’s it. No smile. No polite small talk. Just one word, delivered with the kind of calm that somehow feels like a challenge.
I drop into the chair beside her, sliding a few reports onto the table. “You’re here early.”
