Chris appears at the top of the rise that leads down to the sunken living room, wiping his hands on a dishtowel. “How are you feeling?”
“Sore. But better than yesterday.”
“Pain level?”
“Manageable. Maybe a four.”
He nods, cataloging the information. Always assessing, always running threat analysis even when the only threat is recovery time.
“Come sit with me,” I suggest.
He considers this, then comes over. He sits on the coffee table facing me instead of beside me on the couch.
“You can sit closer,” I tell him. “I won’t bite.”
“I know.”
“Then why the distance?”
He studies my face. “Because close is hard without crossing into territory we can’t go right now.”
“We don’t have to cross into that territory. We can just be close.”
“Can we?” He looks skeptical, but there’s a glint in his eyes that suggests he’s messing with me.
“Chris, just come here.”
A moment passes while he pretends to think about this. Then slowly, carefully, he moves to sit beside me. He leaves space between us, but not as much as before. When I huff, he chuckles and scoots closer, tucking me against his side. When I sigh and rest my head on his shoulder, he presses a chaste kiss to my temple.
We sit like that while Wyatt finishes the soup. Nikita joins us, curling on Chris’s lap with typical feline audacity. He scratches behind her ears absently, the motion soothing.
“This is nice,” I murmur.
“Yeah.” He sounds almost surprised. “It is.”
Sunday arrives with better energy. The pain has receded to background noise, manageable without round-the-clock medication. I can move around more easily, help with simple meal prep, feel less like an invalid.
We eat lunch together at the kitchen table—actual sitting up in chairs, not me propped on the couch being waited on.
“Look at you,” Wyatt says, grinning. “Vertical and everything.”
“I contain multitudes.”
Chris makes a sound that might be a laugh. Progress.
We’re clearing dishes when I remember. The invitation Vicente extended on Thursday. The one I’ve been avoiding thinking about.
“Can we talk about something?” I ask.
Both men pause, immediately alert.
“That sounds ominous,” Wyatt observes.
“It’s not. Maybe. I don’t know.” I dry my hands on a towel, buying time. “Vicente and Arturo invited me to Thanksgiving dinner.”
The silence is immediate and total.
“At their house,” I continue. “The compound. They said it’s a whole family thing—all the Santos brood and their partners. Callie and Mason included.”
