“Maybe.” He sets the beer down, and I watch him watch Wyatt—the way his shoulders ease a little, just being in the same room. “I scheduled the next appointment before I left. So. That’s something.”
Wyatt glances over. “That’s a lot, actually.”
Chris almost smiles. “We’ll see.”
The kitchen settles into a rhythm. Wyatt moves between the stove and the cutting board, dicing tomatoes. Chris drifts over to help without being asked, pulling out the pasta pot, filling it with water. A month ago he couldn’t be in a room without tracking every exit. Now he’s got his back to the door, shoulder to shoulder with Wyatt, arguing about whether the water needs salt yet.
I stay where I am, leaning against the counter, watching them. Watching us.
And then I notice it. The way Wyatt’s eyes keep drifting to Chris, checking. The way his shoulders don’t quite settle even when he’s laughing. He’s been holding us both up for weeks.
“Wyatt.” I wait until he looks at me. “You keep checking on us, but no one ever checks on you.”
Wyatt pauses, knife hovering over a tomato. “I’m fine.”
“Don’t deflect.”
He’s quiet for a moment. Sets the knife down. Turns to face both of us.
“As long as you two are okay,” he says, “I am too.”
Chris stops what he’s doing. I push off from the counter.
“Wyatt—”
“I mean it.” He looks between us, and there’s vulnerability in his face now, the fear he usually keeps tucked away. “I spent a long time not knowing if this was going to work. If we were going to make it. And now—” He shrugs, but it’s not casual. “Now we get to be home for each other. That’s all I need.”
The kitchen is quiet except for the sizzle of the onions.
Chris moves first, crossing to Wyatt and pulling him into a hug. They shift to make room for me without a word, and I step into the space they’ve made, the three of us holding on in the middle of my kitchen.
“Okay,” Wyatt says, muffled against Chris’s shoulder. “The onions are going to burn.”
“Let them,” Chris says.
“I’m not letting them.” But he doesn’t move.
I laugh, and it breaks the tension just enough. We separate, but slowly. Wyatt turns back to the stove. Chris picks up his beer. I stay close, unwilling to put distance between us just yet.
Wyatt catches my eye over the cutting board. A small nod. You going to tell him?
I take a breath. “So. You missed the end of Vicente and Arturo’s session today.”
Chris stills, beer halfway to his mouth. He knows that tone. “What happened?”
“They invited us for Christmas. The whole family gathering at the compound.”
He doesn’t say anything. I watch his shoulders, waiting for the tension to ratchet back up—the compound, that house, Vicente’s territory.
“Rafael will be there,” Wyatt says. “Celeste is already planning the menu.”
Chris picks up his beer, takes a slow drink. His jaw is tight, but he’s breathing through it. Deliberately loosening.
“We don’t have to go,” I say quickly. “If it’s too much, too soon?—”
“No.” He turns to face me now, and his voice is steady. Deliberate. “I’ll be ready.”
I search his face for the panic I expected. It’s there, underneath, but it’s not running the show. “You sure?”
