“Hey, kiddo.”
I’m at his side in two strides—despite the protesting ache between my legs—reaching for the spoon like it’s on fire. “Let me do that. You shouldn’t be standing here.”
He makes a small sound that might be a laugh if he had more energy. “I can handle stirring a pot.”
“You can handle a lot of things you shouldn’t,” I mutter, and I hear the tremor in my own words. I press my hand lightly to his arm like I’m checking that he’s real.
He waves me off, gentle but firm. “Erica.”
I roll my eyes because it’s what I’ve always done when he says my name like that. “Yes, Daniel.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “Don’t call me that.”
“Then sit down.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not,” I say automatically, then clamp down on it because I don’t want to start. I don’t want to say the wrong thing and watch his face change.
He turns back to the stove, and I use the moment to do what I always do.
I take over.
I slide in front of him, hand closing around the spoon, and I stir like it’s my job, like stirring is control, like I can keep the world from tipping if I keep the soup moving.
He exhales through his nose, a patient sound. “You just walked in, and you’re already taking my kitchen away from me.”
“It’s my kitchen too.”
He leans his hip against the counter, watching me with that look he’s always had—fond, a little tired, like he’s trying to memorize me.
“Did you just get in?” he asks.
My stomach drops.
The question is simple. Normal. The kind of question that shouldn’t make my pulse spike.
But guilt doesn’t care what’s reasonable.
“No,” I say too fast.
He blinks. “No?”
I keep stirring. I keep my eyes on the soup. “I got in really late last night.”
The lie tastes bitter in my mouth.
I hate lying to him.
I hate it because he never lies to me. He doesn’t sugarcoat. He doesn’t dodge. Even when it hurts, he tells the truth like it’s the most important thing.
My original lie had been bad enough.
Hanging out with Maddy one last time before she flies out for the summer last night.
It had sounded normal. It had sounded safe.
Now I have to build on it, brick by brick, because the alternative is him looking at me and seeing something he can’t explain.
