I shoulder my gear bag, toss it into the passenger seat of the truck, and pull out of the lot. The drive to Kate’s place takes seven minutes. Eight if I actually obey the speed limit. Today, I don’t.
Before heading over, I swing by Gordy’s for the pickup order I called in. Cedar Falls is doing its usual small-town thing—half the shops propped open, someone wrestling a mower across a patchy yard, kids weaving through the sidewalk like their bikes have minds of their own. The town pretends it’s not paying attention, but the second I grab that takeout bag, at least three people know exactly where I’m going. They’ll talk about it later with that nosy affection this place is built on.
I pull into Kate’s driveway and kill the engine. The inside of the cab goes quiet, but my pulse doesn’t get the memo. I tell myself I’m here to bring her food because she’ll absolutely skip lunch if no one reminds her. That part is true. But the bag on the seat beside me smells good, and practicality only explains half of what I’m doing.
This—showing up, making sure she’s taken care of in ways she’d never ask for—feels too good for a situation that’s supposed to stay simple.
I grab the food, step out of the truck, and admit to myself that I’m already in deeper than I planned.
The door swings open before my hand reaches it. Kate stands there barefoot, hair pulled up, tank top and cutoffs doing absolutely nothing to help my self-control. She tilts her chin, eyes warm.
“Hey,” she says.
“Hey yourself.” I lift the takeout bag. “Lunch delivery.”
A small smile curves on her lips. “You’re really committing to the superhero routine.”
“You think this is an act?” I counter. “I just like making sure you’re fed.”
Her gaze drags over me, slow and unapologetic. “You didn’t come here just to feed me, Wells.”
“Maybe not,” I say as I step closer. “But feeding you’s a good place to start.”
That expression she gives me—part amused, part irritated—hits harder than it should. There’s always this moment between us, right before anything happens, where the air shifts and everything inside me tightens.
I follow her inside, the door clicking shut behind us. The smell of this morning’s coffee and Evie’s bubblegum shampoo linger in the air, two things that trace a map of her life without her saying a word. Every detail reminds me why she holds her world so close. And why some stubborn part of me wants to be included in that world.
For now, the focus is simple. I set the food on the counter, and she watches me with that small, assessing tilt of her head—eyesbright, lips parted, ready for a verbal sparring match she’ll win only half the time.
She has no idea what that does to me. Or maybe she knows exactly what she’s doing.
We carry our plates to the living room and settle on the couch, dishes balanced on our knees. She sits sideways, legs tucked beneath her, completely unaware of how easily she gets under my skin. Every time she laughs, something in my chest loosens in a way I’m not ready to examine.
“Okay,” she says through a bite of sandwich. “Fine. You win. It’s actually good.”
“Of course it is. Gordy’s turkey club is undefeated. You’re talking to a man who understands the science of takeout.”
She arches a brow. “Science?”
“Survival strategy,” I correct. “Cook the wrong amount and you drown in leftovers or end up eating cereal for dessert because you didn’t go grocery shopping.”
“That hits close to home,” she says, wiping a crumb from her lip.
I lift a shoulder. “Exactly why I’m making sure you eat something besides caffeine and toast.”
“You’re bossy, Wells.”
“And you don’t mind,” I say, watching the way she tries—and fails—not to react. Her gaze flickers. Not a full smile, but close enough to count.
When we finish eating, I take her plate and set it on the coffee table. She studies me then, that tiny crease forming between her brows, the one that shows up when she’s thinking too much.
“You always do that,” she says.
“Do what?”
“Handle things.”
“Old habits,” I tell her.
