I sit up fully and swing my boots onto the porch boards.My back pops as I stretch putting my cut back on.Getting older is a bitch, and I ignore that thought on principle.
“I could’ve.”
She is still studying me seriously.“But you didn’t.”
“No.”
She exhales through her nose, not quite annoyed, not quite confused, but probably a lot more thrown off than she wants to show.
I get it.If I woke up and found me on my porch, I’d have questions too.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she says.
“Wanted to.”
Her mouth parts like she has a response ready, then she hesitates.I watch the moment she realizes she doesn’t know what to do with that answer.
Neither do I, if I’m being honest.
The air between us is cool with early morning damp, carrying the smell of cut grass and salt from the Gulf.Somewhere down the street, a truck starts up.Birds make too much noise in the trees.
Lucy shifts her weight.“I.”She starts but stops.She glances over her shoulder into the house, then back at me.“Do you want coffee?”
I study her face.There’s nerves there, sure.Caution.But underneath it something softer too.Gratitude maybe.Curiosity definitely.“Yeah,” I say, pushing to my feet.“Coffee sounds good.”
She steps back to let me in.This time when I cross her threshold, it’s in daylight.
And somehow that feels more intimate than last night.The house smells like laundry detergent and the faint sweetness of baked goods.She closes the door behind me and heads for the kitchen while I set my duffle by the wall and shrug out of my cut, hanging it over the chair.
“You can sit,” she says, not looking at me.“I just need a minute.”
I lean one shoulder against the doorway to the kitchen instead.“You always this nice to men you find on your porch?”
That gets me a glance over her shoulder.“Normally I call the police.”
“Thought about that.Probably a good idea, babe.”I joke.
She gives me a smile.“Why didn’t you leave before I saw you?”
I shrug.“Guess I fell asleep.”Then I smile back.“Or maybe I wanted you to find me.”I reply with a wink.
She gives me a look that says she doesn’t know whether to believe that or not.
Fair.I don’t really know why I stayed, other than it didn’t feel right.
She moves around the kitchen with sleepy efficiency—coffee grounds, filter, water, the familiar little rituals that make a place feel lived in.Real.There’s a lunchbox on the counter and a school folder half-zipped beside it.A tiny pair of sneakers under the table.
My gaze lands on them and stays there a second too long.
A soft thump of feet sounds from the hallway.Then a little girl appears in pajamas printed with strawberries, hair wild from sleep, clutching a stuffed rabbit by one ear.
She stops dead when she sees me.Big blue eyes.Sharp little face.Her mother’s mouth.
Well.There she is.
Lucy turns immediately.“Good morning, baby.”
The kid keeps staring at me.
