"I mean it. You've already?—"
"Trent." She said his name the way she always did—like a period at the end of a sentence. Final. Not up for debate. "Take the soup. Feed your mother. Stop arguing with me."
“Yes, ma'am."
She rolled her eyes, but there was something soft underneath the gesture. She was so beautiful, with her blond hair, blue eyes, petite frame, and toned muscles. She might be only five-foot-five, but no one should let her size fool them because she was a lethal weapon all by herself.
She was also sweet and kind.
He opened the door, and it creaked on its hinges the way it had since he was a kid. The cicadas were loud tonight, their chorus rising and falling in waves that washed over the property like a pulse. Out in the moat, one of the gators bellowed—probably Dolly, complaining about the heat or the humidity or whatever else gators complained about.
Dove hesitated and chose not to step inside.
That didn’t surprise him.
"How is your mom? Really?"
Trent glanced over his shoulder toward the living room, where his mother was propped up on the couch with a blanket over her legs despite the warmth of the evening. She grew thinner every day. Fading like a photograph left too long in the sun.
"She has good moments," he said. “Though, fewer of them."
Dove nodded slowly. She didn't offer platitudes. Didn't tell him it would be okay or that miracles happened or any of the other useless things people said when they didn't know what else to say. She just stood there, solid and present, and let the truth of it sit between them.
"I appreciate everything you've done," he said. "The soup. The company. Sitting with her when no one else was around.” He shook his head. "You didn't sign up for any of this."
“It’s what friends do.” She reached out and squeezed his arm, her grip firm and warm. "I'm here for you. And for her. Whatever you need—I'm just a phone call away."
Friends. When it came to Dove, that word confused him. He set the soup on the table by the door and looked at her for a long moment. The light was doing something to her face, softening the sharp edges.
He leaned in and kissed her. Brief. Gentle. More gratitude than passion, but not entirely without heat. She kissed him back the same way, her hand coming up to rest against his chest for just a moment before she pulled away because they’d agreed to be just friends.
"Go feed your mom," she said quietly. "I'll check in tomorrow."
"Okay." He sighed. It was for the best that she pushed him away.
She headed down the steps and across the yard toward her truck, moving with that particular grace she had—the one that said she was always aware of her surroundings, always ready for whatever came next. He watched until her taillights disappeared then went back inside.
His mother was watching him from the couch, a knowing smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
"Don't," he said.
"I didn't say anything."
"You were thinking it."
"I'm allowed to think whatever I want. It's one of the few pleasures I have left." She patted the cushion beside her. "Now come sit with me, and let's eat whatever that sweet girl brought over."
Trent retrieved two bowls from the kitchen and ladled out the soup, the smell of garlic and herbs filling the small space. He handed one to his mother and settled onto the couch beside her, careful not to jostle her too much. She was fragile these days. Breakable in ways she'd never been before.
She took a sip and made a small approving sound. "This is good. She can cook."
"It's soup, Mom. Not exactly gourmet."
"Good soup is harder than you think." She took another sip, studying him over the rim of the bowl. "I like her."
"I know you do."
"She's good for you."
