“You’re a terrible liar, Annie.”
“It’s part of my charm.”
He pushes off the door frame and comes over, setting his mug down and sinking into the other end of the couch. The cushion dips under his weight, pulling me slightly toward him.
“Thank you,” he says quietly. “For letting me sleep. For…everything.”
I look at him then, and the air in the room feels thick and charged, like the moments right before a summer thunderstorm. It feels like a Sunday morning in a movie. It feels like a life.
And because I’m me, and because this is terrifying, I just reach for another sock.
“Don’t thank me yet,” I say. “I still haven’t found the mate to this dinosaur sock, and I’m pretty sure the dryer ate it as a sacrifice.”
Leo laughs and for a second, the city outside that window feels a million miles away.
Emma crosses her arms, her lower lip venturing into a pout. “I’m bored. Can we go to the zoo? I need to see the red pandas.”
I glance out the window, where the November sun is pulling off a minor miracle—bathing the city in a golden glow and a fleeting warmth that whispers “seize the day” before winterslams the door shut. It’s an afternoon that’s begging for an outing, the one you regret skipping when the clouds roll in tomorrow. “You know, that doesn’t sound half bad,” I say, already picturing the chaos of strollers and snack stands, the earthy scent of animal enclosures mingled with popcorn.
Leo shifts his gaze from his coffee to me. “You game? Or have you reached your limit of Roussos company for the day?”
“I’m game,” I say, leaning back against the sofa, “as long as the child actually wants me there. I don’t want to be the third wheel to a red panda reunion.”
“Yes!” Emma practically shouts, abandoning her laundry-folding project with a suddenness that sends a pair of socks flying. “You have to come, Annie! You’re the only one who does the voices for the penguins!”
Leo presses a hand to his chest, looking wounded. “What am I, chopped liver? I have range. I can do a very sophisticated penguin.”
“You’re Daddy liver,” Emma says with a deadpan seriousness that only children and seasoned stand-up comedians can pull off.
I can’t help it—I burst out laughing, a real, undignified snort that has me covering my mouth. Leo shoots me a glare that’s all feigned sternness, his lips twitching. “Don’t encourage her,” he mutters, but his eyes are dancing, the warm brown lit up with humor.
“I’m gonna get my rain boots!” Emma announces, already scrambling off the couch.
“Rain boots?” Leo calls out, his brow furrowing. “Sun’s out, kiddo. There’s no clouds today.”
“But what if it rains later? Or what if there are secret puddles? Or what if the animals splashes me?”
Leo sighs, the sound of a man who has learned which hills are worth dying on and which ones are just for wearing yellow rubber boots. “Go get your rain boots.”
But of course, Emma’s voice bounces back immediately: “Can we bring bread for the ducks? Pleeease?”
Leo pinches the bridge of his nose, exhaling a long-suffering breath. “Emma, you know the signs say we’re not supposed to—bread’s bad for them, remember? It makes their tummies hurt.”
“Yeah, but you always bring the bread anyway!”
He sags, defeated by the impeccable memory of a preschooler. I nudge his elbow with mine teasingly. “Wow. Leo Roussos. Professor. Intellectual. Secret anarchist and menace to municipal waterfowl policy.”
“It’s for the kid,” he defends, but his tone is lofty, playful, like he’s trying to salvage some dignity. “What can I say? I’m a martyr for her happiness.”
“Right. A total saint.”
I stand up, moving to set the basket of folded laundry on the coffee table. The hallway is echoing with the sound of boots being wrestled onto small feet. But before I can take a step toward the kitchen, Leo is there. He closes the distance between us in one fluid step, his hand sliding behind my neck, and then he’s kissing me. It’s not a “good morning” kiss. It’s an “I’ve been thinking about you since 3:00 a.m. and I’m losing my mind” kiss.
I gasp, my hands flying up to bunch the fabric of his shirt. He tastes like dark coffee and minty toothpaste. He kisses me again, deeper this time, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw.
“What was that for?” I whisper against his lips, my head spinning.
“For breakfast,” he murmurs, his breath hot against my skin. “For the laundry. For taking care of Emma. For the way you look in my shirt.”
