I shake my head. She’s got a soft spot for that furball, and it’s not hard to see why. I pull plates and glasses from the cupboard, setting up the pizza on the island.
She strolls over, settling onto one of the barstools and making herself at home. I catch myself watching the way she scoops up the cat and arranges him on her lap.
“All right.” She leans forward slightly, peering into the box. “I saw you ordered the margherita, which I do love, but what’s this other one?”
“That’s my personal favorite,” I reply. “Black pudding, haggis, and smoked cheese.”
I’m not surprised when her face drops into a look of horror. “You don’t have to try it. It’s not for everyone,” I reassure her, though I’m still enjoying her reaction more than I probably should.
“I wouldn’t mind trying a bite, but I have a feeling I’ll be sticking to the margherita.”
I pull a slice from the box and hold it out to her, watching as she inspects it like it’s a ticking time bomb. She gives it one last skeptical look before finally taking a cautious bite. Our eyes meet, and I can’t help but watch a little too intently, noting the way her throat works when she swallows.
Then, she winces.
She grabs the whiskey bottle like it’s the only thing standing between her and death, practically chugging it. “Ugh. Yeah, that’s all you,” she groans, still trying to avoid choking. “Can’t say I’m a fan,” she says, voice a little hoarse, and I just about lose it.
“I figured,” I laugh. “But it was entertaining to watch you suffer through it.”
She shoots me a look that could melt steel. “Mm. You just wait. I’ll think of something equally disgusting for you to try.”
I quirk a brow. “I’mdefinitelylooking forward to that.”
We dig in, plates full, and the conversation rolls easy from there. Nothing forced or fancy, just banter between bites and a few laughs that sneak up on me. We hit everything from dumb childhood stories to movie opinions we’ll probably fight about later, and of course, the age-old, controversial topic of pineapple on pizza.
“I thought my fry habit was going to be the deal-breaker, but pineapple on pizza? I don’t know if I can get over this, Knox,” she says, her voice dripping with feigned disappointment.
I’m having far too much fun pushing her buttons. “It’s sweetandsavory. What’s not to love?”
She furrows her brows, her eyes narrowing. “I don’t know. The fact that it’s a culinary crime scene, a fruit salad gone rogue—take your pick.”
We both laugh and it’s strange, but there’s a subtle tilt, like the world’s not quite on the same axis anymore. I’m not sure it’ll ever shift back. Is this how it is now? Life split into before and after her?
Before Juliette, everything was simple and predictable. I knew exactly what came next. But now… Now I’m here, savoring moments like this. Laughing over a damn pizza, and somehow, it’s the best part of my day.
I glance over at her again. I didn’t plan on letting anyone in. Didn’t think I could.
But here she is.
She hops off her stool and starts clearing plates. “You sit. Just tell me where your containers are, and I’ll put the leftovers in the fridge.”
She moves through the kitchen like she’s done it a hundred times. No hesitation, no asking twice. Confident. Capable. For a split second, a thought hits me—she belongs here.
I try to shove it down to a place where it won’t stir up things I’m not ready to name but it sticks. I stand there like a fool, not sure what the hell to do, then finally turn away, grab the bottle, and pour us another round.
I carry the glasses to the living room and set them on the coffee table before sinking into the couch. The cushions give beneath me, but my mind doesn’t budge. It’s still caught in the space she’s filling without even trying.
A minute later, she slides in beside me, tucking herself against my side with a soft, content sigh. Her head settles on my shoulder, and I freeze for a beat, just long enough to feel it.
The calm. The quiet.Her.
I didn’t know how badly I needed the sound of her laugh filling my kitchen, or the way her body fits against mine so effortlessly. She makes this whole place feel more like home than it ever has.
I swallow hard, chest aching with things I don’t know how to say. Too much, too fast. And yet…not enough. She snuggles closer, and my arm moves on instinct. I wrap it around her, pulling her in tighter.
“So,” I say, “remind me what you and Bree are up to over the next few days.”
She starts talking about their trip to Edinburgh, her words rushing out faster the more she gets into it. The excitement in her voice is contagious, and I find myself hanging on to every word. I could easily lose track of time listening to her.
