“Language.”
“It’s accurate.”
Upstairs, a small voice calls out sleepily, “Dad?”
We freeze.
“I’ve got it,” he says quickly.
I nod, stepping back toward the hallway.
He moves up the stairs two at a time.
I hear his voice soften instantly.
“I’m here, kiddo. What's up?”
I hear Maddie’s small, shaky voice drift down the stairs. “I dreamed my stuffed animals were throwing Daisy,” she says, half asleep, half upset.
“It was just a dream,” Gabriel murmurs gently. “Nobody’s throwing Daisy. She’s fine. I promise.”
I shouldn’t be standing here in his kitchen feeling this warm, this hopeful, this dangerously close to wanting more than we agreed to.
A few minutes later, he comes back down.
“She’s good,” he says quietly.
“Bad dream?”
“A full-blown stuffed animal uprising,” he says.
“Terrifying.”
“Extremely.”
We stand there again.
The heat is still between us.
Muted.
Waiting.
He clears his throat first.
“Your room okay?” he asks. Casual. Like we’re discussing throw pillows instead of the fact that we just kissed like that.
I blink. “My room?”
“Yeah. Too cold? Mattress terrible? Closet space criminally inadequate?”
A small smile tugs at my mouth. “It’s fine.”
He studies me. “Fine-fine or polite-fine?”
“Fine-fine,” I say, softer this time. “It’s… nice. It doesn’t feel like I’m crashing. It feels like you made space.”
His shoulders ease at that.
