She didn’t answer right away. Instead, her gaze drifted past him, out toward the hallway where maybe she could see the holes in the walls from the pictures that used to hang there.
“I was a lot like her,” she said quietly. “Responsible. Observant. Quick to adapt.”
“She is all those things,” Ethan murmured.
“My parents tried their best,” Honey said, “but they were a bit of a mess, to be frank. You know my mom’s a witch, but she was wild with magic. There were more spell jars in the fridge than food and more curses than crawlspace beneath the floorboards. And unlike Emma, I didn’t have a dad like you to pick up the pieces.”
Ethan’s throat tightened, but he said nothing.
“I was burying hexes before I could reach the garden spade without a stepstool. Washing runes off doorframes before the neighbors could ask questions. Going to school and pretending everything was normal when nothing ever really was.”
Ethan didn’t move. The shape of what she was saying was so familiar it made his skin prickle. She was talking about herself, but he saw Emma in every word. He’d noticed the way she darted to help with the orchard before he could ask. The way she hovered nearby when he opened the mail at the kitchen table.
He’d told himself she was just responsible. Mature. A helper by nature. But now, he wasn’t so sure. The guilt stirred low and hot behind his ribs.
“I was a good little helper,” Honey said. “Always fixing things. I thought if I could just hold everything together, we’d be fine.”
She offered a small smile. “And it was fine. But it came at a price. I didn’t even realize how much until I got older and realized I had no idea what I actually wanted. I was so busy managing everyone else’s mess, I never figured out my own.”
“That sounds like a lot for a kid,” he said finally. His mind was a tangle of Emma’s habits and the slow-burning realization that maybe she wasn’t just growing up fast. Maybe she was coping, and he hadn’t even noticed.
“I want her to have space to be a kid,” he said, his throat suddenly thick with emotion.
Honey gave a small nod. “I won’t offer to help again. But if you decide you want it, my earlier offer stands.”
“Thank you.” His voice was quiet. “For telling me. And for being here.”
She wasn’t pushing, which he appreciated. She was just offering what she could, and after everything she’d told him, he understood exactly why.
Something inside him softened.
“A truce?” Ethan asked.
“I wasn’t aware we were feuding.”
“Oh, we were definitely feuding. You reorganized my spice rack without permission.”
He tried to keep his tone even, but the truth was, he’d opened that cabinet three times since she reorganized and could already intuitively find every damn thing.
“I did you a favor,” she said, smiling. “It was a disaster.”
“We were managing fine.”
“It was a cry for help, Mr. Hale. There were three open jars of nutmeg. One was from 2009.”
Honey screwed up her face like the memory personally offended her, and something about it punched a laugh out of him before he could stop it.
Honey startled, then smiled. “Does the possibility of foodborne illness amuse you, Mr. Hale?”
“I do a lot of baking. I’ll go through it.”
“Some truce. I wouldn’t feed my worst enemy expired spices, let alone a friend.”
“Ms. Baxter,” he said, “are you asking me to be your friend?”
She tilted her head. “Are you asking me to be yours?”
“I am.”
