“Yep. Honey sticks in the purse. Wind chimes on the porch. Freckles like pollen. Definitely Honeybee.”
She shakes her head but can’t help grinning wider.
“Goodnight,” she repeats.
She turns toward the door, and I turn toward the twins.
But before she disappears inside, she says, “I’m glad you were there today.”
I freeze.
Just long enough for her to step inside and close the door gently behind her.
The walk back to my porch is short, but tonight it feels long. The storm’s pushing on my shoulders.
Eliza is crouched beside a flowerpot, whispering to a bug. Caleb is poking the railing with a stick.
“Alright, tornado twins,” I call, “time to get inside before we blow away.”
They run at me full speed and tackle my waist. I pretend to stagger back because they love that.
“Daddy,” Eliza says, tugging my shirt, “can we see Miss Abilene again tomorrow?”
My breath catches.
Caleb nods. “Yeah. She smells like flowers.”
Eliza wrinkles her nose. “Caleb, she smells like honey.”
I ruffle both heads. “We’ll see.”
The wind picks up, whipping my daughter’s loose braid around.
I glance toward Abilene’s house.
Lights on. Shadows soft behind the curtains. Safe.
Good.
Inside my chest, everything shifts.
I haven’t felt this way in years. It’s not just desire or attraction. It’s hope.
And hope is dangerous.
Too dangerous to rush.
So even if I wanted to kiss her tonight, even if I’m still feeling the ghost of that impulse like a hand around my heart, I shove it down.
Because the last thing I want is to ruin this by moving too fast.
But damn… I wanted to.
I wanted to let myself have something quiet and good.
But tonight, I settle.
I carry my kids inside. I get them into pajamas. I read them a story. I kiss their foreheads and turn off the lights.
