“It must’ve rolled off the porch last night,” he says.
“Good thing it didn’t break.”
“Yes,” he says gravely. “Because then I would’ve broken.”
I smile softly, and before I can stop myself, I say, “Want tea?”
He glances at me as if I’ve offered him salvation. “Chamomile?”
“Chamomile,” I confirm.
He nods solemnly. “Lead the way.”
We make tea in relative peace.
Jesse has the kids calm again. They’ve settled into some game involving crayons and extremely strict rules about where one can and cannot sit. From the sound of it, it might be a courtroom for stuffed animals.
Wyatt stands next to me at the stove as the kettle heats, leaning back on the counter, notebook resting on his thigh. His shoulder brushes mine, feather light, but enough to send a quiet buzz down my nerves.
“This tea,” he says softly, “my mom made it every night when I was a kid. When I couldn’t sleep. When I had a cold. When my dad was grading papers too late and forgot he promised to read to me.”
I soften. “Your parents sound… good.”
“They are,” he says, a small smile forming. “Kind. Predictable in the best way.”
I stare at the steam from the kettle.
“I don’t have… anything like that,” I admit.
He turns his head toward me, listening in that quiet, soft-eyed way he has.
“My mother died in a fire,” I say. “I was twelve. After that, my dad… wasn’t the same. Eventually, he left. Not in a dramatic way, just… stopped being a presence.”
Wyatt doesn’t say he’s sorry. He doesn’t pity me.
He waits. He listens.
“I stayed with my grandmother,” I continue. “She was sweet. Busy. Always smelled of honey and lavender oil. But I think losing her daughter broke something in her too.”
I swallow.
“When she passed, it was just me.”
Wyatt absorbs that with a quiet, anchored understanding that makes my throat tight.
He speaks gently. “Your house feels like a home, Abilene. Even if you built it alone.”
My eyes sting unexpectedly. Before I can answer, the kettle screams.
I blink, step away, and pour water into two mismatched mugs, his blue-rimmed one and a cabin mug with a fish painted on the side.
The scent of chamomile rises warm and soothing between us.
We carry the mugs to the small kitchen table and sit across from each other, knees nearly touching beneath the surface.
Steam curls upward, softening the harsh edges of the morning.
Wyatt cradles his mug between both hands. “Tell me more about your grandmother.”
