I laugh. “Seriously?”
“Wouldn’t come down for anyone else.” He shrugs. “The owner was crying, and the darn thing looked proud of himself the whole time.”
I shake my head, smiling into my glass as he slides the tray into the oven and sets the timer. The soft beep fills the kitchen before he turns toward me.
“By the way,” he says casually, “we got a package from June today.”
I blink, surprised. I knew June promised Uncle Mike a jersey from his favorite player, but I assumed she’d send it to me first, not straight here.
“Wait — really?”
He notices my expression and smiles slightly. “Come on. Let me show you.”
He gestures toward the stairs.
I follow him, suddenly aware that in all the time I’ve spent here, I’ve never actually gone upstairs. The realization hits me halfway up, and I feel strangely like a teenager again, steppinginto a space that feels more personal than anywhere else I’ve seen in his house.
He walks down a narrow hallway and opens the second door on the left.
I step inside behind him and pause.
The room is neat and calm, with everything in its place. A large bed sits centered against the wall, sheets pulled tight, nothing out of order. A desk with a computer faces a window that looks directly toward my house, and I fight the urge to glance back and figure out exactly which part of my home he sees from here. Across from the bed, two large windows frame the ocean, dark now except for the soft reflection of the twinkling lights from the backyard.
It feels… very him. Quiet. Ordered. Comfortable.
He switches on a bedside lamp and disappears briefly into the closet while I stand there taking it all in, trying not to look too curious. A moment later, he walks back out carrying a large brown box and sets it down on the bed.
“Here,” he says.
I move closer as he opens it.
Inside is chaos in the best way—a signed soccer ball, hats, scarves, team towels, bracelets, stickers, more Strikers gear than I thought one box could hold. Uncle Mike is going to lose his mind.
I laugh softly, sorting through everything while Aiden watches, shaking his head like he can’t quite believe the amount of stuff either.
“She went all out,” I say.
“She did.” He smiles. “There were two jerseys too. I’m guessing one for each of us, but Uncle Mike decided he needed to show them off tonight and took them with him to bingo.”
I laugh at that, picturing it instantly.
As I shift a scarf aside, a small note catches my eye, tucked between the items.
Uncle Mike, make sure he seals the deal ;) — June.
Heat creeps up my neck. I pretend I haven’t seen it and casually shove it back into the box before he notices.
The oven timer beeps downstairs.
Aiden looks toward the door, then back at me, amused.
“Come on,” he says, reaching out and taking my hand. His fingers are warm, steady. “Warm cookies are waiting for us.”
And without any doubt, I follow.
Aiden slides the cookies out of the oven and sets the tray on the counter, the smell instantly filling the kitchen. The chocolate chips glisten on top, melted and soft, the edges just barely golden.
“They need to cool on the counter for a few minutes,” he says, reaching for a small container and sprinkling flaky Celtic salt over the tops. “Unfortunately.”
