“Didn't say it was.”
“Sounded like it.”
“It was an observation.” He shifted in the seat, putting his shoulder toward the door. “Forget it.”
We fell quiet again. Chicago slid past the windows in a blur of lights and wet streets I could navigate with my eyes closed, snow piling up at the curbs in dirty gray mounds the plows would just push somewhere else until spring.
“You cut your hair,” I said, after another stretch of silence.
“Needed a change.”
“Looks good.”
“Thanks.” The word came out like it cost him. “You grew yours out.”
“Seemed easier than getting it cut every week.”
“Lazy.”
“Gets the job done.”
He made a low, unimpressed sound. “Six years and you've gotten worse at taking a compliment.”
“Was that a compliment?”
“Jury's still out.”
I almost smiled at that and managed not to.
The drive home took twenty minutes and felt longer. We hit a stretch where neither of us said anything for a full five minutes, and the silence got a weight to it that made even breathing feel like a deliberate act. Troy kept looking at me when he thought I wasn't paying attention. I could feel his gaze tracking over my profile and my hands on the wheel, and each time I glanced over he was already watching the window, jaw tight, shoulders set.
I was doing the same. Stealing looks at him when the traffic stopped.
I pulled into the driveway, killed the engine, and sat there a beat with my hands still on the wheel, looking at the house. Small, functional, nothing special. But having Troy in the passenger seat looking at it made everything feel displaced, like I'd been living in a holding pattern for years and hadn't let myself notice until right now.
“Home sweet home,” I said, and it came out more awkward than I'd intended.
Troy didn't respond. He got out, pulled his bag from the back, and stood on the sidewalk staring at the front door with an expression I couldn't read from where I was standing.
I climbed out, locked the truck, and walked past him toward the house. He followed a few steps behind, close enough that I could hear his breathing, far enough that the gap felt deliberate.
Inside, I hit the lights and watched him take in the space. His gaze moved the way it always had, methodical and thorough, cataloging changes before he let himself settle anywhere. The furniture was the same. The layout the same. But I'd repainted a few years back, fixed the ceiling, replaced the couch after the old one finally gave out.
“Looks different,” he said.
“Did some work on it.”
“Hm.” He set his bag down near the door and shoved his hands in his pockets. Then, quieter, almost to himself: “She would've liked it.”
I didn't answer that. Couldn't.
He seemed to realize what he'd said, and his jaw tightened. “Where do you want me?”
“Guest room's upstairs. Sheets are clean. Towels are in the hall bathroom.” I kept my voice even. “You eat on the plane?”
“Not really.”
“Want food?”
