“I’m not saying he gets a free pass. But if there’s any shot at something better between you two, maybe it’s worth trying. And I’ll help you. If you need it.”
He finally looks up, eyes searching mine.
“Delilah Greer,” he says slowly, “why do you sound like you actually give a shit about me?”
“Because I do, you idiot.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then he smirks. “Well, damn. If I’d known being emotionally unavailable would get you all soft and supportive, I would've weaponized my trauma way sooner.”
I snort. “Asshole.”
“And yet…” He steps a little closer, eyes dropping to my mouth for a second too long. “You keep showing up.”
“It’s definitely not because of your face.”
“That’s a lie. You think I’m hot.”
I raise an eyebrow. “I think you’readequate.”
He grins like he’s won something. “You literally just calledme an idiot and offered to emotionally support me. That’ssoulmatebehavior.”
“Don’t make me take it back.”
He leans in, his voice low and teasing. “Too late. I already added it to my mental scrapbook of ‘Delilah Being Soft.’ It’s going right next to the time you brought me coffee and pretended it wasn’t for me.”
I roll my eyes and push off the counter. “You’re exhausting.”
He grabs a dish towel and flicks it at my hip. “And you’re cute when you care.”
“Say that again and I’ll drown you in cranberry punch.”
He’s still grinning when he tosses the last dish towel on the counter and follows me into the living room.
Just for tonight, I push away the voice that warns me not to get too comfortable. The one that reminds me good things don't last, at least not for me.
For once, I let myself simply be here, in this moment, with these people who somehow make room for me without question.
And when Troy kisses my temple, whispering “Told you they'd love you” against my hair, I don't argue.
I just lean into him, into the warmth, into the dangerous, wonderful feeling of belonging.
33
DELILAH
Hours later, I'm standing in Troy's childhood bedroom, staring at football trophies and faded posters while the warm buzz of cranberry punch makes everything feel softer around the edges.
“I can't believe your mom kept your room exactly the same,” I say, running my fingers along a shelf of books—mostly sci-fi paperbacks with cracked spines and dog-eared pages.
Troy emerges from the adjoining bathroom, hair damp from his shower, wearing only sweatpants that hang dangerously low on his hips. My mouth goes dry.
“Mom's sentimental,” he says, rubbing a towel over his head. “Dad wanted to turn it into a home office years ago, but she wouldn't hear of it.”
The mention of his father hangs briefly in the air between us, but the alcohol and the late hour make it less heavy somehow.
I've already showered, wearing one of Troy's old t-shirts that falls to mid-thigh. It smells like him—that mixture oflaundry detergent and something distinctly Troy that I've grown embarrassingly fond of.
