“High praise,” I say.
“Don’t let it go to your head, biker brat.”
The front door opens, cool night air slipping briefly into the house along with the sound of gravel underfoot.
“Text me,” she calls back to Millie.
“I will.”
“Actually do it, though,” Penny adds. Then she’s gone, the door closing behind her with a soft, final click that seems to leave the room slightly less chaotic than it was before.
Millie turns back toward us, looking like she’d genuinely rather vanish into thin air than survive whatever conversation is about to happen next.
I take a slow sip of my coffee.
I’m smiling.
I make no real effort to hide it.
From his armchair, without looking up from his page, Jonas says, “Penny’s always beendramatic.”
“Dad,” Millie says with the kind of exhausted affection that tells me this argument has apparently been happening for her entire damn life.
And Jonas calmly turns another page.
Somewhere around ten, Jonas’ eyes finally lose the fight with his book, and he excuses himself with dignity, not making a show of being tired. He says goodnight, squeezes Millie’s shoulder when he passes her, and pulls his bedroom door shut behind him. The house settles into a different register of calm.
Millie moves through the kitchen in small, efficient motions, rinsing mugs, wiping down the counter, restoring order the way she always does when she needs something to focus on. I watch her for a moment from my chair, then push to my feet and cross to the sink. The tap runs cold over my fingers before I reach for the last mug on the draining board.
I don’t make a point of it. I don’t announce my intention, I just start washing it.
Behind me, I hear her movement pause.
A second later, she steps closer, reaching past me to take the mug from my hands. Her arm brushes mine, and instead of completing the motion, she hesitates, caught in the space between intention and awareness.
I don’t step back.
She doesn’t move away.
We end up suspended in that accidental closeness that feels anything but accidental once you’re inside it. I feel the warmth of her at my shoulder, and the faint sweetness of her clings to the air between us, something soft and familiar.
The air pops and crackles with electricity between us as the tap continues to run, filling the silence with a steady rush of sound before I reach out and turn it off. The silence that follows feels louder than it should. It’s not uncomfortable. It is the opposite of uncomfortable. It is the kind of quiet you don’t want to break because breaking it would mean acknowledging that it exists, and acknowledging it would mean acknowledging everything else.
She looks up.
I look down.
My chest heaves with tense breaths, the distance between us is nothing, and for the first time in two years, I don’t manufacture a reason to step back. “Millie,” I say, my voice hoarse.
It’s not a question or a statement, just her name, shaped into something that feels like it belongs to this moment. Something shifts in her expression, and the air between us tightens, charged with something that has been building for so damn long it feels familiar, like a storm you’ve been watching on the horizon has finally decided to arrive.
She doesn’t move immediately.
Neither do I.
We stand here, suspended in the space where choices are still theoretical, and consequences haven’t caught up yet. I see the exact second she becomes aware of how close we are. The way her breathing changes, just slightly. The way her eyes drop to my mouth and then lift again, like she’s angry at herself for doing it.
My pulse hammers low and steady, something instinctive waking up under my ribs. It’s as if the energy around us is electrocharged and buzzing, making the hairs on my arm stand to attention with the adrenaline coursing through my veins while we stare at each other.
