Pip noticed, so I loosened my grip immediately, not because I was backing down, but because the reaction was mine to control. Not hers.
“Fine,” I repeated.
“He’s been around forever. Family friend. Small-town stuff.”
“Mm.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“The judgy hum.”
“I didn’t judge.”
“You absolutely judged.”
“I don’t like him.”
The words came out clean. Flat. No dressing them up.
She looked at me quickly, alarm flickering in her face before she smoothed it away. “You don’t even know him.”
“I know enough.”
“Oh really?”
I glanced at her then, and this time I let her see some of it. Not all. Not the full dark thing sitting in my chest every time I thought about him too close to her Jeep. Just enough.
“I know you don’t breathe right around him.”
Her face changed.
There.
The truth flashed before the lie could cover it. Then she looked away. “Cade.”
I backed off by half an inch, because that was the play with her. Not retreat. Not surrender. Just space enough for her to think she had won the moment.
“Okay,” I said.
She blinked, like she had expected more. Good, let her underestimate me there too.
The Range Rover rolled past a line of trees, and the first familiar trucks near the Bennett house came into view. The smell of smoke hit before we even reached the driveway, faint at first, then stronger through the vents.
Pip inhaled, some of the tension slipping from her shoulders despite herself. “Dad’s already burning something.”
“Smells like tradition.”
“It smells like dry ribs and denial.”
“I’m still excited.”
She looked over at me, and the softness came back. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
For a second, she forgot to be scared. Forgot to sell me benefits. Forgot to keep one hand on the emotional emergency exit.
