And Olivia.
There were pieces of her too.
A sleek travel mug. A magnet from Santa Fe. A note stuck beneath it in neat handwriting: dry cleaning, batteries, call plumber.
Nothing romantic. Nothing dramatic.
Just evidence.
My stomach pinched.
Declan followed my gaze. He didn’t move to hide anything.
“She gets in tomorrow evening,” he said.
“I know.”
“I’m talking to her.”
The words settled between the cutting board and the stove.
I nodded, picking at a loose thread on my sleeve until I caught myself and stopped. “Okay.”
“Not because of pressure from you.”
“I didn’t think that.”
“You might later.”
I looked at him. “I ended things with Vanessa. You’re allowed to make your own choices without me turning it into a scoreboard.”
His expression changed in that small way it did when I surprised him.
“I mean, I’ll be a mess about it internally,” I added. “But maturely.”
That got the almost-smile again.
He handed me a knife and pointed at a bell pepper. “Strips.”
I stared at it. “You’re trusting me with a blade?”
“I trust you with a stick at twenty-two miles an hour.”
“Different skill set.”
“Strips, Holloway.”
That tone slid down my spine and settled low in my body.
I cut the pepper.
Badly at first. Too thick, then too thin, then I got annoyed because the pieces didn’t match. Declan didn’t correct me right away. He moved around me, heating oil, seasoning chicken, bumping his hip against mine when he needed the sink.
Normal touching.
Not a scene. Not a crisis. Not a stolen second in a hallway.
His hand rested briefly on my lower back when he reached past me for salt. His fingers closed around my wrist to shift the knifeangle. He kissed the side of my head while checking the pan, casual enough that my chest hurt.
