I reached over and brushed my thumb along his hip, careful, not making it sexual. “Shower first. Then coffee.”
“Do I get a medal for surviving?”
“You get ibuprofen and a travel mug.”
“Romance is alive.”
It was, unfortunately.
Not in the ways either of us had planned. Not cleanly. Not in public. But it was there when he sat at my kitchen island in yesterday’s hoodie, bare feet hooked around the stool legs, hair damp and curling at the ends while I made coffee. It was there when he squinted at his phone with the intense concentration of a man trying not to fall down a notification hole before six in the morning. It was there when Tiny planted his massive head on Jace’s thigh and exhaled like his heart had been broken by the concept of departure.
“No,” Jace told him quietly. “I can’t take you with me.”
Tiny thumped his tail once.
“I know. Devastating.”
I set a mug in front of Jace and a small plate beside it. Toast. Peanut butter. Banana cut in uneven slices because I’d been watching him more than the knife.
He looked at the plate, then up at me. “You always feed people at dawn?”
“Only the difficult ones.”
“Selective program.”
“Eat half.”
He picked up the toast without arguing. That told me more than any promise would have.
We didn’t talk about Olivia while he ate. Not directly. Her flight time sat in the kitchen with us anyway, in the space between his travel mug and my hand on the counter. Seven-forty. Arrival. Baggage. The drive home. The door opening.
There were practical things to say. Be careful leaving. Text Roman if needed. Don’t engage online. Stretch after practice. Check in if your head gets loud.
I said most of them.
Jace let me.
When it was time, he stood by the back door with his bag over one shoulder and Tiny leaning into his legs hard enough to affect balance.
“I’m going to fall over,” Jace said.
Tiny leaned harder.
“He’s staging a protest.”
“He has no organizing skills.”
“Neither do I, but people still let me have opinions.”
I took Jace’s mug from him and set it on the counter so he wouldn’t spill it. His eyes came to mine, and the humor thinned. Morning filled the kitchen. Pale light. Cold tile. The low hum of the refrigerator. A man I had no right to kiss standing in my house like he belonged there.
I stepped closer.
He met me halfway.
The kiss was quick because it had to be. It still wasn’t casual. His fingers caught briefly in the front of my shirt, then released with visible effort.
“I’ll see you at the rink,” he said.
