Tiny lifted his head like I had dropped something.
“My dad is...” I exhaled. “He’s my dad. He handled everything after my mom died. Work. Me. Harper. Bills. Grief. School forms. Forgot his own birthday for three years but never forgot our dentist appointments. He’s not fragile. I know that. But I still think of telling him big things like I’m handing him more weight.”
Declan’s face changed in a quiet way. “You’re not a burden to him.”
“I know.” I pushed a piece of chicken around. “Most of the time, I know. Then my brain gets weird about it.”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know how he’ll react.”
“To me?”
“To me. To men. To cheating. To the coach thing. To all of it.”
Declan set his fork down. “You don’t have to tell him until you’re ready.”
“No.” I looked at him. “But ready might be a fake finish line. Like perfect.”
The corner of his mouth moved, not quite a smile. “Tessa got to you.”
“Tessa lives in my walls now.”
“She charges for that.”
“She should. She’d make a fortune.”
We finished dinner slowly. Or Declan finished slowly and I repeatedly forgot I had a glass of water until he nudged it closer with two fingers. Not controlling. Not making a production. Just putting the thing I needed where my attention might catch on it.
Afterward, I insisted on helping clean because I was not a complete menace. I was a partial menace with strong opinions and limited follow-through.
Declan washed. I dried. Then I got distracted by the cabinet system because he kept plates in a place that made sense to him but not to me, which meant it was wrong. I opened the wrong door twice, shut one too hard, apologized to the cabinet, then heard Declan make a sound behind me.
“What?” I asked.
“You apologized to furniture.”
“It startled me.”
“The cabinet startled you?”
“It was aggressive.”
He turned back to the sink, shoulders moving like he was trying not to laugh.
The wired feeling hadn’t gone away. Food helped. His house helped. Tiny helped by existing as a breathing blockade of meat and devotion. But the day had filled me with too much momentum and nowhere to put it. My body wanted to sprint. My head wanted to reorganize my entire life by midnight. My hands wanted trouble.
Trouble was standing at the sink with wet forearms and tattoos disappearing under pushed-up sleeves.
I dried a plate and moved behind him to put it away, even though there was absolutely enough room to go around. My hip brushed his ass.
“Excuse me,” I said.
Declan didn’t turn. “Plates go left.”
“I know where plates go.”
“You opened the mug cabinet.”
