Dean finally sets his fork down. “What?”
“Nothing.” Ivy glances at Mason, then back at Dean. “Just thought maybe…”
His head tilts, just slightly. “Maybe what?”
“Maybe you’d finally let someone in?”
Dean goes still. Not frozen — still. Like something dangerous coiling up, waiting for the wrong move.
“I’m fine.”
“Nobody said you weren’t—”
“Then why the interrogation?”
His voice is quiet, but it lands heavy. Ivy winces. Mason opens his mouth, probably to defuse, but Dean’s stare cuts him off before he can.
“It’s not an interrogation,” Ivy says softly. “It’s concern.”
“It’s invasive.”
“When’s the last time you went on a date?” Mason tries, half teasing, half shielding.
“I date.”
“Depositions don’t count.”
Dean exhales through his nose. “March.”
Silence. The kind that hums. I feel the words like static in the room.
“March?” Ivy repeats, blinking. “It’s August.”
Dean’s knife tenses in his grip. “Your point?”
Ivy’s lips part, but nothing comes out.
“Dean—”
He stands abruptly. The chair legs scrape hard against the floor. “I should check on dessert.”
And he’s gone, the sound of retreating footsteps echoing down the hallway.
The table breathes again.
“Too far?” Ivy whispers.
“Little bit,” Mason confirms, dragging a hand over his face.
I’m already on my feet. “I’ll go.”
“Poppy—”
“It’s fine.” I force a small smile. “I speak emotionally constipated.”
The kitchen’s dim except for the under-cabinet lights. They cast a soft, yellow glow over stainless steel and tension. Dean’s at the counter, methodically slicing strawberries like they’ve wronged him.
“They mean well,” I say, leaning against the doorway.
