Page 55 of At First Catch

I’ve spent so much of my life convincing myself I didn’t need roots that standing in the middle of a family built entirely from them feels almost disorienting.

“You’re staring again.”

I blink and look down.

Evelyn studies me seriously from her seat while absentmindedly braiding one of her dolls’ tiny plastic ponytails.

“I’m sorry?”

“At Aunt Hadley.”

A burning sensation crawls up my neck. Beside me, Hadley nearly chokes on her wine. Crew looks up.

“Oh, this should be interesting.”

Hadley points at him. “Don’t.”

“I haven’t even said anything yet.”

“That’s what worries me.”

Oliver squints at me from beside Holt. “You do look at Aunt Hadley a lot.”

Jesus Christ. Children are terrifying. I suddenly understand why people used to abandon villages to avoid medieval prophecies because kids notice everything.

Hadley refuses to look directly at me now, which honestly only makes the awareness between us worse. Claire glances between us once and very deliberately says nothing. That feels more intimidating.

Meanwhile, Holt has gone suspiciously quiet. And since Holt Wright usually operates at the energy level of an affectionate golden retriever during family dinners, the silence puts me on edge.

I became acutely aware of every glance toward Hadley after that. Every accidental brush of attention. Every shift in the air when she laughs.

This is becoming unsustainable. Dangerously unsustainable.

Dinner eventually dissolves into cleanup chaos, everyone moving instinctively around each other while leftovers disappear into containers and dishes stack beside the sink.

I stand automatically to help.

Claire points at me. “Guest.”

“I’m not a guest.”

The words leave my mouth before I filter them. Hadley’s gaze meets mine across the kitchen. Warmth spreads low beneath my ribs, then Claire smiles gently and hands me a dish towel anyway.

“Good answer. Dry those.”

The kitchen erupts back into motion. I end up beside Hadley near the sink while she rinses plates and I dry them one at a time. Domesticity should not feel this intimate.

The entire room hums around us—music still playing from the dining room, Holt arguing with Crew about baseball statistics somewhere near the fridge, Bailey chuckling loud enough to shake cabinets—and all I can focus on is standing shoulder to shoulder with Hadley in the warm kitchen light.

Her sweater sleeve brushes my forearm every few seconds. Tiny contact. Still enough to make my pulse uneven.

“You survived,” she says without looking up from the sink.

“Barely.”

“You handled Evelyn’s interrogation well.”

“She scares me, too.”