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“No.”

He chuckles.

I settle against his chest.

His heartbeat is steady beneath my cheek.

For a while, we listen to the quiet sounds of the house.

Then he asks, “Got somebody back home worrying about you?”

I shake my head.

“My mother would've been.”

“Would've?”

“She died six months ago.”

His arm tightens around me.

“I'm sorry, Madison.”

“Thank you.”

He doesn't ask what happened.

I appreciate that.

For a moment, I think of Mom standing in our kitchen, insisting she can fix something herself rather than call for help.

She usually could.

“Teresa Compton,” I say softly. “That was her name.”

“Sounds like a good woman.”

“She was.”

I smile against his chest.

“Stubborn. Independent. Convinced most problems could be solved with determination and a properly organized filing cabinet.”

“Wonder where you got your personality.”

I pinch his side.

He laughs.

“She raised me on her own,” I continue. “Worked hard, handled everything herself. I think she wanted me to know I'd never have to depend on anyone.”

“Nothing wrong with that.”

“No. Although I may have taken the lesson a little too seriously.”

His fingers move slowly through my hair.

“What about your dad?”