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"Not for this. Let me do this.”

The clerk reads back the pickup date. We push four big boxes through the sliding doors into the heat.

It's been five days since Carson came to my appointment with Rao, and I've seen him in one way or another every day since.

Mostly, he makes sure I'm putting my feet up, asks if I have a headache, and frames all of it as something to do while he's stuck in town.

We haven't discussed my appointment that’s coming up in two days. There's a part of me that wants to talk to him about it, to ask if he'll be there. But that hasn't been our agreement, and he's here for Hildie, not me.

Carson has the whole first bassinet laid out on the living room floor before he touches a single screw. Legs in one row, wheels in another. A little pile of hardware sorted by size, the hex wrench sitting on top like a period at the end of a sentence. The instruction sheet is squared against the edge of the rug.

At thirty-one weeks, I've got my feet up on the arm of the couch and a throw pillow under my knees.

"Long leg or short leg?"

"Long." He holds his hand out without looking. I lean and give it to him.

He builds the first one by the book, reading each step, checking the picture against the part. By the second bassinet, he's stopped looking at the sheet at all. His hands just know.

He needs the hex wrench, and I've got it. He crosses the room to get it, and I look at him while he does it, forearms shining, his shirt clinging where the heat has soaked through.

I'm not going to pretend I don't notice, or that I want to look away but can't.

He scoots the whole bassinet closer so I can steady the frame while he tightens one side. Then he passes me the hex wrench so I can get the screw nearest me, and his fingers brush mine. We lock eyes for a second before he looks away.

My phone lights up. I click on a bubble from Trina.

The Q3 deck's done. I just need your eyes on it before it goes to the board.

Carson threads a bolt through a bracket.

Run it. Don't send it to me. I'll see it when the board sees it.

You sure?

Yep.

I put the phone down without opening the deck or sending back three corrections. The bank keeps moving without me. I'm finally starting to believe it can.

Carson finishes the second bassinet and stands. "Bases go in the car."

He carries the seat bases out, and I hear the car doors down in the lot. He's gone longer than it should take to install two bases.

When he comes back, his shirt is stuck flat to him. Before, it was just damp in some places, but now he’s soaked.

"Rich from the Sarasota FD tested them, and the left one was a half inch loose. It isn't now."

"You had a firefighter inspect my mother's back seat?"

"Yeah. The twins pamphlet said to have them checked. It's free. I called when I went out there to check, and he was here in five minutes. I didn’t expect that.”

"Nice. Thanks for doing that."

He doesn't answer. Then a foot digs hard under my ribs.

I reach out and catch his wrist before I think about it. His skin is warm from outside. I press his palm flat against the spot. He goes still and his eyes come up to mine.

"That's a foot."