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He was right.
There was no sense in overthinking it. I had to let go and let it flow.
Besides, with Deacon next to me, the uncertainty was somehow more bearable to face.
Chapter 22
DEACON
Two weeks after we landed back home, I stood in my kitchen making dinner.
Steaks sizzled in my cast-iron skillet, filling my Nashville living space with the rich scent of garlic, spices, and pepper.
Raff sat at the marble island, tapping his pencil on his math notebook while the clock ticked past six.
He cleared his throat, his eyes scanning my face.
‘So Dad, you and Mum are good now, right?’
I arched an eyebrow, wondering where he was going with his inquisition.
‘We’re great.’
‘Like, getting back together forever because that loser Massimo is toast?’
My lips quirked at his apt description.
Raff was apprised of the separation; Ana had talked him through it soon after we got back from Spain.
He didn’t seem fazed, which put me at ease.
To Ana’s credit, she’d been slow to introduce Massimo into Raff’s world, so the Italian stallion and my son weren’t close.
Raff never uttered his name, except a few months ago when he was pissed off at Massimo’s domineering approach to step-parenting.
Still, I understood the sudden root of my son’s question.
He was speaking to the growing reconnection between my ex and me.
Over the last fortnight, we’d somehow managed to spend every other evening together.
After Raff’s soccer game one Saturday, Ana came over for dinner, and we stayed up watching a movie.
To save her the late drive back, she crashed in our guest room.
The next morning, she lingered over a pancake-and-shakes breakfast, keeping alive the easy laughter, connection, and warmth we’d built back in Spain.
On other nights, after Raff went to bed, we’d talk for hours.
We slipped into a sweet rhythm of flirting woven through deep conversations about work, politics, music, and life.
Before long, the old endearments came flooding back: babe, honey, malkia.
With physical affection as my love language, I savored the way we were drifting back into our familiar closeness.
Whenever we sat down, our knees or shoulders pressed together.
Cooking dinner became a dance of accidental brushes and slow glides of skin, as we gravitated toward each other as if addicted to the contact.
