She doesn’t speak right away.
She just holds it—carefully, reverently—like I handed her something fragile.
Like it means more than it probably should.
“I’m gonna jump in the shower.”
She nods, still staring at the key.
“I’ll start dinner,babe.”
That word lands warm and easy. She’s happy. Glowing.
When I come back out, the apartment smells incredible—olive oil heating, garlic just starting to soften, something green and fresh hitting the pan.
She’s at the stove, barefoot, music low from the radio, completely at home in my space like it’s always been hers.
It hits me then—how good this feels.
Not flashy.
Not dramatic.
Just… solid.
“I hope you don’t have plans this weekend,” I say, grabbing a beer.
She glances over her shoulder, smiling.
“Tony wants to dock the boat at the Cape. Plymouth. Early sail tomorrow with the tide. He’s talking every weekend this summer. Chris, Mark—the whole crew. Some of them will drive there so we can get back. His Uncle rented Artemis’ slip out for an exorbitant amount of money so we needed to move her. And well-Plymouth is perfect. No Cape Cod bridge traffic and we can sail to all the good spots.”
“Are you kidding, babe? A weekend sailing on that yacht? They write tv shows about the life we actually get to live. Hell, yeah. But— I’ll need to go home and get more clothes after we eat. Specifically, my bikini.” She winks.
“Great I’ll drive you.”
Her face tightens.
Just for a second.
So fast I almost miss it.
Like a flicker.
Like I imagined it.
But it’s there.
A tiny pause.
A calculation.
Then—
“Okay.”
Easy.
Too easy.
