Jesse watches me like I’m performing some kind of magic trick.
Which, I guess, in his world, I am.
“You used to be good at this,” I mutter.
“Good,” Jesse echoes.
“Yeah.”
I play a few more chords, then stop.
The silence that follows feels… different.
Not empty.
Not lacking.
Just—
Quiet.
Jesse frowns.
“More.”
“Later.”
“Now.”
I snort.
“You’ve got your mother’s negotiating style.”
He considers that.
“Okay.”
I stare at him.
“Okay?”
He nods.
“Later.”
I laugh.
“That’s not how this usually works.”
He shrugs, which is deeply unfair because he’s two and already better at compromise than most adults I know.
The door slides open behind me.
I don’t have to turn around to know it’s Tilda.
I feel her before I see her.
The shift in the room.
