Tonight, she’s sitting on the floor in front of my couch, legs tucked beneath her, hair piled messily on top of her head. She’s wearing one of my old T-shirts and a pair of socks that definitely don’t match. The coffee table is cluttered with plates from dinner and a half-empty bottle of wine.
We cooked together. That alone feels monumental.
She insisted on chopping vegetables even though she kept stealing pieces of bell pepper and cucumber, claiming sheneeded to “sample for quality control.” I pretended not to notice her eating half of what she was supposed to prep.
She pretended not to notice me watching her.
Now we’re halfway through a card game I don’t remember agreeing to play.
“You’re cheating,” I tell her flatly.
She looks up at me, eyes wide and innocent. “I would never.”
“You absolutely are.”
She scoffs. “You’re just mad because you’re losing.”
I glance down at the cards in my hand. “Statistically improbable.”
She grins. “Emotionally satisfying.”
I shake my head, a laugh slipping out before I can stop it. It startles me a little how easy it comes now.
When was the last time I laughed like this?
Not a polite chuckle. Not something brief and restrained. Real laughter.
Melissa watches me like she notices it too.
“Wow,” she says. “You do have a personality.”
“Don’t spread that around,” I reply dryly. “I have a reputation to maintain.”
She laughs and reaches over to steal one of my cards. I catch her wrist automatically, fingers curling aroundhers.
“Nope.”
She looks down at where I’m holding her, then back up at me. Something warm flickers between us.
“Colton,” she says gently, “this is supposed to be fun.”
“It is fun,” I say. “For me.”
She laughs again and gently tugs her hand free, scooting closer to the couch until her shoulder presses against my knee.
I realize then how different this feels from the way my life used to be.
There’s no countdown clock ticking in my head. No sense that I should be somewhere else. No itch to retreat back into work or distraction.
I’m just here. I’m present.
She wins the game, of course. Celebrates far too enthusiastically, then declares herself the champion and demands a prize.
“What kind of prize?” I ask.
She pretends to think. “Hmm. Dealer’s choice.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Dangerous.”
