For a second, I consider pushing. Saying it again. Forcing the issue just to prove I can.
But Mel has gone still behind the counter. Listening.
And Tom doesn’t move. Doesn’t crowd me. Doesn’t press.
He just waits.
And under that steady, patient attention, something in me gives way in a place I don’t want to examine too closely.
The ache in my arm pulses again, deeper this time, and my fingers twitch against my jeans, restless.
“Fine,” I mutter.
Tom nods once, like that was always the outcome.
Of course it was.
Mel turns back toward us, file in hand, but her eyes land on me first, searching. “You’ll rest?”
“Yeah.”
She doesn’t look convinced.
Tom does.
That shouldn’t matter.
It does.
“Keys?” he asks.
I jerk my chin toward my pocket. “Right.”
He steps in close and reaches past my hip. His knuckles brush my thigh on the way, solid and warm, and my body locks for half a second before I can stop it.
He doesn’t react. Just takes the keys and steps back like it’s nothing.
It’s not nothing.
Chapter Eight
Mel
The front door clicks shut behind me, the late July heat clings to my skin as I lean back against it for a second, letting the quiet settle around me.
Nothing’s out of place. It never is. Dan doesn’t live like that. Boots lined up, surfaces clean enough to withstand a white glove inspection, everything where it belongs.
But my gaze catches on something that wasn’t there this morning. A small glass vase on the side table, filled with wildflowers. They are not arranged with any kind of precision, just gathered. Yellow, white, a streak of purple, one stem leaning slightly to the side like it didn’t quite want to be contained. A drop of water clings to one of the petals, catching the light. I step closer without thinking, my fingers hovering near it but not quite touching.
That wasn’t here when I left. And it is such a heartwarming soft touch, I have to blink against tears. I press my wobbling lips together and swallow, gathering myself before I move further into the house.
Water runs in the kitchen. The sound pulls me forward, and the scent reaches me before I even cross the threshold into the kitchen.
Lemon. Herbs. And warm crusty bread that makes my stomach tighten in response.
I didn’t eat.
Didn’t even think about it.
