Tom stands at the sink, one hand braced on the counter, the other holding a pot under the tap. The water rises, and he watches it like he’s finishing something he already planned out.
On the counter beside him, sits a bowl of greens under a loose cover, condensation gathering along the glass. Dark leaves, crisp, threaded with thin slices of cucumber and pale ribbons of fennel. There’s a light sheen to it, just enough dressing to catch the light.
A baking tray with salmon sits next to it. The surface glistens with oil, flecked with herbs. Lemon slices tucked along the edge, and pepper cracked over the top. The scent sharpens as I breathe in, clean and rich at the same time, and my mouth waters before I can stop it.
I didn’t buy this. Didn’t plan dinner.
Tom turns the tap off and sets the pot on the stove, then reaches for a towel. Dries his hands, folds the fabric once, and puts it aside before he looks at me.
His mouth curves slightly, his eyes taking me in in a way that makes me aware of how I’m standing in the doorway, like I haven’t fully stepped back into my own space yet.
“All set. Give me fifteen minutes.” He opens the oven and slides in the salmon. His gaze moves over me again, slower this time, lingering just enough that I feel it along my shoulders, my chest, my hips. My entire skin tingles, as if he skimmed his fingertips over my body.
“Check on your man. He’s in the living room.” A brief pause. “I gave him something for the pain.” He turns his wrist as he checks his watch. “A little over an hour ago. He should be comfortable.”
Something shifts low in my chest at that. Not just that he made sure Dan took his meds, but also that he knows exactly when.
I nod and turn before I have to answer, my feet already carrying me toward the living room.
The tile gives way to wood under my soles, the faint tack of heat still clinging to it from the afternoon sun. I pass the side table again, the flowers catching at the edge of my vision this time instead of stopping me, and the smell from the kitchen follows me a few steps before it thins, replaced by something more familiar.
Fabric. Leather. Dan.
Dan comes into view as I step fully into the living room, but for a moment I’m still half in the kitchen, my body catching up slower than my thoughts, still aware of the way Tom looked at me at the sink, the weight of it sitting under my skin as I cross the space between rooms.
He’s stretched out on the couch instead of folded in on himself, one arm draped along the back, the other resting across his middle with a care that doesn’t look forced, a pillow tucked against his side at just the right angle, one boot kicked off and the other hanging loose like he stopped halfway and didn’t need to finish.
I slow as I get closer, my gaze moving over him without thinking, taking in the details the way I always do, but this time there’s no tight pull through his shoulders, no shallow breaths that make his chest hitch, just the steady rise and fall that settles something in me before I can stop it.
My hand lifts and settles against his side, just below the bandage, the heat of him seeping into my palm, solid under my touch, and when I press slightly, testing, he doesn’t tense or pull away.
His hand comes up over mine, rough and familiar, his fingers closing just enough that I feel the intention in it, and when his thumb drags slowly across the back of my hand, the sensation travels further than it should, up my arm, into my chest, making me more aware of how close I’m standing than I was a second ago.
“I’m good. Better.”
I feel that more than I hear it, in the way his grip tightens briefly before easing again, like he’s anchoring himself as much as reassuring me, and I stay where I am, not pulling back, even though the contact doesn’t slide into place as easily as it used to, both of us lingering in it a fraction too long.
Behind me, something shifts in the kitchen, the soft slide of a drawer, the quiet close that follows. I don’t turn, but my body registers it anyway, the awareness of Tom settling in the background of everything else. Not loud, not intrusive, just there, changing the shape of the moment without touching it.
Dan moves under my hand, a small adjustment that tightens the muscles beneath my palm before they ease again, and when his gaze travels over me this time, it’s slower, more deliberate, I feel it land, my skin tightening in response, my nipples pressing sharply against the inside of my bra as I become suddenly, acutely aware of the space between us and how easily it could disappear.
“You look wrecked.”
His thumb brushes again, firmer now, and I push my hand through my hair, letting out a breath that doesn’t quite steady me. “Long day.”
The words come out easy, but they don’t match the way my body feels, the way my thumb presses back under his palm instead of slipping away, staying there, and when he exhales, I feel it against my wrist, warm and real, and just a little too noticeable.
Tom
Dinner settles them.
Not just the food, but the way they sit after, the edge taken off without either of them slipping away from the moment. Daniel leans back into the corner of the couch, one arm stretched along the back, his injured side still protected by the sling. Melanie angles toward him without quite closing the distance, her knee turned in his direction, her fingers wrapped around her glass like she hasn’t decided yet whether to stay or move.
I stay in the kitchen a moment longer than necessary, rinsing the last plate while I listen to the quiet behind me. Their voices are low, not tense, but not easy either. There’s space in it. Room to work with.
I dry my hands and set the towel aside, then prepare the tray without thinking about it. Coffee for him. Tea for her. Same as before. Consistency matters more than explanation right now.
When I step into the living room, they both look up at the same time.
