The words settled softly between us. There was no self-pity in his voice.
I reached across the center console impulsively. My hand found his. A quiet acknowledgment that I had heard him.
Kieran's gaze shifted toward mine. Neither of us pulled away immediately. The contact lasted only a moment before I returned my hand to the steering wheel.
Even so, awareness lingered.
We drove for several miles. I spent most of that time pretending to pay attention to the road while remaining acutely aware of the man sitting beside me.
I glanced at the dashboard clock and immediately wished I hadn't. The evening had slipped away far faster than I wanted, and judging by the look Kieran gave the display, he felt the same way. Neither of us mentioned heading home, but the awareness settled quietly between us.
We had already spent hours together, yet it still felt as though there were things left unsaid. Every story seemed to lead naturally into another one. Every time the conversation paused, neither of us appeared eager to be the person who ended it.
The houses around us gradually changed as we drove. The extravagant displays gave way to quieter streets where simple white lights framed porches and wreaths hung on front doors. It reminded me more of the Christmases I remembered from childhood than the over-the-top displays we'd been admiring earlier.
"My parents were Christmas people," I said as we stopped at a red light. "My mother started decorating before Thanksgivingevery year. My dad pretended to complain about it while helping her hang lights."
Kieran smiled as he looked out the window. "That sounds nice."
"It was." The answer came easily, but it carried more weight than I intended.
"My parents thought they were never going to have kids," I continued after a moment. "Then I showed up when they were both pushing forty. Mom used to tell everyone I was her miracle baby."
The smile on Kieran's face softened. "You were probably spoiled."
"I was absolutely spoiled."
That earned a laugh. "I knew it."
"My mother would deny it to her grave."
"Which means it's definitely true."
I laughed and shook my head. "Probably."
The conversation drifted after that, moving comfortably between stories and memories. Kieran told me about the small apartment he had shared with his mother when he was younger. He talked about paper chains, cheap decorations, and a plastic tree that leaned slightly to one side every year no matter how carefully they assembled it.
"It wasn't much," he admitted. "But when you're a kid, you don't really know the difference."
"No," I agreed quietly. "You really don't."
For several moments, neither of us spoke. The silence wasn't uncomfortable. It felt reflective, as though both of us were sitting with memories that deserved a little space.
Eventually, I pulled away from the curb after another stop to admire a particularly elaborate display.
"You hungry?"
Kieran turned toward me. "We had burgers three hours ago."
"That's not what I asked."
His eyes narrowed immediately. That expression was becoming one of my favorite things. "What are you planning?"
I tried for innocence. "What makes you think I'm planning something?"
"Because every time you ask a question like that, you're planning something."
"I have cookie dough."
