It starts small, with my feet tucked under his thigh. A quiet brush of his fingers. We’re careful at first, conscious of walls and hallways and the fact that we aren't the only two people in this house.
The kisses begin gentle, but that doesn't last long. I’ve stopped pretending I’m going to “head back out” after the movie ends, because he’ll hook his finger through the loop of my jeans and tell me to stay, anyway.
There’s an inevitability to the way his mouth finds mine now. I fall asleep with my cheek against his chest and wake up to the steady beat of his pulse.
We went to another Maplewood Cup hockey game on Wednesday, and Elle was chanting “Go Dad!” loud enough that even the police chief turned around and laughed. I found myself clapping harder when he scored, feeling the heat bloom in my stomach when he fought.
He searched for us in the stands afterward, and when he saw me, his smile split wide with a quick wink thrown in. I felt it all the way down to my toes.
Later that night, he looked at me like he hadn’t decided whether to tackle or kiss me. He did both.
I’m starting to recognize that version of him—the one that comes back from a callout or a game still half-charged, still riding whatever edge he’s been on. He doesn’t talk much in those moments, but he holds on tighter, and I let him.
Maybe I shouldn’t.
That recurring thought slips in sometimes. That this has slid into place so smoothly, it almost scares me. We haven’t fought, and neither of us feels confused, and he hasn’t pulled back or built walls. Neither have I.
But I know what it feels like when something seems lucky before it isn’t, and I know how quickly the ground can shift. I know how easy it is for me to turn into the variable that tips something into burden instead of beauty.
Still. It’s been two weeks, and I haven’t slept in the guest house once. The only time I’ve really gone out there is during the quiet parts of the day, when Elle’s at school and Evan’s on shift. Sometimes I’ll take a bath in the tub with my journal balanced on the edge, trying to untangle thoughts I still don’t quite know how to say out loud.
But even then, I always end up back in the house again before long. And I know exactly what that means, I just haven’t said it out loud yet.
My phone buzzes against the kitchen counter, dragging me back to the present. I wipe my hands on a tea towel before picking it up, already knowing who it’ll be.
Evan:You survive breakfast chaos today?
It’s almost noon on a Saturday, and he’s been on shift since seven. The rhythm of it feels familiar now. Him checking in, me replying before I overthink it.
Me:Debatable. She’s making Gus wear a tiara.
Evan:Send proof.
I angle my phone discreetly and snap a photo of Gus looking deeply betrayed in plastic rhinestones.
Me:Your daughter is ruthless.
Evan:You are
Me:I’m a delight. Want another pic to prove it?
A few days back, I pushed it. I messaged him at work, telling him how hot I was getting thinking about his face between my thighs from the night before, and sending him an attached photo to accompany it.
He’d texted me back just as the tones had dropped, and had to tug his turnouts on with a boner. I’d congratulated him when he told me hours later, but he didn’t mention it until he got home that night, still wired from the day. He kissed me in the kitchen before I could even ask him how he was, and murmured, “Bedroom. Now,” against my mouth.
I learned very quickly what “congratulations” meant.
Now, standing at the counter, I press my lips together to stop smiling when his next text comes through.
Evan:You gonna behave today?
Me:Of course. Wouldn’t want you climbing into your turnouts with a problem again.
There’s a longer pause this time, long enough that I wonder if I’ve gone too far, if I’ve stepped past whatever invisible line we’ve been dancing along.
Evan:You learned nothing from how that ended for you last time, huh
Me:I learned plenty.
