I step aside. “Come in.”
She walks past me, and I close the door behind her.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
Kaia sets the bag beside the couch, then pulls out her sketchbook and leaves it on the coffee table.
“How was class?” I ask.
“Messy.”
“Normal, then.”
“One child painted a purple dog with six legs.”
“Why six?”
“He said four was boring.”
I nod. “Fair.”
That earns the beginning of a smile, but it fades almost immediately.
“Any news about the house?”
The question tightens something in my chest.
“Nothing confirmed about the cause yet.”
“And the rest?”
“Still a total loss.”
She looks down.
“There was nothing salvageable?”
“Not that they could safely recover.”
Her fingers curl against her thighs before slowly relaxing again.
“Okay.”
I hate that word. I hate the way she says it as if she can make the loss smaller by accepting it quietly.
I give her space because I know better than to crowd grief.
After a moment, she draws in a breath.
“About last night.”
My shoulders tighten.
“All right.”
“I understand why you stopped.”
I wait.
