Yeah. This is it.
“I keep thinking,” he says softly, “that if I let you in, I’ll lose control of everything. My job, my time, my…me.”
I nod, waiting.
“But then you show up with dinner and a laptop for my sister, and I’m wondering if maybe losing control isn’t the worst thing.”
My throat tightens. “Don’t forget the broken cabinet.”
“Yeah. That too.” He gives me a small, crooked smile. “You make it feel like it’s okay to exhale.”
I wrap my free arm around him, pulling him into my lap. “Then I’ll remind you every day, if I have to.”
He nuzzles into the crook of my neck then lets out a laugh—half nerves, half relief—as he grabs another spoonful. “You really don’t give up, do you?”
“Not on you.”
He snorts, shakes his head, and looks up at me. His mouth is full of pralines and cream, but he’s smiling—not the guarded, uncertain smile from before, but the real one. The one that says maybe, just maybe, he’s letting himself believe this could work.
17
COUNTERTOP CONFESSIONS
SEAN
Greg’s still here.
That’s the first thought that hits me when I glance over and see him on my couch—my too-small, thrift-store couch—spooning pralines and cream out of the tub like we’re an old married couple. Except we’re not. We’re whatever comes first.
He catches me watching him and grins, spoon halfway to his mouth. “What? I’m rationing. You’ll thank me later when there’s still some left.”
“Mm-hmm,” I say, reaching for it anyway. “You said that about the bread.”
“Bread was a necessary loss.”
He’s ridiculous. Adorable. And mine—at least for right now.
We trade the ice cream tub back and forth, lips sticky with melted caramel and pecans until it’s empty. I start to stand, gathering the container and spoons, but Greg takes them gently from my hands.
“I’ve got it,” he says.
“It’s two spoons and a plastic container.”
“I know. Let me.”
There’s something about the way he says it that makes my chest swell. Like he’s not talking about spoons at all.
When he comes back, he drops down next to me and slings that massive arm around my shoulders like it belongs there. And maybe it does, because I melt into him instantly. My head fits perfectly against his chest, right under his chin, and when he exhales, it feels like I’m breathing with him.
He smells like brown sugar and something clean, faintly metallic—probably the tools he brought to fix all the things falling apart. Like the cabinet. And my heart.
It hits me then how much he’s done for me in just one evening. And not just being my handyman and bringing groceries to make dinner. He showed up when I was sure he’d walk away.
Who does that?
Greg, apparently.
And he doesn’t expect anything for it. He just… wants me to relax. To stop bracing for everything to fall apart.
