Liam appears in the doorway. Fresh dark henley — or the same dark henley, washed. The distinction seems irrelevant because the effect is identical — looking at the kitchen like he's assessing a crime scene.
"You've been busy," he says.
"The bananas were going bad."
His gaze tracks across the muffins, the cookies, the banana bread.
"All of this. For the bananas."
"Once you start, you can't really stop. Momentum. Physics."
He picks up a snickerdoodle. Examines it with the same focused attention he gives window latches. Takes a bite. His jaw works. Something shifts in his expression — not a smile, but the granite softens by a fraction.
"These are good," he says. Like it costs him something.
My chest does a small, traitorous thing that I refuse to name.
"Take the plate to Oren. And there's banana bread for Nina."
He picks up both deliveries without a word and heads for the front door — this man who carries deadbolt kits in his truck — holding a plate of snickerdoodles like evidence he's been assigned to transport.
The hardware store trip is my idea. Patricia has sanded the dining room baseboards to splinters. Walt's has the quarter-round I need, and I want crown molding samples for the parlor.
Liam drives. His truck smells like leather and cedar. My hands are in my lap. His are on the wheel. He takes a route that adds a block, and when I open my mouth to tell him he's going the wrong way, the words dissolve because his eyes are tracking windows and sightlines. He's not lost. He's clearing the route.
Walt's bell chimes. Sawdust and machine oil — the scent that makes my shoulders drop.
"Kari! Quarter-round?"
"And crown molding samples. The parlor's ready."
Walt spots Liam. "Brought the boyfriend."
"Brought the boyfriend." The word doesn't stumble this time. That's concerning.
Liam's hand settles on the small of my back.
Not for the cover. Not because Walt is watching. His palm lands against the dip of my spine — warm, steady, certain — and my entire nervous system forgets the script.
My breath catches. Low in my throat. The kind that doesn't make a sound but rearranges everything behind the ribs.
His hand is on my back the way it would be if this were real, and for three full seconds I forget it isn't.
"Crown molding's in the back," Walt says.
I walk. Liam's hand drops. The absence burns.
In the molding aisle, I grab a sample. "Three-inch cove. Classic. Won't fight the medallion."
He examines it with quiet intensity. "Good profile."
"Thank you for your professional assessment of crown molding."
The corner of his mouth twitches. A rumor of a smile.
We pay. We leave. His hand does not return to the small of my back, and I am furious about this in a way that makes no sense.
Oren's pot roast fills the entire block.
