Page 74 of Fall is Brewing

“I’m sorry,” I say. It isn’t enough. It never is.

But Brooks looks at me like he understands everything I mean beneath it. “Thank you.”

Jace reaches for another biscuit. “Anyway, Mom would’ve loved you.”

Brooks groans. “Jace.”

“What? She would have.”

“I am begging you to develop a filter.”

“I have one. It’s decorative.”

I laugh before I can stop myself, even with the ache still lodged behind my ribs.

Evan’s mouth tilts. “He’s not wrong, though… about Mom. She would have loved you.” I look at him, surprised. He shrugs like admitting softness causes him physical pain. “She liked competent women.”

“Ah,” I say. “Then yes, she would’ve adored me.”

Brooks laughs. Not under his breath this time. The sound rolls through the kitchen, warm and unguarded, and something inside me loosens in response. It twists in my chest, how badly I want to hear it again.

After dinner, I insist on helping clean up even though Brooks tries to refuse.

“You cooked,” I say, taking my plate to the sink. “I clean.”

“You’re a guest,” he counters.

“Actually, I’m your competition.”

Eventually, Jace and Evan disappear toward the living room under the deeply suspicious excuse of “checking the fire,” leaving me at the sink beside Brooks, because apparently subtlety is not a Calder family trait.

The kitchen is quieter without them.

Not silent. The rain is still there. The fire still snaps. Somewhere in the next room, Jace says something and Evan answers with a flat “no,” which makes me smile into the dishtowel.

Brooks washes. I dry.

It should be ordinary. It is ordinary.

Our shoulders brush every time he hands me a plate. His hands are strong and efficient beneath the water, sleeves pushed up, forearms damp. I try not to notice this, but fail spectacularly.

“This is good,” I say finally.

“The roast chicken?”

“No, this.” I gesture vaguely with the towel. “All of it. What you’ve built here.”

He goes still for the briefest second before reaching for another bowl. “You don’t have to say that.”

“I know I don’t.” His eyes lift to mine. I hold them, even though it costs me something. “I mean it.”

Something passes between us then, quiet and uninvited. Not banter. Not rivalry. Not the easy spark of two people who like arguing because it gives them an excuse to stand too close.

This is different. This feels like recognition. The kind that reaches past what you want someone to see and touches what you can’t quite hide.

Brooks’s voice is low when he says, “Thank you.”

My fingers tighten around the towel. “You’re welcome.”