Page 3 of Rising Heat

I had dropped my bag by the door as I half floated past the living room. Brett’s on the couch, laptop open, Eagles game muted in the background. One ankle crossed over his knee, not looking up.

“I got it.”

He frowned at the screen.

“What?”

“The healthcare client. The rebranding project I told you about?”

His eyes flicked to me for half a second.

“Oh. Nice.”

He didn’t mean anything by that. He’s just distracted.

I had hovered there, smile still caught halfway on my face.

So, I tried again, rounding the couch and dropping onto the cushion beside him while I tucked one leg beneath me. I remember leaning in and pressing a kiss to his jaw.

“Come celebrate with me,” I had offered, keeping my voice light. “We can order sushi. Open wine. Pretend we’re fun…”

What I hadn’t said was what I had been dancing around for months. That I missed him. That I missed us. That somewhere in the last year the distance between us on this couch became architectural, permanent—a thing neither of us acknowledges out loud.

Brett just exhaled through his nose, the inconvenience of it all palpable.

“Darce.”

There it was. That one word that always made my shoulders pull back before I could even stop them. Like my body was bracing for the inevitable disappointment.

He had half-shut the laptop and looked at me like I’ve missed something obvious.

“I’ve got an early meeting.”

“It’s just dinner.”

“You know how slammed I am.”

I can still feel the heat crawling up my neck so fast it makes me dizzy. The embarrassment had hit me just like muscle memory, shifting me back an inch.

“Right. Sorry. I just thought⁠—”

He sighed the way he always had, the way that makes me feel ten years old and wrong for wanting something simple.

“You always do this.”

I had gone still.

“Do what?”

“Make everything into a thing.”

He rubbed his hand through his hair.

“It’s a freelance job, Darce. It’s great. I said congratulations. Why does everything need a production?”

The room had gone so still I could hear the refrigerator hum from the kitchen. I looked down at my hands folded in my lap, noticing that my nails were bitten to the nub again. I hadn’t even realized I’d started doing that.

“Nothing,” I breathed, having felt defeated for the last time. “Forget it.”