Page 229 of The Wright Man

There wasn't any gloating in my voice. No I-told-you-so. Just awe. Just the weight of a truth that had been sitting between us for years, waiting to be spoken.

And somehow, that mattered more than anything else in the box.

She blushed under my stare—eyes darting down like she could hide the truth of that letter in her cheeks. She sucked her teeth, half-laugh, half-defense mechanism, then stood and stretched with a dramatic yawn.

"I'm starving," she muttered, already heading for the door. "Probably because somebody ate my coochie into a coma earlier."

I didn't miss the pointed side-eye or the smirk curling at the edge of her mouth.

I leaned back on my palms, grinning. "Didn't hear you complaining."

She paused in the doorway just long enough to throw a wink over her shoulder. "Shit, I couldn't complain. My soul left my body."

"Come here." I crooked a finger.

She strutted back, barefoot and smug, wrapped in another one of my old anime shirts—as was becoming the norm—her bonnet slightly lopsided like she'd just rolled out of a very satisfying nap. Or orgasm. Same difference.

I kissed her slow. Full. Like I didn't need any words because I'd already read the ones she couldn't say back then.

"Go eat," I said against her mouth. "Before you pass out again and blame me."

She laughed, soft and teasing, then turned to leave.

I gave her ass a firm swat on the way out.

She jumped and squeaked. "Rude!"

"I could be ruder."

I watched her pad toward the kitchen, loose curls poking out from under her bonnet, her hips swaying like she knew I was still looking—which I was. Always would be. She scrolled through her phone while waiting for the microwave to finish reheating her plate, and the whole thing—this quiet little moment—settled over me like a weighted blanket.

It wasn't just the image of her in my shirt, feet bare on my tile, standing where my mama used to make smothered chicken and neck bones.

It was everything.

The hum of the microwave. The faint sound of her phone pinging with a text. The rhythm of her body—familiar and new, like she'd always been meant to move through this space.

This house had held so much pain for so long. And now, she was in it. Laughing. Eating. Living.

Angelica looked like peace. Like home.

Like Mama would be smiling if she could see us.

And for the first time in a long, long time… I wasn't waiting for the other shoe to drop.

She called out over the beeping microwave. "Leek?"

"Yeah?"

"Can we stop unpacking for the night? I wanna watch something while you rub my feet."

I snorted. "Only if I get to pick."

She peeked her head around the corner and made a face. "Not one of those crybaby animes where someone's best friend dies every episode."

"Hey, that’s called character development. I make no promises."

She rolled her eyes and disappeared back into the kitchen.