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His lips tighten, but he nods. “I appreciate the... advice.” The words are stilted, but maybe it’s something that isn’t anger.

“You should take her home. Calm down. Talk to her. Really talk to her.”

His head falls between his shoulders before he turns his gaze to where Wes is standing, resolute as a stone. “He your man?”

My cheeks heat. “I’m Rosie’s nanny, and he’s Rosie’s guardian. That’s all.”

Lie.

Dad nods, suddenly finding interest in his boots. “You were always good with kids, Lena.”

And that’s it.

No affectionate hug, no tearful reunion.

He just trudges back to the truck, pausing once to send me a final look. It’s heavy with things unspoken, but I’m too drained to ask for more. Then he climbs in, and they pull away.

I turn back to see Wes and scrub at the tears that won’t fall. He doesn’t say a word, just watches me approach, something hard glinting in his eyes, as if he’s still dealing with the fact that he had to step between me and my father to begin with.

I climb into the passenger side without a word.

Halfway home, I hear him let out a ragged sigh. It sounds like he’s just lost some internal battle he was fighting. Before I can turn, he reaches over, takes my hand, and rests it on his thigh. The warmth of his palm seeps into my skin.

Don’t do this to me, Wes.

Lifting my hand to his lips, he presses a slow, deliberate kiss to my knuckles. That simple gesture nearly unravels me.

I don’t say a word. I just hold on to his hand, letting the soft brush of his thumb against my skin reassure me that everything might be okay. Or at least, that I’m not alone in this.

We don’t talk for the rest of the ride.

We don’t need to.

Forty-One

Wes

This was not how tonight was supposed to go.

The plan was simple. Sit Lena down after Rosie fell asleep and finally untangle the mess we’ve made. Define clear boundaries. Have a calm, mature discussion.

Yet here we are, miles past calm and dangerously short of mature.

I stand at the kitchen entrance, watching Lena lean against the counter as if it’s the only thing keeping her upright. With her arms crossed and eyes wide, there's a subtle challenge in her stare. It feels like someone has sucked all the oxygen from the room, leaving us both breathless, edgy, and painfully aware of the few feetseparating us.

Her mouth parts to say something, but no words come out. Instead, her gaze travels slowly over me, lighting every nerve ending along the way.

This isn’t talking. Talking wouldn’t make my hands ache to touch her or my chest tighten with this reckless need.

“Wes,” she breathes, a whisper that’s half warning, half invitation.

I shove a hand through my hair, attempting—and failing—to steady myself. “I know. We should talk.”

She nods slowly. “Yeah, we should.”

But neither of us moves, both frozen in place, afraid to step toward or away from whatever this is.

“Fuck,” I rasp, shaking my head as if that might clear away the fog.