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“You spoil him,” I say, forcing my voice into something neutral.
Emma glances up, finally noticing me. Her smile fades slightly, like she just remembered who she’s with.
“I like him,” she says simply, turning back to Buddy.
He rolls onto his side, sighing in contentment. I exhale, shoving my hands into my pockets. "You’re making it worse,” I mutter.
Emma arches a brow, amused. “Worse?”
I nod toward Buddy, who looks like he’s seconds from falling asleep at her feet.
“He’ll be impossible now.”
She smirks, scratching under his chin. “Maybe that’s a “you” problem.” That smirk. That teasing tone.
It drags me straight back to late-night bonfires, stolen kisses on the boardwalk, and the way she used to look at me like I was her favorite thing in the world.
I swallow hard, shifting my weight. “I should get back to work.”
Emma stands, dusting off her jeans. “Yeah. Me too.”
She hesitates, then adds, “I’m making dinner later.”
I glance at her, unsure if I heard her right. She shrugs, looking at me like she’s expecting rejection.
“If you want some,” she says, almost like an afterthought.
For a full second, I debate saying no. Keeping things distant. Safe. But before I can stop myself, before I can even think it through. I hear myself say, “Yeah. Okay.”
Emma blinks, surprised. I don’t blame her. Actually, I surprised myself too.
***
The dining room is dimly lit, the overhead bulb swaying slightly with the draft from the old windows. The house groans as the wind shifts outside, the sound blending with the distant crash of the ocean. I grip my spoon a little tighter.
The whole thing feels too... domestic. Too familiar. Too much like something I shouldn’t want.
Across the table, Emma sits with her own bowl, her fingers wrapped around a mismatched spoon like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
She stirs absentmindedly, barefoot, hair tied up messily, sweater slipping off one shoulder. I shouldn’t be noticing that. I shouldn’t be noticing anything about her. But I do.
The soup’s nothing fancy, canned chicken noodle with some extra veggies added, some bread she toasted in the oven. Basic. Thrown together. But it’s warm, and it doesn’t taste like something I grabbed from a takeout bag on my way home from work. That part I ignore.
We eat in silence for a while, the only sounds being the clink of spoons against ceramic and the occasional whistle of the wind. Buddy is munching on his own dinner completely oblivious to anything else.
She clears her throat. “This place fights us.”
I glance up, brows furrowed. “What?”
She gestures vaguely, smirking. “Leaks, creaks, Buddy nearly poisoning himself, your couch armrest breaking off when you sat on it this morning.”
A snort escapes before I can stop it. She’s not wrong. “The house is a stubborn old heap,” I mutter.
Emma tilts her head, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Fits right in, then.”
My spoon pauses mid-air. I glance at her, waiting for the punchline. She shrugs, all innocence. “You, Bryan. The house. Stubborn.”
I roll my eyes, but I don’t argue. She’s got a point. She tears off a piece of bread, dipping it absently into her soup. “You remember that time we tried painting Grandma’s shed?”