Page 50

EMMY

The first thing I register is the smell.

Butter. Garlic. Something savory and warm curls through the room like a lullaby.

The second is quiet. Not the kind that feels empty or stretched too thin, but full.

My eyes flutter open.

I’m on the couch, still tucked into one of Cal’s flannels. The blanket has slipped a little, but I’m warm underneath. Not just in body, but somewhere deeper. Somewhere I’d long stopped hoping anyone would ever reach.

The TV’s off. The dogs are quiet. The sun has dropped lower, soft amber bleeding through the windows.

I blink slowly, orienting.

And then I see him.

In the kitchen.

He’s got his back to me, but I know it’s him. The set of his shoulders. The stillness. The way even the act of stirring something in a pan looks measured and capable.

There’s something in my chest that twists sweet and aching.

Because he’s cooking.

For me.

Not just tossing something together. But really, carefully making dinner. Because I needed rest. Because he asked me to try—for him—and I did. And now he’s here. Still here.

I shift, just enough to let the blanket rustle.

He turns.

Meets my eyes.

And just like that—I’m not groggy anymore. I’m something else entirely. Small. Lit up from the inside. The way I imagine candles feel when someone strikes the match.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says softly, drying his hands on a towel. “You hungry?”

I nod, too fast. Then wince and smile at myself.

He chuckles, already crossing the room.

“Thought so.”

Before I can sit up fully, he kneels in front of me. Pushes the blanket back just enough to rest a hand on my ankle. Warm fingers. Steady thumb sweeping slow, absent circles.

“How was your nap?” he asks, voice low and warm. Like honey stirred into tea, or a blanket just out of the dryer. It wraps around me before the words even fully land.

I bite the inside of my cheek, almost shy.

“It was good,” I whisper. “You make it easy to feel safe.”

His eyes soften. But there’s heat there, too. That low, focused kind. The kind that says he heard every word, and none of them will be forgotten.

“You are safe,” he says. Like it’s a truth he’s carving into the air just for me.

My breath hitches, then evens out. Not because I’ve talked myself into believing him, but because some deep part of me already does. And it aches, how much I needed to hear it. It’s fact. Like it always was.

He brushes my hair back, then presses a kiss to the crown of my head.

“Wait here, baby. Let me feed you.”

And I do. Willingly. Gratefully.

Because in this house, in these hands, I’m not too much. I’m not a burden. I’m just… me.

And somehow, that’s more than enough.

He disappears back into the kitchen for just a moment.

I hear the clink of plates. The soft scrape of a ladle. Then the hum of something low—maybe a tune under his breath, or just the natural weight of a man moving with care.

By the time he returns, I’ve tucked my legs beneath me, pulled the blanket up higher, still wearing his flannel like it belongs to me.

He sets the tray down gently on the coffee table.

Two warm plates, steam curling from roasted carrots and something else rich and earthy.

Mashed potatoes, I think. And chicken. Crispy, golden-skinned, falling apart at the seams. Even a little pot of gravy, and peas, not green beans—because he remembers.

It’s too much. Not in the overwhelming way. In the way that makes your throat go tight from being seen.

“You didn’t have to—” I start.

“I know,” he says, already sitting beside me. “But I wanted to. I’ll always want to.”

He arranges the tray so it’s within reach, then picks up a fork and spears a bite of carrot. Holds it out, just a little. Just an offering.

I hesitate, but only for a second.

Then I lean forward and take the bite from his fork.

His eyes don’t leave mine. Not even for a heartbeat.

“Good girl.”

My cheeks go warm.

I chew slowly. Swallow. And then, heart fluttering in my chest, I lift my fork. Scoop a bite of mashed potatoes. Offer it to him with a tentative smile.

“For you,” I say, a little shy.

His gaze goes molten.

He leans in. Takes the bite.

And the sound he makes—low and rough and quiet—isn’t about the food. Not at all.

“That’s dangerous,” he says, voice a little darker now. “Feeding me like that, baby.”

I bite my lip. Shrug, even though I’m blushing down to my bones.

He brushes his knuckles down my cheek. Then shifts just a little closer. Close enough that our thighs touch. Close enough to feel the heat rising between us again, even if neither of us moves to chase it.

We eat slow. Unhurried. He feeds me in turns, and I him. The dogs lie curled on the rug in front of us, breathing deeply, utterly at ease.

And for the first time in what feels like a lifetime, I am too.

Full. Not just from the food, but from this.

From him.

From the way he keeps choosing closeness. Warmth. Me.

The next morning is soft. So soft that I barely remember Cal murmuring that today will be slow, peaceful, before gathering me up in his arms, blankets and all, and transferring me from the bedroom to the living room couch.

At some point, the dogs join me there, too. I doze there, the most peaceful I’ve felt in… maybe ever.

I don’t open my eyes right away. I stay still, tucked deep in the nest of flannel and blankets, their warmth heavy and grounding, the scent of cedar and something darker—something Cal—woven into every thread.

And then I smell it. That gentle curl of steam and bergamot.

Tea.

A soft sound of ceramic on wood.

I blink.

He’s crouched beside the couch, one hand steadying a mug, the other resting lightly on the cushion beside my hip.

His eyes find mine the moment I wake.

“Morning, little one.”

His voice is velvet. The kind that runs down my spine and settles somewhere low, somewhere quiet. My fingers tighten around the blanket, the warmth of it suddenly too much, like it’s trying to hold in everything I don’t know how to say. I blink at him, the words bubbling up before I can stop them.

“Morning, Daddy.”

It’s soft. Tentative. The second time I’ve ever said it.

And the way his gaze softens—quiet and sure—undoes something in me. A slow exhale leaves him like he’s been waiting to hear it. He doesn’t speak at first, just brushes his knuckles against my cheek with a touch so reverent I almost close my eyes.

He offers the mug into my hands like it’s something sacred.

“Easy,” he murmurs. “Still a little hot.”

I take it—gratefully, carefully. The rim is warm against my lips, the tea steeped just how I like it.

He doesn’t ask if I slept well. He already knows I did. And something in me twists—tight, aching—at being known so completely. A pang of disbelief flickers beneath the comfort, like part of me still doesn’t believe I deserve this kind of tenderness.

He doesn’t ask how I feel, either. That’s in the way he touches my knee before rising, in the way he smooths the blanket over my thighs. He leans down to press a kiss into my hair, slow and certain.

“I’m just heading out to grab the laundry off the line,” he says. “Ten minutes.”

I nod, my small, shy smile impossible to hide, cup still warm in my hands, and watch as he steps outside. The door clicks softly behind him. Cleo lifts her head from the armrest, ears flicking once before settling. Luca rolls to his side with a huff.

And I think—I could stay like this forever.

That only lasts for a moment.

My phone buzzes on the coffee table.

One vibration. Then another.

I freeze.

The tea stills in my cup, and the warmth that had been blooming inside me starts to pull tight.

I don’t want to look. But I do.

A voicemail.

From Dad.

I don’t move for a beat. Not even to breathe. Then I set the mug down, hands suddenly trembling.

Tap.

The recording crackles.

And then his voice—sharp, clipped, familiar in all the worst ways.

“Hope you’re enjoying playing house. If you’re not coming back, I’m getting rid of that damn thing in the garage. Check the classifieds if you don’t believe me.”

My stomach drops. The world narrows. The dogs shift, restless, but I don’t see them. Don’t see the light anymore, or the safety of the room around me.

All I see is my bike.

The one I saved all summer for. The one thing that gave me wind in my lungs, space in my chest, proof I could still choose something—anything—for myself.

I open the classifieds.

And there it is.

Posted with no shame. No explanation. No name. Just a photo I took last fall, and a price far too low.

As if I was never real in that house to begin with.

Something tight cracks inside me, and I’m up before I know it.

I don’t grab my coat. I don’t leash the dogs.

The door creaks open on its hinges.

My hand closes around the doorknob—cold, jarring. My breath shudders in my chest. One heartbeat. Two. The weight of what I just heard crashes through me, and I can’t hold it. I can't hold anything.

He’s throwing away the last piece of me.

And I run.