Chapter six
Bryan
Buddy barrels toward the porch, ears flapping, tongue hanging out, completely ignoring the ball I just threw. I frown, watching him change course mid-run, something’s caught his attention. And then I see her.
Emma’s just stepped into the yard, hair loose, ocean breeze catching the edges of her sweatshirt. She’s probably heading to her car or the shed, or anywhere that isn’t me, but Buddy has other ideas.
With an excited bark, he launches himself at her, tail wagging so hard he nearly topples her over. She laughs, crouching to ruffle his ears, completely oblivious to the way my chest tightens at the sound.
I grip the porch rail a little harder than necessary. I should go inside. Let her do whatever she came out here for and pretend she doesn’t exist.
Instead, I stay exactly where I am. Watching. Noticing too much.
The way she scratches behind Buddy’s ears, exactly where he loves it most. The way her fingers move gently, familiar, like she’s done it a thousand times before.
The way her eyes crinkle when she smiles, wide and bright, completely unguarded. It hits me like a punch to the gut. I’ve seen that exact look before. Years ago.
When she’d sat on the beach, cradling a hurt seagull in her lap, so determined to help.
I remember telling her, “You’re gonna be a great vet one day, Em.” And she’d smiled at me, so full of dreams and certainty.
What happened to that girl? What happened to her plans, her future, the thing she swore she wanted more than anything?
I shove the thought away before it takes root. It’s not my business. Not anymore.
Buddy flops onto his back, exposing his belly in surrender, and Emma laughs, scratching him without hesitation. Her hair falls into her face, a loose strand brushing against her cheek.
I don’t mean to stare. But I do. And for one stupid, fleeting second, I forget why I’m supposed to hate her. Why this should be easy. Why I should be able to stand here, watching her smile, and feel absolutely nothing. Instead, I feel too much. And I hate it.
“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?”
I snort. “Remember it? Pretty sure the thing still has streaks of green where it shouldn’t.”
Emma grins, full and bright, and something in my chest shifts uncomfortably.
“You were terrible,” she accuses.
“I was fifteen.”
“You got more paint on the ground than the shed.”
“You got more paint in your hair than anywhere else,” I fire back, smirking.
She laughs clear, unrestrained, effortless. And I hate how much I feel it. It’s like being pulled into a rip current unexpected, strong, dragging me into something I have no business drowning in.
For a second … just a second, it feels like old times. Like seventeen again. Like summer bonfires and stolen kisses. Like she never left. And that’s dangerous.
She shifts in her chair, leaning forward slightly as she reaches for another piece of bread. The movement sends a faint wisp of lavender in my direction. My grip on my spoon tightens.
Her sleeve brushes the table, the flickering light catching on the delicate curve of her jaw. My pulse kicks up before I can stop it.
No.
No. No. No.
I rip my gaze away, staring hard at my soup. This isn’t happening. She left. She made her choice. I won’t let myself forget that.
Silence stretches again, but it’s different now. It’s heavier. Charged. She doesn’t seem to notice.
She just sips her soup like nothing’s changed, like she didn’t just drag me through a dozen memories I’ve spent years trying to bury. I push my bowl away, suddenly done.
“I'll do the dishes. First, I need to get some air.”
Emma glances up, but she doesn’t question it. She just nods.
“Night,” she murmurs, standing and stretching.
I don’t respond. I don’t trust my voice. I watch her disappear up the stairs, the soft creak of old wood marking her steps.
When she’s gone, I exhale slowly, rubbing a hand over my face. I can’t do this. Whatever this is. The small talk. The memories. The feelings creeping in when I swore that I wouldn’t let them.
I made peace with what happened a long time ago. I told myself I was over her. And I believed it.
But now? Now, I’m not so sure.