He inclines his head and doesn't argue. Doesn't try to reassure me with empty promises.
Small mercy.
I step aside. "Living room. You can wait there until—"
He's already walking past me toward the kitchen like he owns the place. He passes close enough that I catch his scent, sandalwood and something warm underneath, familiar in a way that makes my chest ache. My breath catches and I hate it. Hate him. Hate the way my body remembers before my mind can stop it.
Twelve years. Twelve years and he still smells the same. How is that fair?
"That's not the living room."
He doesn't answer. By the time I catch up, he's reaching for the French press.
He pours coffee in the blue mug, my favorite, the one with the chip on the handle that I keep meaning to replace. One sugar. Cream until it turns the color of caramel. Then sets it on the corner of the counter, away from the edge.
Exactly where I always put it.
"Stop it."
He pauses, coffee pot still in hand. "Stop what?"
"Stop—" I gesture at the kitchen, at him, at the coffee that's exactly right. "Stop knowing things."
"Would you prefer I pretend?"
Yes. No. I don't know.
"I'd prefer you weren't here at all."
Chesca bounds back into the kitchen, teeth bared in a grin. "I used the purple toothpaste!"
She stops when she sees Cole. Studies him with that frank, assessing look she gets, the one that reminds me so much of myself at her age that it makes my heart hurt.
"You're still here."
"Chesca—"
"It's alright." Cole crouches to her level. Not looming. Deliberate. The fabric of his pants pulls across his thighs and I look away fast.Don't."Yes. I'm staying for a little while. To help your mom."
"Like a helper?"
"Like security." His voice is patient, careful. "Like the guards at your school, but for your house."
"Oh." She considers this with the gravity only an eight-year-old can muster. "Do you have a gun?"
"Chesca!"
"It's a reasonable question." His face stays completely serious, and I can't tell if he's mocking me or genuinely respecting her curiosity. "Yes. But it stays locked up. Always. You won't see it, and you won't touch it. Understood?"
She nods solemnly. "Do you know how to make pancakes?"
"I make adequate pancakes."
The word is so unexpected, so deadpan, that the laugh escapes before I can stop it. One huff of air, barely a sound. Cole's eyes flick to me. Something passes between us—recognition and the ghost of Saturday mornings in his cramped apartment when he'd burn eggs and I'd laugh and we'd end up eating cereal instead..
Stop. Stop remembering. It doesn't help.
"Adequate means okay," Chesca informs him with the confidence of someone who's learned a new word and intends to use it. "Mommy makes excellent pancakes."