I don't look up, but I sense him. The air changes when he walks into the house.
"Happy Thanksgiving. Margaret, you're looking lovely as always." His deep voice wraps around me. "Something smells amazing."
"Such a charmer." Mom squeezes his arm. "Just in time to taste-test my cranberry sauce."
I finally glance up. Warren stands in worn jeans and a navy sweater, holding a bottle of wine. His eyes find mine instantly.
"Hey," he says softly.
"Hey." The masher pauses in my hand.
"Those potatoes surrender yet?" A smile plays at the corner of his mouth.
"Nearly." I return to mashing, grateful for something to do with my hands.
Dinner begins with Dad's theatrical carving of the turkey. Warren sits across from me, between Blake and Tyler's empty chair. Beckett rushes in with the other kids, climbing into his seat beside me.
"Warren! Did you see the new space game?" Beckett beams.
"Not yet, but I'd love to after dinner." Warren passes the cranberry sauce our way.
"It's really hard. There's a space dragon," Beckett's hands spread wide.
Warren leans forward. "A dragon, huh? Is he friendly or does he eat space ships?"
"Both!" Beckett giggles.
The meal unfolds easily. Warren helps Emma scoop potatoes, laughs at Dad’s terrible jokes, and even asks Mom about her garden. He slides into the rhythm of us as if he’s always been here.
Except not with me. Not really.
When I pass him the gravy, his touch finds me in that narrow space, featherlight, gone too fast—yet my body locks tight like he branded me.
Beneath the tablecloth, I nudge my toes against his ankle. His eyes snap to mine, widening slightly. But he doesn’t move away.
Heat rushes up my throat as I keep the contact, hidden from everyone else. Reckless. Dangerous. And more alive than I’ve felt in years.
"More turkey, Warren?" Mom offers.
"Thank you, Margaret." His voice remains steady while our ankles press together.
After pumpkin pie, Blake leans back in his chair. "HeyBecks, want to have a sleepover with Emma and Tyler tonight? We're building a fan fort."
Beckett bounces in his seat. "Yes! What's a fan fort? Can I, Mom? Please?"
"We have big fans and tie sheets around them so they get really big," Tyler answers excitedly.
I meet Warren's eyes across the table. "Sure, buddy. That sounds like a perfect end to a perfect Thanksgiving."
Slowly, the rhythm of the day shifts. Plates get scraped and carried off, the kids thunder back upstairs, Dad and Blake settle into their thrones in front of the TV, and Mom retreats to the kitchen with her wine glass.
Football commentary hums in the background. This is my favorite part of Thanksgiving: the aftermath. The meal always ends before the day gets rushed, and then everyone drifts to their corners. It’s the quiet proof that we belong to each other, even when we’re not in the same room.
Maybe that’s why I love it so much. It’s the one day of the year when togetherness is simple, unforced. Safe.
I stack plates, balancing them carefully in my arms. The kitchen comes alive again when Warren follows me in, sleeves already rolled to his elbows.
“Let me help with those.” He reaches for a serving dish, and our fingers brush.