Mya is already in the kitchen, hair tied up in one of those messy knots she somehow makes look intentional, wearing one of my old W.H.M. sweatshirts that practically swallows her whole.
For a second, I just stand there, one hand on the banister, watching her move around my kitchen like she’s been doing it for years. The light catches her curls, her bare legs, the soft curve of her smile when she hums under her breath.
“Hi,” I say finally, coming up behind her.
She startles. “Hey! You scared me.”
“Sorry, baby. Didn’t mean to.” I kiss her forehead before moving toward the coffee pot and pour a cup.
“You don’t have to call me ‘baby’ when we’re home. No one’s watching.”
I try to mask the tug in my chest. “I know. I just figured if I keep saying it, it’ll start to feel natural. More believable.”
It’s a lie.
The truth is, I like calling her that. I like the way her cheeks flush every damn time I do. But I can’t tell her that, not when she still reminds herself this thing between us is pretend.
Mya nods, looking down, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of the counter. “You’re right. Appearances.”
I catch the quick flash of disappointment before she hides it behind a smile.
And it hits me again just how deep I’m in, because the last thing I ever want to do is make her look like that.
“What are you doing in here, anyway?” I ask, glancing at the ingredients on the counter.
“Brianna has a field trip today,” she says, reaching for a bowl of fruit. “I wanted to pack her lunch before she left.”
“You don’t have to do that. She’s old enough to do it herself.”
Mya shrugs, slicing an apple. “I wanted to.”
I take a slow sip, watching her. “You’re spoiling her.”
She smirks. “Takes one to know one.”
Since moving in, Mya has taken her role in Brianna’s life seriously, more than I ever expected her to. She helps with homework, remembers the little things, listens when Bri talks about her friends or some show she’s obsessed with. It’s subtle, but I see the positive changes in my daughter, and it warms me in a way I don’t have words for.
I just hope Bri doesn’t get too attached, because when this arrangement ends, I don’t know what it’ll do to her—to either of us.
Still, as I watch Mya tuck the apple slices into a lunch container, humming under her breath, the hope I try to bury creeps up anyway.
I hope she doesn’t leave.
I hope she falls for me the same way I’ve already fallen for her.
And that maybe, she’ll decide to stay.
Brianna comes downstairs a few minutes later, backpack slung over one shoulder and hair in a braid. She grabs the lunch from Mya, hugs her, and then hugs me. “Bye, guys!”
When the door closes behind her, Mya leans against the counter, holding her mug in both hands. “You’ve got a good kid.”
“I know,” I say softly. “Sometimes I still can’t believe she’s mine.”
“She’s a lot like you.”
I lift a brow. “Stubborn?”
“Strong,” she corrects. “And careful with her heart.”