He remembers my order. The thought shouldn’t warm me the way it does.
Inside, the restaurant fills our senses with ginger, lemongrass, and chile oil. The owner waves us toward the counter, where a menu board lists specials in colorful chalk.
“You came again!” Her bracelets jingle as she reaches for an order pad. “Good food always wins. You want the same as last time?”
The same as last time. As if we’re regulars.
As if we belong together.
I nod, not trusting the sudden tightness in my throat.
Jared takes over, confirming the order and adding a Thai iced tea for himself. The familiarity of it all wraps around me, and the tension that’s been between us for the last week eases, the distance I tried to keep slipping away.
While we wait, Jared leans on the wall, phone in hand. The muscles in his forearm flex as his thumb scrolls through a news article.
“Grady’s piece is getting traction,” he says without raising his head. “Over two hundred comments now.”
I study the curve of his jaw and the slight furrow on his brow. “That’s good, right?”
“Most of them, yeah.” He pockets his phone as our number is called. “Some are still pushing the old narrative, but the positive ones are drowning them out.”
His relief tugs at my heart. I want to tell him I never believed the worst, that from the first moment I saw him, I knew he wasn’t what they claimed.
Instead, the words stay trapped behind my teeth as I move to collect our food.
The paper bags crinkle as we walk back to the truck. Jared carries them, trailing steam filled with spice and peanut sauce. The street lamps flicker on as the sun dips below the rooftops, casting long shadows across the sidewalk.
Ten minutes later, we turn onto my street. The cottage sits waiting, windows dark, flower boxes spilling blooms onto the walkway.
I cut the engine. “I can take those.”
“I’ve got it.” Jared balances the food bags in one arm, pushing open his door with the other. “Grab your tools.”
He walks up the path, back straight, shoulders squared. The easy confidence in his stridecontradicts everything he’s been put through these past weeks, all the pressure he’s been carrying.
Inside, light spills across hardwood floors as lamps flicker on beneath Jared’s touch, and a softmrrpgreets us in the entryway.
Mixie trots in from the hallway, her sleek tail held high, the tip curling when she spots me. Her black coat gleams in the warm light, and her green eyes blink up in sleepy recognition before she gives an accusingmewthat says I’ve been gone too long.
“There she is,” Jared murmurs, crouching to offer the back of his hand to be sniffed. “Your girl heard you pull in.”
“She always does.” I set my tool bag by the door and sink to my knees, letting Mixie nuzzle my palm.
Her purr starts deep and loud, vibrating through her ribs. I stroke along her spine, breathing in the traces of Jared’s pheromones clinging to her fur.
My fingers pause just shy of meeting his on top of Mixie’s head. “You left your bedroom door open again. There’s going to be fur on your pillow.”
“I don’t mind sharing. It was her space first,” Jared says, rising to his feet.
He moves through my cottage with the ease of familiarity as he sets the bags on the kitchencounter and pulls plates from cabinets and silverware from drawers.
I linger in the entryway, sitting down on the bench to remove my workboots and scratch Mixie’s head, caught between the urge to step into this slice of domesticity and shying away from how naturally it settles into place around me.
Mixie plants a front paw on my knee and rises, nudging her head under my chin as if reminding me she’s here now, and I’m no longer stuck in a relationship so toxic it made me question whether I deserved happiness.
I kiss the top of her head, grounding myself in the warmth of her small body.
When I stand, Jared is watching me with a kind of quiet understanding that steals the air from my lungs. “Wash up while I plate the food before it gets cold.”