She’s closer than before, more middle of the bench than window.Blane’s gear is piled against the door like he owns every inch of available space.
In the back seat, he falls asleep somewhere around the county road, head tipped back, mouth open, the picture of blissful obliviousness.This is exactly how I like him.
Every few minutes, her knee bumps mine when the truck dips on the road.Each brush lights a slow fuse under my ribs that I have no intention of acknowledging and can’t seem to stop noticing.
The sun hangs low over the mountains by the time we pull into the driveway.Grace slips out before I’ve fully parked, head tipped back, eyes tracing the sky like she’s trying to hold onto the color before it goes.
Blane stumbles out after her, stretching like a man who’s run a marathon rather than slept through one.
“Big day tomorrow.”He slings his camera bag over his shoulder.“School should be good.Still think we need more track footage, though—interview setup, the works.”He glances between us, something glinting in his expression.“Natural chemistry like that doesn’t come cheap.Hard to manufacture.”
I cut him a look.He smirks, unbothered, and heads toward the porch.
Grace lingers by the passenger door.Her fingers skim the metal edge, and when she finally turns toward me, the soft look in her eyes nearly knocks the air clean out of my lungs.
“You didn’t have to take me out on the track today.”There’s an unusual shyness to her that I don’t quite know what to do with.
I default to our natural rhythm.“Didn’t see you complaining.”
The corners of her mouth lift.“Fair.”
A slow breeze winds through the yard, tugging at her hair.She catches one strand and tucks it back, misses another, and it falls forward across her cheek.
Before I’ve decided anything, my hand is already there, catching it.Her breath hitches and I halt, fingers hovering at her temple, close enough to feel the warmth of her skin without quite touching it.
We’ve already crossed one line.Maybe more.I’ve lost count.It wouldn’t take much to cross another.
I drop my hand.“Your hair was?—”
“I know.”Another strand comes loose, and she doesn’t fix it this time.“Thank you.”
The silence that follows isn’t empty or awkward so much as full, overflowing with everything we’re not saying, not reaching for, not allowing ourselves to want out loud.
“Dinner’s in an hour.”I step back before I can do something I can’t take back.“Remember, it’s Sunday.My sister and brother-in-law will be here, and Mom always cooks enough for a small army.”
She smiles.“I’ll help.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.I want to.”The simplicity of it lands somewhere willing and open in my chest.
From the front door, Blane calls her name in that proprietary way that gets under my skin more than it should.She stiffens, turns, then hesitates, and in that small pause glances back at me—one last look before she disappears inside.
I let the air settle around me, let the band in my chest loosen just enough to breathe.
This is a bad idea.
All of it—Grace being here, me letting her in, whatever this is quietly becoming.
But when I finally step onto the porch and hear her laugh drift from the kitchen—light, relaxed, the kind she doesn’t give freely—one thing is certain, and it scares me.I’m already in deeper than I meant to go.
The house is filled with the warm, rich smell of Mom’s cooking, and Grace stands at the counter beside her, sleeves rolled up, slicing vegetables.They’re laughing and joking like they’ve done this a thousand times, and my heart stupidly flip-flops.
The scene is a little too familiar, echoing another time, years ago, when Dad was still here, and my dream was still to teach and coach.My mom and another girl doing the same thing at the same counter.
But this is different.In every way that matters.
Blane hovers near the doorway, camera in hand, pretending to check his settings but watching Grace too closely.He’s a complication.She’s a risk.And the two of them under the same roof feels like a lit fuse with a short lead.