So did Adam.
He said nothing, but there was no missing the way his face tightened for a fraction of a second before he arranged it back into something pleasant.
No sneaking into my room.
No late-night apologies.
No forced nostalgia dressed up as tenderness.
I used to think those things were romantic.
I learned better.
“Great,” I said, already reaching for my suitcase again. “Then that’s settled.”
Adam’s smile thinned by a degree.
“Well,” he said, smoothing it back into place, “I should go anyway. Your mom needs help finishing dinner.” His gaze moved across the room, then settled on me again. “I’m working tomorrow, so I’ll make sure none of you need anything.”
I held his eyes and, to my own surprise, it felt good.
Powerful, even.
“I think we’ve got it from here.”
Something flickered in his expression then, dark and quick, but it was gone by the time he stepped toward me. He passed close enough that I caught the familiar cologne and nearly recoiled on instinct, but I held myself still.
Then he leaned down and brushed his lips against my cheek.
My whole body went cold.
“We’re not done, you and I,” he whispered.
Before I could move away, before anyone else in the room could even register what had happened, he straightened, winked at me like this was some private game only the two of us understood, and walked out.
The silence he left behind was thick and uncomfortable.
My mother let out a breath first. “Well. That was…awkward.”
I almost laughed.
Awkward.
“Yes,” I said. “That’s one word for it.”
She looked at me carefully, as if deciding whether I was being oversensitive again. “Emily, you know he means well.”
There it was.
Not cruelty. Not even malice.
Just the same old refusal to see.
My father rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “He probably shouldn’t have sprung himself on you like that the minute you got home. You clearly still have feelings running high.”
Feelings running high.
Not fear. Not memory. Not years of keeping my mouth shut until leaving became the only thing I could still do without breaking.