Page 19 of When Love Comes Home

"Because I care about you," I reply simply, my voice steady. "I care about your well-being, and you’re happy here."

"And that’s why I feel guilty," she admits softly.

"Katie, you don’t owe me anything," I say with a smile. "You’re my tenant. You pay me rent. Legally, this is your house for the next six months."

"Right," she says, glancing away. Was that a flicker of disappointment in her eyes?

"What do you want me to say?" I ask, hoping she'll be honest.

"I've been mean to you since the day we met," she begins, and when I don’t argue, she continues. "Why do you care about me? About my well-being, about my happiness?"

"Because you're your father's daughter," I say, reaching up to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear.

"Right," she says, but this time, she doesn’t look away. She holds my gaze, letting our eyes say more than words ever could. The moment stretches a beat too long, until I can’t take it anymore. I have two choices: look away or kiss her.

I look away.

"I have your offer on the condo ready to go," she says, shifting the conversation.

"Yeah," I reply, stepping back from her. "It's a good offer."

"I wanted to talk to you before I send it off," she says.

When she pauses, I glance back at her. God, she’s beautiful. I give her my full attention, waiting for her to continue.

"I’ve thought about it, and honestly, Adam, I can’t let you buy a whole new property just so I can stay in your house."

"I can't stay at the hotel for six months," I counter, shaking my head.

"I know," she says, and without hesitation, she adds, "If you’re still open to the idea, you can move into the spare bedroom. We’ll make it work."

“Slow down, Katie," I say, shaking my head. "I’m not your favorite person. Why on earth would you agree to have me stay with you?"

"Because I’m—"

"Wait!" I interrupt. "Before you answer that, Katie, I buy properties. It’s what I do. The Peterson condo needs work. I can fix it up and flip it in six months for a nice profit. Please, don’t do this unless you’re absolutely sure. A week ago, you could hardly stand the sight of me. I don’t want whatever you feel for me to turn into hate."

"I don’t hate you, Adam," she whispers, as if releasing something she’s been holding onto. Her words feel like a bridge being built between us, fragile yet steady. For a moment, neither of us speaks. We’re caught in the weight of the silence, unsure of where it will take us.

The space between us feels charged with things we're both feeling but neither is willing to voice. I see it in the way her lips part, as if she's on the verge of saying something but decides against it. I feel it in the way my chest tightens, words I’ll never say pressing against my ribcage.

"Katie," I begin, the truth burning in my chest, desperate to be let out. "I'm not the fourteen-year-old foster kid your father introduced you to. I don't need you to offer me a place to stay, or a free meal, or—" I pause, my voice tightening—"your pity."

"I know," she whispers, her eyes never leaving mine. "I know you've accomplished a lot these last fourteen years. My dad's kept me informed, just as much as he's kept you informed. This isn't pity."

"What's changed?" I ask, wondering what the catch is.

"I'm not that stubborn kid anymore," she says. "You're part of our family. It's always been that way, and it's time for me to accept it."

"I don’t want you to accept the situation just because you don’t have a choice," I say. "I want you to accept me because it’s what you want. Otherwise, you'll just end up resenting me even more."

"Adam," she begins, her voice soft. "What I'm trying to say is that I'm sorry. The feelings that festered inside me all those years weren’t your doing. It was me—my insecurities, my jealousy, my immaturity. It was all me. I can admit that now." Her words are heavy with emotion and regret.

"Katie, it's okay," I say, wanting to reassure her. "I can't blame you for wanting to maintain your place in your father's heart,” even though I was always in her space.

"Friends?" she asks, extending her hand. I wish I could tell her I'd much prefer to seal the deal with a kiss, but I keep that thought to myself.

"Friends," I smile, shaking her hand. The warmth of her touch reaches my soul.

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