Page 22 of When Love Comes Home

He lifts his head, his hazel eyes locking onto mine. "Have you?" he retorts, a challenge in his tone.

"I asked first," I counter, my voice playful, refusing to back down.

A small smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. "Fair enough," he says, leaning back in the swing. He doesn't answer right away, and the pause lets me know he's weighing his words carefully. "When I think about being in love," he finally says, his voice low, "I always picture your parents' relationship. The Baldwins. My foster brother and his wife. The way they look at each other, how they show up for each other—even on the hard days. I was never able to get there." He glances down at his hands, his thumb brushing over the calluses on his palm. "That kind of love—the kind authors write about in books, or the kind you see in movies—the love that makes you want to rearrange your entire life for someone else."

Kind of like he did for me. Letting me live in his house while he stayed in a hotel. The thought grips me unexpectedly, making my chest tighten. My gaze flickers to him, searching for signs that he realizes what he’s done. How much it means.

He catches me off guard when he lifts his gaze to mine. “What about you?”

“I’ve had two boyfriends,” I begin, shifting a little on the swing. “Both in college. Neither lasted more than six months.”

“What happened?” he asks, his curiosity genuine. I hesitate, feeling the warmth of a blush creeping up my neck. “I think that’s a talk for a different time,” I say, attempting to deflect.

“Oh, no you don't” he says, a playful grin softening his serious expression. “I poured my heart and soul into this conversation. It’s your turn.”

I let out a nervous laugh, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “There’s not much to tell, really. I’m old-fashioned, and they wanted something I wasn’t willing to give them.”

His eyes widen as realization dawns. “Okay, enough said.”

The awkwardness of his reaction is too much, and I can’t help but laugh. It’s the kind of laugh that bubbles up unexpectedly, breaking through the tension.

He chuckles along with me, shaking his head as if to clear the moment. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“A little,” I admit, wiping at the corner of my eye. “You look so uncomfortable.”

“Well, I wasn’t expecting that answer,” he says, grinning now, the tension between us fully gone. “But fair enough. I respect that.”

“Thank you,” I reply, still smiling. “It’s how we were brought up.”

“And there’s nothing wrong with that,” he says, his tone turning sincere again. “If anything, it says a lot about your character.”

The compliment takes me by surprise, and for a second, I can only look at him, caught off guard by how genuine he sounds. We shift the conversation to family, and the topic naturally turns to Dad—how his kindness and unwavering support changed Adam’s life forever.

We talk about Adam’s parents, about the accident that left him an orphan. It’s something I already knew, but we’ve never spoken about it before.

"Do you remember them?" I ask softly.

"I have memories of special moments," he says, his voice quiet. "But there aren’t many."

"Do you mind sharing some with me?" I ask, hesitant but hopeful.

His expression softens as he leans back in the swing, the faint creak of the chains filling the silence before he speaks.

"I don’t mind," he says quietly, his voice tinged with nostalgia. "I remember my mom singing to me at night. She had this soft, sweet voice—it always made me feel loved. I remember the smell of her perfume. Something light and floral. Every now and then, I catch a scent like it, and for a split second, it’s like she’s there,” he says, his eyes flickering with a mixture of longing and warmth.

“And my dad... he had this laugh—deep and full, like he was laughing with his whole chest. I don’t remember the sound of it exactly, but I remember how it made me feel. Safe. Like nothing bad could ever happen when he was around.” He pauses, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. “I also remember the texture of their hands. My mom’s were soft, always warm, and my dad’s were a little rough—calloused, probably from work. Like mine.” He looks down at his own hands, examining them. “It’s strange, isn’t it? How those little fragments stay with you?”

"It's not strange at all," I say softly. "It's actually beautiful."

He nods. "I think that’s why your dad means so much to me. He stepped in when I needed someone the most, when everything felt like it was falling apart. Your family—they saved me."

The raw emotion in his voice tugs at my heart, and for a moment, we sit in silence, the swing creaking rhythmically beneath us, mingling with the soft chirping of crickets around us.

"I'm sorry I gave you such a hard time," I say after a beat, the guilt bubbling to the surface. "I didn’t understand back then. I didn’t know what you were going through.”

His eyes lift to meet mine, warm and forgiving. "You were just a kid," he says gently, offering a small smile. "You didn’t owe me anything."

"But you deserved better," I counter, my throat tightening. His smile widens, and for a second, I think he might reach for my hand, but he doesn’t.

---