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Then the car glides off, tires smooth against the asphalt, not a speck of dust in its wake.

I stand there, frozen.

The business card is still in my palm, its heavy cardstock digging into my skin, but I don’t look at it yet.

Anxiety rises, slow and sick. My pulse hammers like a warning, not from anger — not yet — but from something colder.

The kind of betrayal that sneaks up on you. That makes you question whether anything you’ve built is real.

She lied.

She kissed me goodnight with that secret in her mouth.

And I didn't see it. Not once.

What else haven’t you told me, Kate?

And why does it still matter so damn much?

Chapter twenty-three

Kate

The house is too quiet without Parker.

Although if I have to admit, it’s not a bad quiet, not the type that makes you uneasy or scared, just different. It’s forcing me to face the fact that he’s growing up fast, and I now have to share him with friends.

I glance at the clock for the third time and smile to myself. He’s probably knee-deep in dinosaur battles and snack wrappers at Maddox’s place, talking Knox’s ears off and forgetting I exist.

I miss him already.

But I also… don’t mind this. The alone time. The space.

This evening feels like a rare chance to breathe. So, I light a candle on the kitchen island, vanilla and sandalwood, and the scent begins to curl up into the air, warm and soft and maybe a little too romantic for someone who’s just roasting chicken and mashing potatoes.

I pour a glass of wine but don’t sip yet, just hold it in my hand and look around the room like I’m seeing it through someoneelse’s eyes. Everything’s clean. Cozy. Intentionally so; not for appearances, but because it feels like a life I'm choosing, not hiding from.

I think I want Noah to see that. Not the surface, but the effort underneath.

I set two plates on the table, the real ceramic ones my mother would approve of, and fold the napkins into these awkward little triangles that look more like wrinkled pizza slices than anything Martha Stewart would approve of. Still, it feels… right. Like I’m marking the moment.

It’s not a date, exactly.

But now, I want to know Noah. Not just the man with calloused hands and searing eyes who watches over Parker like he’s something precious, not just the body I’ve learned too well in the dark.

I want to know the shape of his regrets.

The sound of his laughter when it’s real and unguarded.

What he dreamed about as a boy. What scares him now.

We’re yet to focus on those conversations, we’ve been busy orbiting each other with reverent touches and blazing desire, but I think we’re at the point where small talk matters. Where the in-between starts to mean something.

So tonight, I want more than his body.

I want the man.

And if that starts with roast chicken and clumsy napkin folds, so be it.