"I didn’t know what the hell I was doing when Penny was born. Still don’t, most days."
I glance up.
He’s not looking at me. He’s staring down at his plate like he’s confessing something dangerous. His forearms are resting on the table, tattooed and tense, and there’s a vein in his neck I suddenly want to trace with my tongue.
Where the hell didthatcome from?
"I thought I’d break her," he continues. "Or miss something important. Or fuck her up permanently."
I swallow. "I still worry I’m going to be the reason she ends up in therapy."
He huffs a laugh. "Joke’s on us… everyone ends up in therapy."
"Man, I hope so," I say. "Otherwise, we’re all just raw dogging trauma out here."
He lets out a startled laugh, and it’sglorious. Warm and genuine and boyish in a way that makes something inside me twist tight.
And I grin. Because I like making him laugh. Too much.
The air shifts again.
A spark. Not big. Not obvious.
But it’s there. Quiet. Low and warm and hovering somewhere between the inside of my ribs and the curve of his mouth.
And I feel it. Man, I feel it.
His knee brushes mine beneath the table, and I don’t move. Neither does he.
It’s nothing. It’s everything.
I try to brush it off. Mentally swat it away like a mosquito.
This isn’t a thing. We’re just bonding. It’s been a long day, and we’re tired, and Thai food makes people weird.
That’s all.
He stands first, taking the empty containers and dropping them into the trash. I follow, rinsing my glass, telling myself notto look at the way his back flexes beneath that stupid shirt. Not to wonder how it would feel beneath my hands. My mouth.
But I look.
Of course I look.
When he turns around, he leans against the counter, arms crossed, eyes on me again.
And there’s something in his expression I can’t quite name.
Not heat. Not exactly.
Something quieter. Heavier.
But there’s an edge to it now, too. A thrum of tension beneath the softness. A subtle shift in the way his gaze dips to my mouth and back again.
"Ivy," he says.
And I look at him.
Really look.