Chloe returned to the house with windburn on her cheeks and guilt in her lungs.
The living room was quiet now. The TV was off. Owen sat on the couch, head tipped back like he might’ve fallen asleep, but his eyes opened the moment the door clicked shut behind her.
“I thought you left,” he said.
“I was going to,” Chloe muttered. “Still might.”
She didn’t look at him as she headed toward the kitchen, dropping her keys into the bowl by the door with more force than necessary.
Owen stayed on the couch.
She opened the fridge, scanned the shelves, and pulled out chicken, wilted spinach, and a half-empty jar of pesto.
“I’m making dinner,” she said flatly.
“Okay,” he said. No sarcasm. No smugness. Just… okay.
Chloe set the ingredients down on the counter and started moving. Clattering pans
