Grace
“That went better than expected.”
I bump Dawson’s shoulder with mine as I pass him another dripping dish to dry, the two of us moving in an easy rhythm at the sink—me scrubbing, him drying—like we’ve done this a hundred times before. Warm water steams against my hands, the scent of soap mingling with roasted chicken and cinnamon still lingering in the air. Outside, the snowstorm presses against the kitchen window, flakes swirling in frantic patterns, while the wind rattles faintly against the glass.
It all feels… weirdly normal.
“For what it’s worth,” I add, lowering my voice as the faucet hums, “I’m counting tonight as a total win. Nobody grilled you too hard, nobody looked suspicious of our story, and I’m pretty sure my parents actually like you.”
Dawson huffs out a laugh—quie
