Lily Thompson
I spent the first ten minutes after we got home pretending I wasn’t waiting for him to touch me.
Which is hilarious, considering I’m the one who keeps swearing I hate him.
I paced the kitchen like a trapped cat, opening cabinets I didn’t need, rearranging mugs that didn’t deserve it, pretending the thud in my chest was caffeine and not the echo of his voice saying I am her father. The apartment was too quiet. The kind of quiet that amplifies every memory you’re trying to swallow.
He didn’t crowd me. He didn’t chase me. He just moved around the island with infuriating calm—jacket off, sleeves pushed to his forearms, the tendon in his wrist flexing as he filled a glass with water like the world hadn’t cracked in half two hours ago.
“Say something,” I snapped, because silen
