“He snores when he’s dreaming,” she says without missing a beat.
My father claps the table. “I knew it!”
“Alright,” I mutter. “This is bullying.”
“No, son,” my dad says, grinning. “This is tradition.”
Hope handles it better than I ever could’ve hoped—laughing, teasing, even flipping the script when my dad tells a story about me shifting too early and ending up stuck in a drainage pipe.
“Sounds like karma,” she says, sipping her wine.
After dessert, I pull her aside. “You okay?”
She nods, eyes bright from the wine and the warmth. “Yeah. They’re... intense. But I like them.”
I brush a strand of hair behind her ear. “Come on, I’ll show you your room.”
She follows me upstairs. I stop at the guest suite door, open it.
“Not staying?” she asks, voice low.
I step closer, kiss her slow.
