Class ended twenty minutes ago, and by the time I get home, I can tell from the shoes by the door that someone’s here. Sure enough, inside the kitchen, Lucas is moving around like he owns the place, helping Mom with whatever she needs. He’s got the sleeves of his hoodie pushed up, forearms dusted with powdered sugar, hair a little messy like he’s been leaning too close to the counter.
When he notices me, he flashes a grin—smug, but with that edge of warmth that makes it hard to roll my eyes at him—and then goes right back to catering to Mom’s beckoning.
He reaches for a pack sitting on the top shelf, stretching just enough to make it obvious he’s tall.
“Thanks, sweetie. Now grab a plate and we’ll get started,” Mom says.
He obeys without hesitation, returning to her side. If I didn’t kn
