The house was too quiet.
After Oliver left, Amelia had wandered around like a ghost in her own home. She had picked up toys that didn’t need to be moved, folded already-folded clothes, rearranged pantry items she never used. Her hands had needed something to do—anything—to distract her from the hollowness spreading in her chest.
Brad had noticed. And, without asking, he had taken control of the evening.
“You’re not going to sit in silence all night,” he said gently, rolling up his sleeves as he moved through her kitchen. “Sit. I’ll make dinner.”
Amelia opened her mouth to protest, but nothing came out. So she nodded, sinking onto a bar stool at the counter.
He moved with ease, pulling out pasta, garlic, olive oil, and the leftover wine from a bottle she barely touched last weekend. Th
