"It's fine," I say, because I can't say what I'm really thinking. "Get some rest. Big day tomorrow."
"Goodnight, Garrett."
"Goodnight, Sunny."
I force myself to turn and walk down her porch steps, feeling her eyes on my back as I cross the yard to my place. The night air is cool against my face, helping to clear my head.
What the hell am I doing?
Back in my house, I head straight for the shower, turning the water to cold. I need to get my head straight. Remember the boundaries. Remember why getting involved with anyone, especially someone like Sunny, is a bad idea.
She's young. Optimistic. Full of life and possibility. I'm... not. I've seen too much, lost too much. The nightmares that wake me most nights are just the surface of what's broken inside me.
But none of those rational thoughts stop me from remembering how perfectly her hand fit in mine, or how her eyes widened when I touched her waist.
I change into sweats and a t-shirt, but sleep feels impossible right now. Instead, I head to the garage, flipping on the lightsand reaching for the project I abandoned earlier today—the antique dresser I've been restoring.
Working with my hands helps. The repetitive motions of sanding, the focus required for detailed work, the tangible progress. All of it quiets the noise in my head. By midnight, I've finished prepping the dresser for staining and my thoughts are marginally more ordered.
I need rules for tomorrow. Boundaries.
No unnecessary touching. Keep the charade convincing but minimal. Remember that it's all temporary—one dinner, then back to being neighbors.
But as I finally head to bed, the image that follows me into sleep isn't of tomorrow's dinner or of boundaries I need to maintain. It's of Sunny, looking up at me with those bright brown eyes, asking me to kiss her goodbye.
Even if it is just for show.
Next Morning
Morning comes too quickly after a restless night. I'm up before dawn as usual. I make coffee and step onto my back porch, watching the sky lighten gradually. Sunny's house is dark. She won't be up for hours yet. One of the many differences between us.
The day stretches ahead, hours to fill before I need to be next door, playing a part I'm increasingly concerned about. I decide to take a long run, pushing myself harder than usual, as if I can outpace my thoughts.
It doesn't work.
By mid-afternoon, I've exhausted all my usual distractions. The dresser is stained and drying. My house is already clean. I'veeven sharpened every knife in my kitchen, a task I usually save for Sunday mornings.
At 4:00, I finally admit to myself that I'm anxious. Not about meeting Sunny's parents. I've faced far more intimidating situations than dinner with civilians. I'm anxious about maintaining the facade, about keeping the appropriate distance when every instinct is telling me to do the opposite.
I shower and dress in dark jeans and a navy button-down that my sister sent for Christmas last year, still with the tags on until today. I even trim my beard, which has grown more salt-and-pepper than I'd like to admit.
At precisely 5:30, I cross the yard to Sunny's porch, a bottle of decent red wine in hand.
She opens the door before I can knock, looking like she's been watching for me. Her hair is pulled back in some kind of twisty arrangement, a few curls escaping to frame her face. She's wearing a green dress that brings out the gold flecks in her brown eyes.
"You're exactly on time," she says, smiling nervously. "Very on-brand for you."
"Military precision," I say, stepping inside. Her house smells amazing—garlic, tomatoes, and something baking.
"Is that for dinner?" she asks, nodding at the wine.
"Unless you have something else planned."
"No, it's perfect." She takes the bottle, "Thank you."
I follow her to the kitchen, where every surface is covered with food preparation. The lasagna sits ready to go into the oven. A salad is partially assembled. Something sweet is cooling on a rack—cookies or brownies, I can't tell from here.
"Can I help with anything?" I offer, seeing the barely contained panic in her movements.
