His lips graze my cheek in a quick, familiar press before he pulls open the oven and bends to baste the turkey. He’s trying. I know he is. And I love him for that.
But the lines of tension in his back say everything his words don’t.
Tate looks up from his coloring with crayon-streaked fingers and a wide grin. “How long until Sarge gets here?”
I glance at the clock. “About an hour,” I reply.
Tate lights up. “Do you think Sarge will hold my snake?”
Corbin snorts from the stove. “Highly doubtful.”
“No, bud,” I add with a smile. “Sarge is not a fan of reptiles.”
“What a shame,” Corbin says, mock-dramatic, but his eyes flicker back to me. There’s something in them. Something uneasy. Not quite jealousy. Not quite possessiveness. Something closer to fear. Fear of losing what we just started to rebuild.
And I wonder, as I reach for the next potato, if I should have told him sooner. Or at all.
“Are you okay?” I ask Corbin gently, sliding a peeled potato across the cutting board and starting the next. The scent of turkey and sage fills the air, warm and grounding.
“I’m fine,” he exhales, though there’s tension in his shoulders. “I just feel enough pressure with Sarge being here. He doesn’t like me.”
I pause, knife hovering above the cutting board. “He doesn’t have to like you,” I say, reaching for him. My arms circle his neck and I breathe in his scent—warm, familiar, steadying. “It only matters that I like you.”
His arms tighten around my waist, his hands sliding to my lower back. A soft smile curves his lips. “Do you like me?”
I smile. “I like what we did this morning in the shower.”
He groans playfully, resting his forehead against mine. “We should go do that again. Right now.”
“Not with your mother here,” I whisper, though laughter dances on my tongue.
“His mother,” Deanna calls from the table, “who can hear every word you two are saying.”
“Whoops,” I say, cheeks burning as Corbin winces.
“It’s okay,” Deanna says, her voice gentle. “I’m grateful you two have found your way back to each other, even if I have to listen to... whatever this is.”
Corbin brushes a kiss to my temple before heading over to Tate. I return to the potatoes, my heart strangely full. It’s been years since a holiday felt like this. Like a promise instead of a performance.
Stuffing. Potatoes. Gravy. Cranberry sauce. The rhythm of preparing dinner calms the frayed edges inside me. Sarge is bringing salad. Deanna’s homemade rolls are rising. The food is simple. The day is monumental.
“So, how’s the house hunting going?” Deanna asks as I mash the potatoes.
I freeze for a heartbeat, then meet her eyes. “I, um, I’m not house hunting.”
Her smile is soft, knowing. “I didn’t think so.”
There’s a pause, tender in the quiet. Then she adds, “I’m very sorry about the fire, Jules. I can’t imagine how hard that must have been.”
The kindness in her voice undoes something in me. “I’m just grateful Tate was here. That night could’ve gone so differently.”
“I noticed you put your paintings back up,” she says, glancing toward the living room. “I’m glad. It looks like your home again.”
The words hit me harder than I expect. I nod, emotion thick in my throat.
“He wants to get married again,” I blurt, voice small.
Deanna chuckles, not unkindly. “Do you?”
