Chapter 8 #2
Sadie reaches for a stack of dishes.
I take them first.
She pauses.
"You don't have to do that."
"I know."
"You are aware you're the guest-host in this situation."
"I don't know what that means."
"It means you're supposed to let me help."
I hand her a dish towel.
"You're helping."
She rolls her eyes. The smile that follows makes my chest do something stupid.
We work in companionable silence for a minute.
No awkwardness.
No effort.
Just...easy.
That's what keeps catching me off guard.
How easy everything feels around her.
The quiet. The conversation. The pauses.
Nothing feels forced. Nothing feels fake.
And every time I notice that, it becomes harder to remember where the pretending is supposed to be.
The dish slips slightly in her hand. Without thinking, I reach out, catch it. Our hands brush.
A simple thing. Nothing dramatic.
Still.
Neither of us moves immediately.
For one second.
Two.
Then she clears her throat.
I step back.
The moment disappears.
But not completely.
Some things linger.
This is becoming one of them.
Movie night begins shortly afterward.
According to Jillie, every snowstorm requires:
Hot chocolate.
Blankets.
Movies.
And emergency snacks.
The emergency snacks seem suspiciously identical to regular snacks, but I decide not to mention it.
The three of us pile onto the couch.
The fort remains nearby.
Jillie insists it must stay.
Apparently, it is now protected historical architecture.
Halfway through the movie, I notice something.
Sadie is laughing.
Again.
Not the polite laugh she gives customers.
Not the careful one she uses when she's tired.
This one is real. Unguarded.
She leans forward slightly, her hair slipping across one shoulder.
Eyes bright. Happy.
The sight hits harder than it should because lately I've started collecting moments.
Little ones.
The way she hums while decorating cookies.
The way she always gives Jillie the last cinnamon roll.
The way she pretends not to smile when she's amused.
The way she laughs.
Especially the way she laughs.
And suddenly a realization lands with uncomfortable precision.
I know too many things about her. Not because I've been trying. Because I've been paying attention.
A lot. More than I should. More than someone in a fake relationship probably ought to.
Across the couch, Sadie glances over.
Catches me looking.
For a second neither of us looks away.
Something shifts. Not dramatically. Just enough. Just enough to make the room feel smaller. Just enough to make my pulse notice.
Then Jillie climbs directly across both of us to retrieve popcorn.
The moment shatters instantly.
I almost laugh.
Almost.
Because somehow that little girl has become remarkably talented at interrupting dangerous thoughts.
And unfortunately, I'm starting to have a lot of them.
***
The fort survives approximately twelve minutes before becoming headquarters for board games.
Jillie insists this is a natural evolution. Neither Sadie nor I understand the logic, but that doesn't stop it from happening.
Soon we're all sitting cross-legged inside a fortress of blankets and pillows while a board game occupies the center of the floor.
The fireplace crackles nearby. Snow taps softly against the windows.
The entire cabin feels insulated from the rest of the world.
It feels like we've somehow slipped outside of normal life for a few hours.
Jillie cheats.
Badly.
Not subtle cheating. Not accidental cheating. Aggressive cheating. The kind that would get her banned from professional competition.
"That's not how the game works."
She looks offended.
"According to who?"
"Literally everyone."
"That's just one opinion."
"It's the rule book."
She points dramatically.
"The rule book is limiting my creativity."
Sadie laughs.
I laugh.
Jillie takes our laughter as encouragement, which turns out to be a mistake.
Eventually she wins.
Suspiciously. Very suspiciously.
But neither of us has the heart to challenge the verdict.
Especially when she celebrates like she just won the Stanley Cup.
Later, while Jillie builds a pillow throne for herself inside the fort, Sadie wanders into the kitchen.
I follow.
Mostly because somebody has to carry the empty mugs.
At least that's the excuse I use.
The kitchen is warm, quiet, and comfortable. It’s the sort of comfortable that's becoming increasingly dangerous.
Sadie reaches for a stack of dishes. I take them first.
She pauses.
"You don't have to do that."
"I know."
"You are aware you're the guest-host in this situation."
"I don't know what that means."
"It means you're supposed to let me help."
I hand her a dish towel.
"You're helping."
She rolls her eyes.
The smile that follows makes my chest do something stupid.
We work in companionable silence for a minute.
No awkwardness.
No effort.
Just...easy.
That's what keeps catching me off guard: how easy everything feels around her.
The quiet. The conversation. The pauses.
Nothing feels forced. Nothing feels fake.
And every time I notice that it becomes harder to remember where the pretending is supposed to be.
The dish slips slightly in her hand.
Without thinking, I reach out, catch it.
Our hands brush.
A simple thing. Nothing dramatic.
Still.
Neither of us moves immediately. For one second. Two.
Then she clears her throat. I step back.
The moment disappears.
But not completely.
Some things linger.