Chapter 16
Chapter sixteen
Too Close Now
Riley
Itell myself this is temporary, the whole drive over, like repeating it enough times will keep it from turning into something bigger than what it is, just tonight, just until things settle.
Just until I figure out my next move.
Except nothing about this feels temporary the second I pull up and see the brick-front house with a wraparound porch. A porch swing moving just enough in the night air, flower beds Quinn and Summer planted lining the steps, and a soft glow from the stone fireplace spilling through the windows.
It looks so warm and inviting against the dark like it’s already waiting for us.
Hadley leans forward in her seat before I even shut the engine off, her eyes lighting up again the way they did earlier. “We’re staying here?”
“Just for a little while,” I say, keeping my tone even, careful not to let anything else slip into it.
She doesn’t question it.
She never does when I say things like that, when I give her a version of the truth that feels simple and safe.
“Okay,” she says, already reaching for the door handle.
I step out first this time, scanning the property before I let her run ahead, the habit automatic now, wired into me in a way I didn’t have to think about before all of this.
Lights are on inside, Jace is on the porch like he was waiting for us. The truck is parked where it should be, and there’s no movement where there shouldn’t be any.
It should settle something in me.
It doesn’t.
Because I know now how easy it is for things to be wrong without looking wrong at all.
“Stay close,” I say, even though she’s already moving toward the steps.
“I am,” she calls back, which in her world means within ten feet instead of right next to me.
Close enough, for now.
The porch feels different at night, quieter, the wood still holding heat from the day but the air shifting cooler around it, carrying the kind of silence that doesn’t feel empty so much as watchful.
Hadley runs into Jace's arms.
He welcomes us and just steps back to let us into his new home, his eyes moving over me first, then Hadley, then back again like he’s checking something he already knows the answer to.
“We’re good,” I say, because I know what he’s asking without him having to.
His gaze lingers a second longer before he nods. “Alright.”
Hadley slips past both of us, already halfway into the house again, her voice echoing down the hall as she calls out something about the big room and the windows.
I step inside slower.
The space opens up around me the second I cross the threshold, the big room stretching out with wide floors. The stone fireplace anchoring one wall. The kitchen off to the side with a long island that looks like it was built for more than one person to lean against at the end of the day.
The space feels different now that it’s finished, less like a project and more like something real, something meant to be lived in instead of built.
That should make it easier, but it doesn’t, it makes it feel like a very hard decision. I can see us living here. I just don't want to get ahead of myself.
“You can take the room on the left,” Jace says, his voice low, steady, like he’s keeping everything calm on purpose. “It’s closest to mine.”
I glance at him.
“Convenient,” I say.
“Intentional,” he answers.
There’s no edge in it.
That should irritate me.
It doesn’t.
It settles something instead, and I don’t like how easily that happens.
“I’ll take it,” I say, because arguing about it would be pointless, and because some part of me already decided that before I walked in.
Hadley comes running back then, grabbing my hand and tugging me down the hall. “Mom, you have to see this, there’s a window that looks all the way outside and—”
“I’m coming,” I say, letting her pull me with her.
The room is simple, clean, finished but not filled yet, the bed set up, dresser against the wall, everything in place without feeling lived in.
It feels like a fresh start or a temporary stop, and I haven’t decided which one this is yet.
Hadley climbs up onto the bed without hesitation, bouncing once before settling cross-legged in the middle like she’s already claimed it.
“I like it,” she says.
Of course she does.
Kids don’t see complication.
They see space and light and something new.
I wish it was that simple.
I set our bag down on the floor, unzipping it slowly, giving myself something to do with my hands while my mind tries to catch up with everything else.
We’re here in his house and all sleeping under one roof. His roof.
That’s not something I ever planned for.
Not with him.
“You alright?” Jace asks from the doorway.
I don’t turn right away.
“Fine,” I say, because that’s easier than explaining something I haven’t sorted out yet.
He doesn’t push it.
That’s what makes this harder.
Because he gives me space without stepping back.
Because he’s here without crowding.
Because he’s exactly what I told myself I didn’t need anymore.
And now I’m standing in his house, unpacking my life into a space that wasn’t supposed to be mine.
Temporary is the word I hold onto, even as it feels thinner than it did an hour ago.
Because if I let it be anything else—
I don’t know what that turns into.
And I’m not ready to find out.
Jace stays in the doorway longer than he needs to, like he’s giving me space without stepping out of it, and I feel it without looking at him.
It shouldn’t matter, but it does.
“I’ve got food in the kitchen,” he says after a second, steady, like this is normal. “Figured you didn’t eat.”
I glance over my shoulder, not stopping what I’m doing. “We’ll manage.”
“You eat?” he asks.
I meet his eyes this time. “No.”
“Then you’re not managing.”
That almost earns him a look, something sharper than before. “You always this direct?”
“When it matters.”
I shake my head lightly, but there’s no real resistance behind it. “You don’t have to take care of everything.”
“I know,” he says. “I’m choosing to.”
That lands differently.
Hadley looks between us, then announces, “I’m hungry,” like she’s settling the argument.
“Yeah, you are,” I say, pushing off the dresser. “Give me a minute.”
Jace nods and steps back, not lingering, not pushing, just moving like he trusts we’ll follow.
That confidence should irritate me.
It doesn’t.
I finish unpacking enough to get us through the night, moving quicker now, less hesitant, like the decision’s already been made even if I haven’t said it out loud.
“Come on,” I say, holding out my hand.
Hadley takes it, and we head back out.
The kitchen is already set, plates on the island, food still warm, like he expected us to show up without asking twice.
I stop on the opposite side of the island, not retreating, just choosing my ground.
“You plan everything this far ahead?” I ask.
He turns slightly, meeting my gaze. “Only the parts that matter. If you don't show up I have food for a week.”
Hadley climbs onto a stool, already focused on the food. “This looks really good.”
Jace slides a plate toward her. “Try it first.”
I watch him for a second, the way he moves, the way he doesn’t crowd, doesn’t hover, doesn’t make a show of any of it.
“You don’t have to do this,” I say again, but there’s less push in it now, more observation.
“I know,” he says. “I want to.”
That lands cleaner than it should.
I pick up a fork and sit across from Hadley, not avoiding him, not closing the space either, just… there.
And the tension settles in again, quieter this time, less like something I’m fighting and more like something I’m starting to understand, steady and constant. Like it’s not going anywhere no matter what I decide to do with it.
Hadley breaks it first, sliding off the stool with restless energy. “Can I see the porch again?”
“It’s dark.”
“There’s lights.”
Jace looks to me, leaving it in my hands.
“Stay where we can see you.”
“I will.”
She slips outside, the door creaking, I can hear her climb up on the porch swing. The room tightens the second she’s gone, quieter, closer, harder to ignore him.
“You always this stubborn about help?” he asks.
“Only when it comes with expectations.”
“It doesn’t.”
“That’s not true.”
He holds my gaze. “It’s not the kind you think.”
That should be easy to dismiss, but it isn’t, because there’s no pressure in it, just certainty.
“You don’t get to decide what I think.”
“No, but I know you’re already planning how not to need this.”
He’s not wrong.
I push food around my plate. “That’s how I keep things simple.”
“And how’s that working?”
I don’t answer.
“Thought so.”
Hadley’s voice drifts in from outside, light and steady, and something in my chest tightens.
“She’s fine,” he says.
“I know.”
“You still worry.”
“I always worry.”
He nods like that makes sense. “She fits here.”
I look up sharp. “Don’t.”
“I’m not pushing. Just saying what I see.”
“That’s exactly what I don’t need.”
“Seeing it?”
“Naming it.”
Silence settles, heavier now.
He studies me, then nods. “Alright.”
But he doesn’t look like he’s letting it go.
Hadley comes back in, cheeks flushed, climbing onto the stool. “I like it here.”
“Yeah,” I say, brushing her hair back.
Then I look at him, and I know it’s not just her.
And that makes this harder than it was supposed to be.
I don’t realize how quiet it’s gotten again until Hadley’s voice fades off down the hall. Her footsteps slowing instead of running this time, like even she feels the shift settling into the house.
I should go check on her, but I don’t, not right away.
Because something in me knows if I move now, I’m choosing distance again, choosing space, choosing the version of this where I keep everything exactly where I can control it.
And for once, I don’t move.
Jace doesn’t either.
He stays where he is, leaning back against the counter now, arms crossed loose instead of tight, like he’s holding himself in place just as much as I am.
“You don’t have to fight everything,” he says after a minute, his voice quieter than before, less guarded.