Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Mac felt the difference before she could name it.
Connor still showed up. He still smiled. He still asked about her day.
But he didn’t fill the quiet anymore.
They sat on her porch two evenings later, light slipping toward gold, the hum of a mower drifting somewhere down the block. The air was warm, thick with the scent of cut grass and the distant lake.
Connor leaned back in his chair, beer balanced loosely in his hand. Not closed off. Not withdrawn.
Just not steering.
“So,” she said, nudging the quiet. “Addie still excited about school?”
He smiled. “More than ever. She’s got supply lists taped to her wall. Callum and I would’ve given anything to freeze August.”
Mac laughed softly. “Preseason used to feel like the end of freedom for me.”
“Yeah?”
“Double sessions. No margin for anything else.”
He nodded. “Makes sense.”
And then he stopped.
No follow-up. No pivot back to her. No gentle teasing.
The silence didn’t sting.
But it didn’t soften anything either.
Mac shifted in her seat. “You’re being careful.”
Connor glanced at her. “Am I?”
“Yes.”
He considered that. Didn’t deny it. Didn’t defend it.
“Maybe,” he said.
The simplicity of his response unsettled her more than pushback would have.
“You don’t have to,” she said.
“I know.”
Another beat.
“I just don’t want to do that thing where I talk to fill space because I’m afraid of what happens if I don’t,” he added.
That landed.
She studied him. “And what happens if you don’t?”
“We find out whether it’s still comfortable.”
It wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t accusing.
It was honest.
Mac looked out at the street, the shadows stretching long against the pavement.
“I don’t want you to disappear,” she said quietly.
“I’m not,” he said. “I’m just not trying to smooth everything over anymore.”
That was new.
And real.
A car passed. Someone laughed a few houses down.
Mac let the quiet sit this time. Didn’t rush it. Didn’t patch it.
“You’re allowed in the room,” she said finally. “I’m not used to that. But I don’t want you outside it.”
Connor didn’t move toward her.
He didn’t retreat either.
“Okay,” he said.
Not triumphant. Not wounded.
Just steady.
“No speech?” she asked lightly.
He smiled faintly. “You already heard the speech.”
She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
This wasn’t seamless.
It wasn’t romantic in the movie sense.
It was work.
He reached for her hand—not claiming, not testing. Just offering.
She took it.
They sat like that for a while, not fixing anything.
Just staying in it.
It wasn’t relief.
It was steadiness.
For the first time, the future didn’t feel wide open.
It felt earned.
And that was scarier—but stronger.