Fallon
Chapter thirty-seven
Grill Master
Cyrus showed up with a bag of charcoal in one hand and a cooler in the other. Billy spotted him first. “Mom,” she stage-whispers loudly enough for the entire neighborhood to hear, “the grill guy is here. Do we grant him access? He didn’t know the top-secret password.”
“I’m not the grill guy, I am the guy, so no password necessary,” Cyrus says easily, a grin tugging at his mouth as he steps into the yard. “Furthermore, I’m the assistant grill guy. You and Liam are the chefs today.” Liam snorted from the porch steps. “That means you want a burned dinner.”
Billy places a hand over her chest in mock offense. “Wow. Straight for the jugular. I make amazing pancakes. Burgers can’t be that different.”
Cyrus tosses the charcoal on the ground next to the grill. “Billy, love, I have complete faith in your grilling abilities.” She beams at him up at him,
Liam leans over me, whispering, “I have complete faith that this will look like a sacrifice to the gods before it resembles an edible burger.”
I laugh before I can stop myself; the sound catching me off guard—too easy, too natural.
Like it’s always been there, waiting for a moment like this to surface.
The sky is clear overhead, the grass freshly cut, and for the first time in longer than I want to admit, nothing in me feels like I’m standing on a battlefield.
It’s just…good.
The kids are already ahead of us, arguing over who gets to hold the spatula first, like it’s a matter of national importance. Cyrus trails behind them, rolling the sleeves of his black flannel up his forearms as he walks.
And I make the mistake of looking at him.
Hat flipped backwards. Dark jeans, a darker shirt, everything fitted in a way that should probably be illegal in a small town on a Saturday afternoon.
Yeah. That does something to me. His blue eyes catch mine like he felt it—like he was already looking. The crooked grin that follows is slow, deliberate, entirely aware of the effect he has on me.
It shouldn’t be new, the way he looks at me.
But it is—because it isn’t guarded anymore.
Not sharp around the edges. Not half-hidden behind distance.
Lately, he just is. Here. Present. Easier to read.
Softer in a way I’m learning to trust. I look away first, pretending I didn’t feel my pulse shift at all.
“Need help?” he asks, nodding toward the grill.
“I think you volunteered yourself,” I say, moving in beside him to help with the prep. We bump into one another. “Sorry,” I mumble, feeling like the village idiot. I reach out again. He follows without hesitation.
This time, there’s no accident when his hand brushes mine—because he doesn’t move away. Instead, he lingers, fingers closing gently around the same pair of tongs I’m reaching for, trapping my hand between his and the metal.
My gasp audible.
Cyrus notices. Of course he does. His eyes lift to mine, slower now, all warmth and quiet intent. “Still sorry?” he murmurs.
I should say yes. I don’t.
“Not even a little bit,” I answer softly.
His grip doesn’t loosen right away. Neither does mine. The grill crackles between us, but it might as well be miles away.
Billy cleared her throat dramatically. “Are you two gonna stare at each other all day, or can we grill?”
Cyrus laughs, shaking his head. “I’m already outnumbered.”
“You always are,” Liam says. “Mo—Fallon’s way cooler than you.”
“That hurts,” Cyrus says, but he was smiling. My heart skips. I caught what Liam had almost called me. Mom. Something inside me warms and is promptly smothered before it can take root. I’m sure Cyrus wouldn’t want Liam to call me Mom, would he?
We eat at the picnic table with paper plates and lemonade, skin damp with the afternoon heat. The little ones jabber nonstop, telling Cyrus all about their adventures with Jules and Jonah—their latest imaginary business venture involving Pokémon cards and contraband snacks.
Later, when the sun dips low, painting the yard in golden hues, he finds his way back to my side. The little ones race through the grass with water guns, shrieking with laughter.
“You did well today,” I tell him.
He glances over. “So did you.”
Our fingers brush again. This time, neither of us pulls away.
Cyrus leans in slowly, giving me time to stop him. I don’t, though. His lips press against mine in a gentle, unhurried kiss that tastes like summer and smoke and something hopeful. My belly pools tight before I melt into his touch.
“Ew,” Billy calls out. “Gross.”
Liam adds, “You owe us dessert for that.”
Cyrus pulls back, smiling. We chuckle as the kids poke their fingers in their mouths, pretending to gag. It’s actually really stinking cute. “Deal. Ice cream?”
They cheer, already sprinting toward the freezer.
I meet Cyrus’s blue eyes, my heart full and racing all at once. “They look so much like you.”
He meets my gaze, soft and steady. “I like it. Brings out the Neanderthal in me. And I…” He pauses, gesturing between us. “I want you to know that I more than like this.” My toes curl.
“So do I.”