Chapter 10
Adam
I hear the knock before I see her—hesitant, lighter than usual, like she's not quite sure she's allowed to be here.
I set down the oven mitt and wipe my hands on my jeans.
Emma's sprawled on the couch, her movie blaring at a volume that could wake the dead, the whole house thick with the smell of rosemary and garlic.
I pull open the door before June can change her mind.
There she is.
Overnight bag clutched in one hand, hair wild from the wind, cheeks flushed pink from the cold. But it's the flicker of nerves in her expression that gets me—vulnerability she doesn't usually let show.
"Hey," I say, keeping my voice easy.
She gives me a tentative smile. "Hey."
I take her bag without asking and step aside. Cold air rushes in with her, then disappears as I close the door. She's here. In my house. Standing in my hallway like she belongs here.
Maybe she does.
"Warm up," I say, setting her bag down. "I've got dinner going—roast chicken. Thought it might tempt you."
She breathes in deep, shoulders dropping half an inch. "Smells amazing. Practically worth a busted boiler."
Before I can respond, Emma comes skidding into the hallway in her socks, eyes wide, already vibrating at maximum six-year-old frequency.
"JUNE!" She launches herself forward like a tiny missile. "Are you having a sleepover?!"
June glances at me, suddenly tongue-tied. I crouch down to Emma's level, steady and matter-of-fact.
"June's house is too cold right now—her heat's out. So she's staying with us until it gets fixed."
Emma's face lights up like I just told her Christmas came early. "So it is a sleepover!"
"Something like that, princess."
She narrows her eyes, suddenly shrewd. "Where's she sleeping?"
I don't hesitate. "In my room. June and I care about each other, and I want to make sure she's comfortable."
Emma processes this for approximately half a second. Then she shrugs. "Okay!" She grabs June's hand and starts dragging her toward the living room. "June, can you read me my bedtime story tonight? Please? I made a new drawing at school—it has a dragon and—"
I catch June's eye over Emma's head and give her a knowing smile.
She rolls her eyes at me. But her shoulders relax.
Dinner is loud and easy. Emma talks a mile a minute—something involving a drawing, a boy named Marcus who ate paste, and why penguins can't fly but ostriches can't either, so what's the point of being a bird?
June helps her sound out spelling words. I watch them together—June patient and warm, Emma glowing under the attention—and something in my chest pulls tight.
After roast chicken and mashed potatoes, after bath time and teeth-brushing and two bedtime stories (Emma negotiated hard), the house finally settles into quiet. Just the occasional creak of floorboards, the hum of the heater, the distant sound of Emma's white noise machine.
I walk June down the hall to my room.
Our room. For now.
It's not much—navy bedding, a couple of framed photos on the dresser, Emma's smile beaming from the nightstand. I open a drawer, suddenly awkward.
"I cleared some space. The closet's yours—any part you want."
June's voice comes out soft, almost shy. "Thank you. For all of this."
"You don't have to thank me." I step closer, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, fingers lingering at her jaw. "Honestly? I've been looking for an excuse to have you here."
Her smile is tired but genuine. "The boiler was convenient timing, then."
"Perfect timing."
She laughs—quiet, breathy, nerves still tangled up with something that looks a lot like want.
She's here. In my room. In my life. And for the first time, it all feels real. Tangible. Not just a distant hope.
She glances at me, something unsaid burning just beneath the surface. But then she murmurs, "I'm too tired for big conversations tonight."
"Long week ahead," I agree. "Let's get some sleep."
We slide into bed carefully, like we're both trying not to crowd each other. But the bed's not that big, and every exhale brings us closer. Her hair smells like vanilla and cinnamon—like the bakery, like her.
In the quiet, I listen to her breathing slow. Feel the warmth of her beside me. The weight of her presence.
There's something she's not saying. I can feel it hovering between us, unspoken.
But tonight, it's enough just to have her here.
I pull her in, her back curved against my chest, and press a kiss to her hair. She sighs—soft and surrendered—and I hold her until we both fall asleep.
***
Saturday night rolls in on a wave of snow flurries and the scent of Harper's cinnamon candles. Five days of June living in my house, and already I can't remember what it was like before her overnight bag appeared at the door, before her toothbrush showed up next to mine in the bathroom.
Everything feels lighter. Louder, too. I wouldn't trade it for anything.
Tonight, Harper and Nate are hosting dinner at their place.
The whole gang's here. June and Emma, Harper glowing from the inside out—first trimester, still barely showing, but she looks like she swallowed a firefly.
Nate keeps touching her back like he can't quite believe his luck.
Maya's planted on the couch just a few weeks from her due date, radiating the kind of comedic menace only a heavily pregnant Maya can pull off.
Lucas hovers nearby like a nervous satellite.
Emma finds the bin of toys in the corner and sets up camp, only pausing to tug on June's sleeve and ask, dead serious, "Are you staying at our house forever?"
June laughs like it's the most ridiculous question in the world. But I catch the flicker of hope in her eyes. That little spark that says maybe.
Nate opens wine—non-alcoholic for Maya, ginger ale for Harper, who looks faintly green at the thought of actual wine. Plates get passed around the table. Stories swirl over the clatter of silverware. The teasing starts almost immediately.
"So," Maya says, propping her feet on the ottoman with zero shame. "How's cohabitation treating you two?"
June nearly chokes on her wine.
"We're fine," I say evenly, fighting a grin.
"Oh, I'm sure you are." Maya's eyebrows do something truly impressive.
Lucas tries to redirect. "Should you be sitting like that? Your back—"
"Lucas." Maya cuts him off with a look that could melt steel. "If you fuss over me one more time, I swear I will make you carry this baby."
The table cracks up. Harper snort-laughs into her ginger ale. June shakes her head, catching my eye, a flush of real happiness in her cheeks.
She's relaxing. Harper’s my sister, but these are her people.
After another round of drinks and a solid ten minutes debating baby names—Maya's lobbying for "Rocket" if it's a boy, which Lucas is diplomatically trying to veto—Harper corners June in the kitchen under the guise of needing help with ice.
I watch June disappear around the counter, posture slightly awkward but smiling.
Their voices drift out—low, conspiratorial. A burst of laughter. Harper's tone half-scolding, half-delighted. June's muffled protests.
I can't make out the details, just Harper's gleeful "Oh, come on" and June's mortified groan.
Back at the table, Maya catches my eye. She smirks. Then raises her voice—loud enough there's no way June and Harper miss it in the kitchen.
"Please! I saw how you two looked at each other walking in tonight. There's more heat between you than in June's whole house right now!"
She cackles. Lucas face-palms. Nate nearly spits out his wine.
The table erupts.
June reappears from the kitchen, cheeks blazing, Harper trailing behind her with zero regret on her face.
"Maya," June manages weakly, dropping back into her seat beside me.
"What? I'm just saying what everyone's thinking."
I slide my hand under the table and find hers. Her fingers lace through mine immediately. She squeezes twice—her way of saying I'm good.
Something in my chest loosens.
These people—this chaotic, loud, ridiculous group of friends—they're ours. I'm building a life here. With Emma. With June. With all of it.
And just like that, the night feels as right as anything ever has.
After dinner and laughter and the icy drive home with Emma half-asleep in the taxi, our house is quiet and warm. I carry Emma upstairs while June unpacks the leftovers we brought back.
I tuck Emma in, smoothing her hair back as she mutters something soft and happy. Kiss her forehead. Close her door gently.
When I come back downstairs, June's curled on the couch, TV flickering, feet tucked under the throw blanket Emma always claims first. She's flipping through channels—baking shows, an old romcom, the news—which means she's not actually watching anything.
Five days of dancing around each other. Careful. Polite. Tiptoeing through shared space like we're afraid to disturb something fragile. But the house hums with possibility. With all the things we haven't said. Haven't done.
Not with Emma just upstairs.
I sit beside her—closer than usual, close enough to feel the warmth of her thigh through the blanket. "Wine?"
She turns, eyes soft in the TV light. "God, yes."
I fetch two glasses, pouring generously. When I sit back down, our knees bump. She doesn't move away.
I hand her a glass. Our fingers brush—the kind of contact that crackles straight up my arm and lands low in my stomach .
"June." Her name comes out rougher than I mean it to.
"Yeah?" She's looking at me with such warmth it makes my breath catch.
"This week has been—" I pause, searching for the right words. "I don't remember the last time my home felt this alive. Having you here every day. Watching you with Emma. Coming home and knowing you'll be there. It feels—"
"Right," she finishes quietly.
"Yeah. Right."
Silence stretches between us—electric, humming with everything we've been holding back.
My mind cycles through every moment this week that's quietly undone me—June in my kitchen making coffee, her singing drifting from the shower, her hand resting on Emma's shoulder at dinner, the way she looked at me tonight at Harper's table .