Chapter 13 Selene #2
Austin’s brows rose, his hand pausing at the strap of his backpack. “Yeah?”
I knew he must be tired. Austin was essentially working two jobs—one without pay since he wouldn’t take my money, I might add. After surviving our morning chaos, he worked a hard labor job. Feeding him was the least I could do.
“Yeah.” I cleared my throat. “I thought I’d order something easy for dinner. Winnie’s been asking for pizza.”
Something flickered in his eyes—something warm, unguarded. “You want me to stay?”
It wasn’t a loaded question. At least, not on the surface, but it pressed against the line we hadn’t talked about since I hired him.
He helped. I worked. He left. That was the rhythm. Our safety net.
Inviting him to stay wasn’t nothing.
I tried to sound casual, breezy. “Only if you’re free.”
Austin nodded slowly as a smile ghosted on his lips. “I’m free.”
Of course he was.
He gave a soft knock to the counter with his knuckles and stepped back. “I’ll see you after work, then.”
I nodded. “Thanks again.”
His brows pitched down. “For what?”
I opened my mouth, then closed it.
For knowing how I take my coffee.
For slipping into our lives without forcing his way in.
For fixing things I hadn’t even noticed were broken.
“For the mug,” I said instead.
He smiled, the slow kind that curved just one side of his mouth and stayed there as he turned and left, the front door whispering shut behind him.
The silence that followed felt less like stillness and more like absence.
I stared at the upturned mug by the sink for a long moment before finally moving to grab my laptop.
The scent of pepperoni, fresh basil, and melted cheese drifted through the kitchen, warm and savory and comforting in a way that made the place feel like a real home—like something we’d built together without meaning to.
Winnie sat cross-legged on a barstool at the counter, her little fingers greasy from tugging cheese off her second slice. She’d insisted on the “special pizza,” the kind with stuffed crust and pineapple, and had declared it the “best idea ever” at least three times already.
Austin leaned against the opposite counter, one ankle crossed over the other, sipping from a glass of soda like he wasn’t aware of how domestic the entire scene looked.
His sleeves were pushed up, forearms streaked with flour where he’d helped cut up Winnie’s pizza into small squares.
She’d pressed a sticker from her pizza box to his shirt and dubbed him the “Cheese Boss.” He had obliged without complaint.
My heart ached in that hollow, unfamiliar way it did when something felt both perfect and unsustainable.
He caught my gaze and smiled—lazy, lopsided, the kind that felt like being let in on a private joke.
“You know,” he said, glancing at Winnie, who had now moved on to arranging pepperoni slices into a face on her plate, “I think she’s finally accepting me as a full-time member of the club.”
“Don’t get cocky,” I warned, reaching for another slice. “You still haven’t passed the bedtime-story trial.”
“Oh, I’m saving my best material for that.” His voice was low, teasing.
Winnie let out a dramatic yawn, arms stretched high, and declared, “My tummy is sleepy.”
“Is that so?” I raised a brow. “This is the first I’m hearing of this expression.” I moved toward her to tickle her tired tummy.
“It means,” she said between giggles, “it’s time for Austin to read me a story.”
She slid off the stool, fingers reaching for his, and she dragged him toward the stairs, her trust tethered between them like a string.
I’d managed to wrangle her to the bathroom sink first, washing her hands and face before brushing her teeth. Her lids were heavy, and I would have bet good money she’d be sound asleep in a matter of minutes.
When we finished, I followed them into Winnie’s room and leaned against the doorframe as Austin settled into the little armchair in the corner of her room. She climbed into bed with her stuffed giraffe and handed him a pink hardcover book with sparkles on the spine.
He didn’t hesitate. Instead he opened the book and began reading in a ridiculous accent that made Winnie dissolve into peals of laughter. He even did voices.
I stood there and stared. I watched the way his voice softened in the quiet parts and the way his fingers turned the pages with care. Her breathing slowed and she reached out to touch his arm as she finally drifted off.
Eventually he closed the book. Winnie’s lashes fluttered against her cheeks, her hand still resting against his forearm.
I stepped in and gently lifted her wrist to tuck her in. “Night, bug,” I whispered before dropping a kiss into her hair.
She barely stirred.
Austin rose, and for a moment we just stood there—together, alone, surrounded by glow-in-the-dark stars and the faint hum of the white noise machine.
I turned off the bedside lamp and nodded toward the hallway. We moved in silence until we reached the kitchen again, now dim and quiet and smelling faintly of garlic and pepperoni.
Heavy moments passed as I stared up at him.
His throat cleared. “I should head out,” he said, glancing toward the back door.
I hesitated, thumb circling the lip of my wineglass on the counter. “Thanks. For . . . everything.”
His eyes met mine. “Anytime.”
He meant it. That was the dangerous part. My eyes dipped to his lips for a fraction of a second.
What would happen if I let it all go and kissed him?
A yearning ache bloomed low in my belly. Too scared, I nodded and turned to start rinsing the plates. He gathered his hoodie from the peg by the door and slipped out without another word.
Only after the door closed did I finally exhale.
I tried to clean the kitchen like it mattered, scrubbing plates and forks longer than necessary, aligning the silverware like that small order would help restore the larger one slipping out of my grasp.
Once everything was spotless, I poured myself a glass of wine and retreated to my bedroom.
I took a sip and stared at the tub in my en suite bathroom.
I needed something—steam, solitude, something simpler than all the feelings pressing against my chest.
The tub filled slowly, the sound of water lapping against porcelain dulling the edges of my thoughts. I lit a candle—fig and sandalwood—and sank into the heat. The wine was dark and dry and bitter in a way that felt luxurious.
I opened the book resting on the windowsill.
Not a new one—an old favorite from college.
Dog-eared. Annotated. The kind of book where someone else’s thoughts lived in the margins beside my own.
I traced the ink with damp fingers, barely reading.
The words blurred and scattered, like my focus had lost its footing.
There it was again—that sense of being watched from the inside. Not in a haunted way, but in a known way.
Outside the bathroom window, the breeze whispered through the trees. I could make out muffled crickets and a far-off car. Inside, only the faint flicker of the candle and the clink of my nail against the glass as I reached for another sip.
Then the record player started.
The sound was soft at first, the telltale crackle of needle to vinyl. A low hum that seemed to travel straight through the wall vibrated faintly in the pipes.
Then came the voice.
Dean Martin. Warm. Winking. Romantic in a way that made everything float away. I closed my eyes and let the music wrap around me, seeping into the corners of the bathroom like river water over stone.
I chuckled to myself. Of course he liked Dean Martin and not Sinatra. Somehow Austin always seemed to like the less obvious choice. I listened as one track faded into the next.
When the bath water finally cooled, I drained the tub and blew out the candle.
I wandered naked across the floor to my dresser. The music still played. Faint. Steady. I dressed, then pressed my forehead to the wall between us. The walls were just thin enough to hear him.
To feel him.
I curled into bed, pulled the blanket to my chin, closed my eyes, and waited for silence. It came slowly, like the record reaching its end, and the static settled. Then, just as sleep began to take me, I heard it.
Low. Quiet. A thread pulled straight through the drywall. “Good night, Selene.”
My eyes snapped open. I didn’t move. He didn’t say anything else.
I pressed my hand to my chest, heartbeat tangled somewhere near my throat.