I sense he wants to say more, so I wait for him to carry on.

“After my wife… At least I had Chloe back then. Because of her, I had no other choice but to stay strong. This time, I’m alone.”

The path has been salted overnight, and the crunching underfoot is the only sound while we walk in silence. Grayson’s house is just up ahead.

“You have to be strong for yourself,” I reply when we reach his driveway. “Life carries on whether we want it to or not.”

“You know,” he says as he puts his bags down on the porch, digging in his pockets for the house keys, “you’re very mature for your age.”

“So are you.”

That makes him laugh, and the sound tugs at my heartstrings. “I would hope so at my age.”

We enter the house and Grayson makes a beeline for the kitchen, where he proceeds to unload the bags on the kitchen counter. I walk to his living room and peruse the pictures of Chloe on the mantelpiece. I can’t imagine how hard it is to sit in here every night with her ghost in the room.

Grayson eventually joins me with a beer in his hand. He holds out a glass of lemon water, which I gratefully accept.

“I remember when you took this picture.” I point to a photograph of Chloe and me at the town hall when we went to our first concert. It was only a local band, but we were super excited anyway.

Grayson leans in, studying the photograph. His masculine scent settles in my nostrils before he moves back again. “You were thirteen or something, right?”

“Fourteen,” I correct him.

Chuckling, he brings the rim of his beer to his lips and takes a swig while I watch his throat jump. I’ve always noticed Grayson in a way I don’t notice the boys at school. I don’t know if it’s because he’s always been in my life, more of a parent than my own absent mother. If I hurt myself, it was Grayson who cleaned my wounds and told me everything would be okay. When the kids at school were mean to me, it was Grayson who told me to keep my head high. Maybe that’s why my eyes slide over the broad shoulders beneath his shirt. I quickly avert my gaze when he lowers the bottle and drags his tongue over the droplets on his bottom lip.

He walks up to the couch and lowers himself down, but I stay by the fireplace. I need space to calm my racing heart.

“So,” Grayson says with a smile, “how do you feel about Butter Chicken and rice?”

“Is that what you’re cooking?”

“It is.”

He doesn’t take his eyes off me when I approach him. “It sounds delicious.”

“It is,” he repeats, holding my gaze as I take a seat on the armchair.

“I look forward to trying it.” I don’t know what else to say. The way Grayson is watching me makes me feel flustered.