Trying not to hear his words in a filthier context, and reminding myself why I’m here, I release him and gently nudge his hand away. “We should go before they come looking for us. But it’s going to be fine. I’m here for you.”

When standing up straight, Brenden’s only an inch or two shorter than my six-foot-one. But right now he’s slouching, which makes him seem smaller. I can’t tell if it’s because he still feels defeated, or because I actually helped relax him. Either way, he has to look up to meet my eyes. It feels like he can see all the way into my soul, and I’m worried about what he might find there.

“I know you are,” he says softly. “Thank you.”

He straightens himself up, then takes my hand in a much more casual hold and begins to lead me toward the kitchen. “Uh, is this okay?” he asks, squeezing my hand once. “We didn’t have time to discuss—”

“It’s fine,” I assure him. While this is certainly new for us, holding his hand is something I could easily get used to. But I shouldn’t.

In the kitchen, May and her grandparents are sitting at the round table with mugs in front of them. I notice May’s is filled with coffee, despite it being eight thirty at night. Like father, like daughter. I almost smile but can’t, because that’s such a terrible habit. At least she’s still on school vacation.

Brenden releases my hand as he goes over to the empty chair, the one with another mug of coffee in front of it. Instead of sitting down, though, he glances at me, unsure. So I walk over to join him, and then we both stand there awkwardly as I exchange do-over introductions with Elise and Grant.

With that out of the way, May jumps up and tells me to take her seat. Before I can decline the offer, she grabs her coffee and scoots closer to her grandmother, resting her butt against the windowsill. Brenden sits down and tugs me toward the vacated seat.

For a few moments, nobody says anything, and the tension in Brenden’s body seems to have returned already. He’s white-knuckling the handle of his coffee mug.

“Would you like some tea?” Elise asks me, politely breaking the silence. “I’m afraid there’s no decaf.”

Brenden’s jaw twitches, so I slide my hand onto his thigh under the table and give it a reassuring squeeze. “No thank you, I’m fine.”

“Would you prefer coffee?” Grant asks. “There’s a pot on. Although I don’t understand how these two”—he gestures between Brenden and May—“can drink it at this time of night.”

“We like to live on the edge,” May jokes.