We eat in silence, as usual. James isn’t a big talker. He never has been. If I want his words, I need to drag them out of him. Kind of like last night, though I have no desire to bring up the relationship topic again.

James finishes his food first and stays seated at the table until I’m done. We’re not a typical family in any real way, but we do have our traditions. Like eating together, for one. James has insisted, since I was a child, that we always sit down for our meals together, when we’re both here. Regardless of whether we do it in silence, apparently having this family time is important.

Speaking of traditions… “So we’re watching A Christmas Story tonight, right?” I ask him, glancing up while nibbling my last bite of bacon.

His lips quirk in a casually placating way. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

My stomach does a weird hop thing I ignore as I stand up and bring our plates to the sink. I also tend to do most of the cleaning and housework, just because James works hard, and I like for him to come home to a clean house.

And yes, I realize the more I reveal with this inner monologue, the more I sound like a housewife. I swear to God, I’m not trying to be this way. It’s just what I do.

As much as I say James is a loner, I’m sort of the same. I have a few friends I hang out with on weekends, or occasionally after school. But I’ve never even needed a curfew because I just… love coming home.

I like spending time here, alone… or with him. I probably sound like the ultimate hermit too, but I can’t find it in myself to care. I’ve spent my teen years going to school and getting good grades. I’ve taken a few culinary classes, and I think if I were to go to college, it would definitely be for baking. But I’m eighteen and I haven’t even applied to school. At the very least, I’m taking a year. Just to figure myself out, I guess.

To see if I’m even capable of cutting the cord and leaving James. Honestly, I fucking hate the idea.

The thing about my adoptive father is that he doesn’t push. I’d like to think he does so because he wants me around, too. But the more likely reason is that he’s not that kind of dad. He’s told me before that he raised me the way he thought my parents would have.

It makes me happy and wrenches my gut at the same time.

Busying myself with the dishes, I ignore how hyperaware I always seem to be of his presence in the room. It’s like I can feel him when he’s close, and I miss the feeling when he’s not. I’m a fucking whacko. I need to get a grip.

Prime example being how when his thumping footsteps move in closer to where I’m standing, my back goes rigid.