She sets the plate in front of me: penne with marinara, the garlic bread golden and perfect, and I could actually cry at how good it looks.
"Eat," she says, sitting across from me with her own plate. "Then tell me about it."
We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes. The pasta is perfect, the bread is warm, and having Nora across from me makes the kitchen feel less empty than it has all week.
"Reaper hit me into the boards today," I say finally, setting my fork down. "During the game, our own teammate deliberately boarded me. I went down hard."
Nora's fork stills. "Did the ref call it?"
"No. Because it looked accidental enough that he got away with it. But it wasn't. I know it wasn't." I touch my shoulder, wincing. "He did it at least three times during the game. Each one was harder than the last. I'm so tired of this. Ofhim. Of all of it."
"Tyler." Her voice is firm. "That's assault. That's?—"
"That's hockey." I cut her off, but there's no heat in it. Just exhaustion. "And I don't want to talk about it anymore tonight. Tell me about Harper. What did I miss?"
Her expression softens, and she launches into updates. Harper rolled from her tummy to her back twice yesterday. She's grabbing everything now, especially Nora's hair, which apparently gets yanked constantly. She's sleeping slightly better—one four-hour stretch on Thursday night before reverting to chaos. They went to the park twice and saw Jennifer and Maria, who both asked about me.
I listen to every word, filing away each detail like it's precious. Because it is. These are the moments I missed, the tiny pieces of Harper's life that happen whether I'm there or not.
"She missed you," Nora says quietly. "She kept looking toward the door like she was waiting for you to come home."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." She smiles. "And I may have shown her your highlight reel from the home opener approximately seventeen times."
"You did not."
"She seemed very impressed by your backhand goal. Though that might have just been gas."
I laugh, the sound surprising me. "I missed you guys, too. Both of you. A lot."
Something shifts in Nora's expression, her hazel eyes darker in the kitchen light. "We're glad you're home."
Home.
The word settles between us, heavy with meaning neither of us is ready to name.
We finish eating, and I help her clean up even though she protests that I should rest. But standing next to her at the sink feels right, feels normal, like this is what we do. Like we're a team.
I wash, she dries. Our hands brush in the soapy water when she reaches for a plate, and the touch sends electricity up my arm. She doesn't pull away immediately, and neither do I, and suddenly we're both very aware of how close we're standing.
"Tyler." Her voice is barely above a whisper.
I turn toward her at the same time she turns toward me, and suddenly we're inches apart. Close enough that I can see the flecks of green in her hazel eyes, close enough to count the freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks.
Close enough to kiss.
Her breath hitches, and I can see her pulse jumping in her throat. My hand comes up, almost without permission, settling on her hip through the oversized hoodie.
My hoodie that she's wearing.
"Red." My voice is rough, wrecked. "We shouldn't?—"
"I know."
But neither of us moves away.
We're leaning in, slowly, inexorably, like gravity's pulling us together. Her eyes flutter closed, her lips parting slightly, and I'm drowning in the wanting, the desperate need that's been building for weeks.