Page 192 of The Art of Ruin

Told Letty yes, told me yes.

But she doesn’t, because this is what honesty looks like now: uncomfortable, raw, and sometimes even painful.

And, God, I love her for it.

Letty seems satisfied enough with that answer, immediately dragging Casey toward the living room to show her a drawing involving dinosaurs, glitter glue, and what appears to be our family represented as vaguely threatening stick figures.

“You’re the tallest,” Letty informs me seriously.

“That feels inaccurate.”

“But Casey has the best hair and bigger boobs.”

Casey makes a choking sound beside me.

I stare at my daughter. “Who teaches you these things?”

“Matteo.”

Of course he does. I can’t even be mad. I’m too happy to have Casey home to feel anything but joy, and I suspect he has something to do with that. Casey knew about ISM and he was the one who pushed me to take her the pastries. Fuck, I love my brother.

Dinner is quieter than usual that night.

Casey sits beside me at the table for the first time in days, and the awareness of her there hums through my body so constantly I barely taste the food in front of me.

Her knee brushes mine once accidentally beneath the table and my cock hardens. Fuck, I want her so bad.

It’s embarrassing how badly one touch affects me now.

Casey laughs softly at something Letty says, and the sound settles somewhere deep in my chest like relief. I missed her laugh and the easier version of her that started existing slowly over the past few months before I damaged it with my own stupidity.

At some point during dessert, Letty disappears upstairs to apparently “build Legos.”

The kitchen quiets gradually afterward. Suddenly it’s just me and Casey alone in the space.

The silence shifts immediately, tension like a living heartbeat between us.

Casey reaches automatically for the plates stacked near the sink. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know, but I want to.”

She says it gently, and something about that nearly undoes me. Because she used to tense whenever someone corrected her instincts to help. Like existing in a space always had to be earned somehow. Now she just sounds comfortable as she claims her place here.

I watch her rinse dishes quietly for a moment before stepping closer without really thinking about it. Casey stills immediately when I stop behind her. I gather her hair to the side and bend so the scent of her skin envelops me.

“Can I kiss you?” I ask softly.

The words feel awkward in my mouth. I’m so used to taking what I want that earning it, asking for it, seems strange. But it’s necessary. I need to earn the right to kiss her without asking and we’re not there yet. Most of my life, asking implied uncertainty, and uncertainty felt dangerous. Then Casey taught me that asking can also mean respect.

Her eyes lift slowly to mine. “You’ve never asked me that before.”

“No.”

“Why now?”

I could lie.

Say because I’m trying.