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Because that’s the part I can’t stop seeing. Not the shoulders. Not the forearms, although, for the record, the forearms are a serious problem.

It’s the way he held his son.

Like he’d been holding his breath for a month and didn’t know it until he had Shiloh in his arms again. One big hand spread across that little back. His face turned into Shiloh’s hair. His eyes squeezed shut for one, two, three seconds, and his whole body going still, like the rest of the world had stopped because this was the only thing that mattered.

And then there was Shiloh.

I thought I knew him by now. Three and a half weeks of bedtimes and breakfasts and green-bean negotiations. I know he likes the crust cut off but only on two sides. I know he hums when he’s concentrating. I know the exact face he makes right before he cries, and the face he makes when he’s decided not to.

But I didn’t know this Shiloh.

When his dad walked in, he lit up like someone flipped every switch in the house at once. He talked so fast his words tripped over each other. He kept touching Maverick’s face. His cheeks. His jaw. His ears. Patting, like he was making sure he was real and not just another picture on a screen.

He’s been holding his breath too. I didn’t realize how much until today. My throat goes tight.

Josie: You still there?

Me: Yeah.

Me: They’re so happy, Jo.

Josie: That’s good. Right?

Me: It’s wonderful.

And it is.

It’s what I wanted. It’s the whole point. A little boy who gets to have his daddy home for Christmas.

It’s just that standing behind that kitchen island, watching the two of them wrapped around each other, I suddenly remembered that I’m the one who’s new here.

They’ve been a family for four years.

I’ve only been here for twenty-four days.

I’m the woman who comes with a contract, a stipend, and a three-month notice period.

That’s not self-pity. That’s just accurate.

I think about my grandparents’ kitchen in the mornings. The radio on the windowsill. Grandma’s hand on my shoulder as she walked past, not even looking, just touching me on her way to the stove, the way you touch something that belongs to you.

I haven’t been touched like that in a long time.

I wipe my eyes with the back of my wrist.

Get it together, Noelle.

Me: Then he saw the frame Shiloh made.

Josie: The popsicle stick one?? With the cut-out?

Me: Yes.

Josie: And????

I think about Maverick standing in front of the fireplace. Turning that ridiculous glitter-covered frame over in his hands. Not saying anything for so long that I started to panic. Thinking I’d overstepped. Thinking I’d done something that couldn’t be undone.

And then I saw his thumb.