Week 2: Thursday

Lindsay woke up at seven with a dull ache in her lower back, the kind that had been creeping up on her the last few mornings. Maybe she needed to see a chiropractor. Or maybe she’d just been sleeping weird, twisted around the stress of the week. She stretched under the covers, arching her spine until something popped softly, then swung her legs out of bed.

The shower was already running, Greg’s muffled hum drifted through the door—some eighties rock thing he’d been stuck on for a week. She smiled despite the ache and padded over to her closet.

Today she had clients. She needed to look professional but also memorable—the kind of realtor who made you think this woman knows what she’s doing while also making you slightly jealous of her collarbones.

She pulled out a cream silk blouse first, holding it up to the light. The fabric was so thin it was almost translucent, but the cut was modest—high neckline, loose sleeves, a row of tiny pearl buttons that stopped just below her collarbone. Underneath it she’d wear her best push-up bra, the one that did things for her cleavage that felt almost illegal. She paired it with a navy pencil skirt, tight enough to show the curve of her hips but not so tight that she couldn't walk, and a matching blazer that cinched at the waist. Nude heels. Simple gold earrings.

She dressed slowly in front of the full-length mirror, watching herself transform from sleepy housewife to something sharper. The blouse slid over her shoulders like water. She fastened the bra, then paused. The cups felt tighter than last week. She cupped her breasts briefly, testing the weight—definitely fuller, rounder, the pale skin faintly mapped with blue veins. Hormones, she thought, but the thought drifted away as she adjusted the straps and the bra lifted everything into soft, impressive mounds.

The blouse went on next. The pearl buttons strained just slightly across her chest—not enough to gap, but enough to notice if you were looking. She liked that. She tucked the blouse into the skirt, zipped the side, and slipped on the blazer. The whole ensemble made her look competent and expensive and exactly the kind of woman who could sell a five-bedroom colonial to a couple who didn't know they wanted one yet.

She turned sideways, then back, admiring the way the skirt hugged her backside. Her hair was still a mess—she’d curl it before she left—but the bones were good. She felt good. A small, selfish pulse of satisfaction ran through her.

Before she could think too hard about whether her breasts were actually growing or she was just imagining things, the bathroom door opened and Greg stepped out, a towel slung low on his hips, his chest still slick with water droplets.

He stopped. Looked at her. Slowly shook his head.

“Damn, Linds,” he said, grinning. “I am so lucky.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the smile that tugged at her mouth. “You’re dripping on the carpet.”

He ignored her and crossed the room, wrapping his damp arms around her waist. The water from his chest soaked through the silk of her blouse immediately—she felt the cold shock against her ribs and squirmed.

“Greg! You’ll get me wet. I just got dressed.”

“So?” He pulled her closer, his nose brushing her temple. “You look hot. Like, really hot. Are you excited for tonight?”

“Tonight?” She pretended to think. “Oh, you mean the date night that you reminded me about yesterday and the day before that and also at dinner last week?”

“That one.” His hands slid down to her hips, squeezing through the pencil skirt. “Eight o’clock. La Trattoria. I've been craving Italian and we haven’t been out alone in a couple months.”

She softened against him despite the water soaking into her blouse. “I’m excited. Really.”

“Good.” He kissed her cheek—warm, wet, a little sloppy—and then released her, grabbing a towel from the back of the door to finally dry himself off. “I have to run. Big meeting.”

“Go.”

He pulled on a shirt and trousers, kissed her again quickly on the lips, and grabbed his briefcase. “Love you. See you at eight.”

“Love you too.”

The front door closed. The house went quiet.

Lindsay stood in the bedroom for a moment, smoothing down her blazer, checking her reflection one last time. She looked ready. She felt ready.

She grabbed her phone, her wallet, her keys from the dresser—checked twice—then headed for the stairs. Before meeting with her clients, she would need to do some prep work. If she left for her office now, there would be no problem getting it down before her appointment.

She was halfway to the front door when something stopped her.

A feeling. Like a word on the tip of her tongue. Like she’d forgotten something important.

She patted her pockets. Phone? Yes. Wallet? Yes. Keys? Yes. She’d even remembered her sunglasses. So why did her chest feel tight with the sense of something undone?

She stood in the entryway, one hand on the door. The morning light slanted through the window. Her car keys jingled as she shifted her weight.

And then it hit her.

Damian.

She’d promised to wake him up. At nine. Because he’d asked her to, and she’d said yes automatically, and now it was almost eight-thirty, and if she left for the office she wouldn’t be back in time to knock on his door, and then he’d sleep until noon, and then he’d give her that sad-puppy look, and then she’d feel guilty, and then—

She sighed, dropped her keys back on the hall table, and trudged upstairs to get her laptop.

That’s what kids do, she thought bitterly. They ruin your schedule.

She settled onto the couch in the living room, still wearing her cream blouse and navy skirt, and opened her laptop. She’d work from home until nine. Then she’d wake him. Then maybe she could still squeeze in a few hours at the office before her afternoon showing.

She pulled up her email and tried not to think about her blouse, still damp from Greg’s chest.

---

By the time Lindsay pulled into the driveway, it was six o'clock and she had never been happier to see her own house.

The day had started with promise. And then it had all gone wrong, one small catastrophe at a time.

She'd stayed home to wake Damian, of course. Because she'd promised. Because she always promised. At nine o'clock she'd climbed the stairs, knocked twice, and found him burrowed under the covers like a hibernating animal.

"Morning," she'd said. "Time to get up."

He'd blinked at her with those slow, unfocused eyes and then, predictably, asked if she could bring breakfast up to him. "Just this once," he'd said, the way he always said it, as if the previous mornings of breakfast in bed had never happened. She'd said yes—of course she'd said yes—and went downstairs to make waffles.

The kid was really living like royalty. She'd found herself wondering, as she fanned strawberries across the plate, why she'd agreed to this again. She couldn't remember deciding to. She'd just opened her mouth and sure had fallen out, the same way it always did.

When she'd brought the tray up, he'd been sitting against the headboard, smiling. He complimented her outfit—the pantsuit she'd changed into after her blouse got damp from Greg's shower embrace—and told her she looked nice. She'd thanked him automatically, even though she hadn't dressed for him. She'd dressed for her clients.

She hadn't been optimistic about him doing job applications. She'd learned by now that he was a bit lazy, or maybe just directionless, or maybe both. But she'd also felt guilty about Tuesday—the yelling, the apology, the whole terrible mess—and maybe the kid deserved a break. So she hadn't pushed. She'd just taken the empty tray, said "I'll be back later," and left.

That had been the high point of the day.

She'd dressed carefully that morning. The pantsuit made her feel powerful, the kind of woman who closed deals and didn't take no for an answer. She'd curled her hair, put on her best earrings, and driven nearly an hour to meet the Hendersons at a coffee shop near their rental.

They hadn't shown up.

She'd waited fifteen minutes. Texted. Called. Finally, the wife picked up.

"Oh, Lindsay. We're so sorry. We decided not to buy after all. We're just going to rent another year."

Lindsay had gripped the steering wheel and counted to five before responding. "You could have told me before I drove all the way out here."

"We just decided this morning. Really sorry."

A whole month. Eight showings. Countless emails. Negotiation prep. She'd been so sure they were close, so sure she was about to make a sale. Apparently, she was wrong.

She'd sat in the parking lot for a long moment, staring at nothing, then started the drive home.

The highway was closed. An accident, according to the traffic alerts. She'd been rerouted through back roads she didn't know, her GPS recalculating every five minutes, her stomach growling because she hadn't eaten since breakfast. The drive that should have taken an hour took almost two, and by the time she pulled into her driveway at six o'clock, she was exhausted, hungry, and profoundly over everything.

She killed the engine and sat there for a moment, letting her head fall back against the headrest. The mirror showed a woman who looked tired—pantsuit wrinkled, hair limp, mascara slightly smudged under one eye. She'd have an hour to rest before she needed to get ready for date night. One hour. She could lie on the couch, close her eyes, maybe even doze off for a few minutes. She deserved that much.

She grabbed her bag, unlocked the front door, and stepped inside.

The cool air hit her face. She kicked off her heels on the mat, sighing at the feeling of the carpet under her feet. She was halfway to the living room couch when she heard it.

"MOM!"

Naomi's voice, shrill and furious, echoing from the kitchen.

Lindsay closed her eyes. No. Please. Just give me five minutes.

But Naomi was already storming into the hallway, her face flushed, her arms crossed tight over her chest. She was yelling before she even stopped moving.

"Why couldn't she just get one restful, peaceful day?" Lindsay thought, and braced herself.

Lindsay held up both hands, still standing in the hallway in her wrinkled pantsuit, her bare feet cold on the floor. “Naomi. Stop. I can’t understand you.”

Naomi paced back and forth, arms wrapped around herself like she was freezing. “I’ve been trying to talk to you all day. You’re never here anymore.”

“I was working.” Lindsay’s voice came out sharper than she intended. The exhaustion was a living thing, coiled behind her eyes. “What happened?”

“Damian.” Naomi spat the name like it tasted bad. “It’s Damian.”

She stopped pacing and faced her mother. Her face was blotchy—she’d been crying, or yelling, or both. “He walked in on me. Twice. Once when I was getting out of the shower. And last night—Mom, I was on the toilet. On the toilet. He opened the door and just stood there.”

Lindsay pressed her fingers to her temples. The headache was blooming behind her right eye. “Okay. Slow down. Are you sure it wasn’t an accident? The lock sticks. You said so yourself.”

“I know the lock sticks! But he didn’t knock. Or he knocked and didn’t wait. And he just stood there.”

“For how long?”

“Like five seconds.”

“That’s not that long,” Lindsay said carefully. “Maybe he was just confused. You said he walked out pretty quickly, right?”

“He backed out after he realized what he was seeing, yeah. But Mom—he didn’t look confused. He looked… I don’t know. His mouth was open. He was just staring. Not embarrassed. Not apologetic. Just staring.”

Lindsay frowned. “Did he apologize?”

Naomi hesitated. “He said ‘oh, sorry’ as he was closing the door. But it was flat. Like he was going through the motions.”

“So he did apologize.”

“Barely!” Naomi threw her hands up. “And that’s not even the worst part. This morning I saw him in the laundry room. He was going through my dirty clothes basket.”

Lindsay felt a prickle of unease. “Going through how?”

“Like—pulling things out. Holding them up. Looking at them.” Naomi’s voice dropped. “He had my underwear in his hand, Mom. My bra. He was just standing there holding it.”

Lindsay’s stomach turned. “What did you say?”

“I said ‘What are you doing?’ and he jumped. Dropped everything. Said he was looking for a towel. But the towels are in the hallway closet. Everyone knows that. He’s been here almost two weeks.”

“Maybe he forgot,” Lindsay offered weakly.

“He didn’t forget.” Naomi’s eyes were bright and wet. “He was looking at my underwear, Mom. He’s a creep. He’s not right. I don’t feel safe with him here. I want him out. Back to foster care. I’m calling the social worker.”

Lindsay looked at her daughter. Naomi was twenty-two. She wasn’t a child. She wouldn’t make this up. But Damian was just a kid—a messed-up kid who didn’t know social rules, who’d been bounced from home to home, who froze when he was scared.

Three times, though. Shower. Toilet. Laundry. And the underwear.

“I’ll talk to him,” Lindsay said.

Naomi laughed—a sharp, humorless sound. “Talk to him? That’s your solution? Talk to the creepy nineteen-year-old who stares at me on the toilet?”

“What else do you want me to do?”

“I want you to believe me! I want you to kick him out! I want you to stop making waffles for him every morning like he’s a prince and start protecting your actual daughter!”

Lindsay’s headache pulsed. “I am protecting you. I’m going to go talk to him right now. Find out what happened.”

“You already know what happened. I told you.”

“I know what you think happened. Let me get his side.”

Naomi stared at her, mouth open. “His side? His side is that he’s a creep. There’s no other side.”

“Just let me talk to him. Please.”

Naomi shook her head slowly. “You’re not going to believe me. I can already tell. You’re going to go in there, and he’s going to give you some sad story, and you’re going to feel sorry for him, and then you’re going to come back down here and tell me I need to be more understanding.”

“That’s not—”

“It’s exactly what’s going to happen.”

Lindsay didn’t answer. Because some part of her, some tired, wrung-out part of her, was afraid Naomi was right.

“Fine.” Naomi turned toward the stairs, then stopped. “One more thing. When he walked in on me in the bathroom? He didn’t just stand in the doorway. He took a step forward. Like he was trying to see better.”

Lindsay’s blood went cold.

“I didn’t tell you that before because I thought maybe I imagined it. But I didn’t.” Naomi’s voice was barely a whisper. “He took a step toward me, Mom. And then he said ‘oh, sorry’ and left. But that step happened.”

She climbed the stairs without looking back.

Lindsay stood alone in the hallway. Her back ached. Her head throbbed. Date night was in less than two hours, and she hadn’t even showered. But she climbed the stairs anyway, her bare feet silent on the carpet, and walked toward Damian’s room to confront him about what Naomi had said.

---

Lindsay knocked twice on Damian's door. A real knock this time, not the soft raps she'd been using since Tuesday.

"Come in," came his voice, light and cheerful.

She pushed the door open. Damian was sitting at the small desk in the corner, hunched over the laptop she'd set up for him days ago. The screen glowed with what looked like a YouTube video—something about how to make the perfect omelet. He clicked pause and turned around, a smile spreading across his face.

"Hey, Lindsay. You look tired. Rough day?"

The genuine concern in his voice made something in her chest twist. He looked so sweet sitting there, so innocent, like a kid who'd never done anything wrong in his life. His hair was messy, his hoodie was too big, and he was watching cooking videos. How could this boy be the same person Naomi was describing?

No. She shook herself mentally. Stop it. You're angry. Remember? You came up here to confront him. He might be harassing your daughter.

She stepped into the room and closed the door behind her, squaring her shoulders.

"Damian, we need to talk."

His smile faltered slightly. "Okay. What's wrong?"

She crossed her arms over her chest, then uncrossed them. She didn't know what to do with her hands. "Naomi came to me just now. She's very upset. She told me you walked in on her in the bathroom. Twice. Once when she was getting out of the shower, and once last night when she was on the toilet."

Damian's eyes went wide. His cheeks flushed pink.

"And that's not all," Lindsay continued, her voice firmer. "She also said she saw you in the laundry room this morning, going through her dirty clothes. Specifically, she said you were holding her underwear. And she said that when you walked in on her last night, you didn't just stand in the doorway—you took a step forward. Toward her."

She let the words hang in the air.

"This is unacceptable, Damian. I need you to tell me what happened. The truth."

Damian looked down at his hands, then back up at her. His expression wasn't defensive or angry. It was almost… sheepish. Like a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"Okay," he said softly. "I'll tell you everything. But can I explain each thing first?"

Lindsay nodded, her arms crossed tighter.

"The bathroom thing—the first time, with the shower? I really didn't know she was in there. The door was closed, and I didn't hear the water. I knocked—I swear I knocked—and no one answered. So I opened it. And I saw her with a towel, and I just… I froze. I wasn't staring. I was embarrassed. My brain shut off. I said sorry and left."

Lindsay frowned. That almost made sense. The lock did stick. And he had apologized. But still—twice?

"And last night? The toilet?" she pressed.

Damian's face turned redder. "That one was a total accident. I was half asleep. I'd just woken up and I needed to pee, and I wasn't thinking. I opened the door without knocking. I didn't mean to. And when I saw her, I froze again. I know it sounds stupid, but I just stood there because I panicked. I don't remember taking a step forward. I think maybe I shifted my weight because I was scared. But I didn't move toward her on purpose."

Lindsay's jaw tightened. "Three coincidences, Damian. The shower. The toilet. And now the laundry room with her underwear. That's a lot of coincidences."

"I know how it looks," he said, his voice trembling slightly. "I know. But the laundry room—I was looking for a towel. I swear. I opened the basket and stuff just fell out. Her underwear was on top. I picked it up to put it back, and I guess I just… held it for a second. I wasn't thinking. I've never lived in a house with girls before."

She stared at him. Three times. Each time with an explanation that was just plausible enough. But what were the odds?

Damian leaned forward slightly, his eyes locking onto hers. His voice dropped, becoming softer, more earnest.

"Not at all. It really was a complete accident. I mean, don't you agree that when you hear my side, it's clear that this is all a misunderstanding?"

The words hit her like a wave.

"Yes," she heard herself say. "Yes, it seems that way. When you explain it like that, I can see how someone might think it was on purpose, but it really does sound like a series of accidents."

The words kept coming, longer than she'd intended, spilling out in a calm, reasonable stream. When did I decide that? A moment ago she'd been ready to confront him. Now she was agreeing with him.

She caught herself. Wait. No. That's not what I think.

But the thought was fuzzy, like trying to grab smoke. She looked at his sweet, earnest face, and the warmth began to spread through her chest—that familiar pulse she'd come to associate with him, with saying yes, with making him happy.

Maybe he's right, she rationalized. Maybe it really was just a series of accidents. The lock sticks. He froze. He didn't know where the towels were. And Naomi has been against him from the start. She might be exaggerating.

The rationalization felt good. It smoothed over the rough edges of her doubt.

But the underwear, a small voice whispered. He held her underwear.

She pushed the voice down. He'd explained that. He was curious. He'd never lived with girls before. That wasn't creepy. It was just… socially awkward.

She reluctantly accepted the explanation, letting the warmth flood the remaining cracks of her skepticism.

Damian smiled. "I'm so glad you understand, Lindsay. You always listen to me. Not like Naomi."

Lindsay blinked. The mention of Naomi's name brought her back slightly. Right. Her daughter. She still had to deal with that.

"Okay," Lindsay said, forcing herself to focus. "I understand that it was probably an accident. But Damian, you still need to apologize to her. And you need to be more careful. Knock louder. Wait for an answer. Don't go through her things."

"I will," he said earnestly. "I promise."

Lindsay nodded, turning toward the door. Finally. She could go downstairs, shower, try to salvage something of the evening before date night.

"Lindsay?" His voice was soft, hesitant.

She turned back. He was looking at his hands, then up at her with those wide, innocent eyes.

"Could you… talk to her first? Calm her down a bit? I don't want her to be mad at me. It makes my stomach hurt."

Lindsay sighed. She was tired. Her back ached. She wanted to lie down. But the request was so small, so reasonable. He just wanted peace.

"Okay," she said. "I'll talk to her."

Damian smiled shyly. "Thank you. And, Lindsay?"

"What?"

He looked down again, his cheeks flushing. "Don't you think… she owes me an apology too?"

Lindsay blinked. "For what?"

"For saying all those things about me. Creep. Not right. She doesn't even know me." His voice was quiet, hurt. "I didn't do anything on purpose. And she's being so mean. Don't you think that's unfair?"

She opened her mouth to argue—Naomi was her daughter, she had a right to be upset—but the words came out differently.

"I guess… she is being a little harsh."

Damian nodded seriously. "And you said she was opposed to adopting me from the start, right?"

Lindsay hesitated. "Well… yes. She was."

"So that's probably why she's overreacting. She never wanted me here. So she's looking for reasons to be mad." He tilted his head, innocent and thoughtful. "I read somewhere that when a family gets a new kid, the old kid worries the parents will love the new one more. Maybe that's what's happening with Naomi."

Lindsay felt a flash of irritation. That was ridiculous. Naomi wasn't jealous. She was scared. But the words wouldn't come.

"Maybe," Lindsay heard herself say. "She has been… difficult about you."

"So then she should apologize, right? For being unfair to me. For assuming the worst."

Lindsay's head was spinning. She wanted to say no. She wanted to defend her daughter. But the logic was somehow airtight. Naomi had been opposed. Naomi had called him a creep. Maybe she was overreacting.

"Yes... you're probably right," Lindsay said weakly. "Let me think about how to bring it up with her."

Damian smiled—that bright, uncomplicated smile. "Thanks, Lindsay. You're the best."

Before she could step back, he closed the distance between them and wrapped his arms around her. His face pressed right into her chest again, his cheek nestled between her breasts, his arms tight around her waist.

Lindsay didn't hug him back. She stood stiff, her arms at her sides, her hands curled into loose fists. She could feel his breath through the silk of her blouse, warm and damp. Her skin crawled.

But she couldn't push him away. She couldn't say anything. Her mouth was dry. The warmth was there—that awful, automatic warmth—but underneath it was something else. Discomfort. A low, squirming feeling in her stomach.

He held on for several seconds. Then he pulled back, still smiling, completely unaware—or pretending to be—that she hadn't participated at all.

"I knew you'd understand," he said softly. "You always do."

Lindsay turned and walked out of the room without a word. Her hands were shaking. She didn't look back.

---

Lindsay stood in her bedroom, staring at her closet, trying to remember how the conversation with Naomi had gone.

She'd gone downstairs after leaving Damian's room, her hands still shaking slightly, her blouse still damp from his breath. Naomi was sitting on the couch, arms crossed, knee bouncing. She looked up when Lindsay walked in, her eyes red-rimmed.

"Well?"

Lindsay had sat down across from her, choosing her words carefully. "I talked to him. He says it was all accidents. He's going to apologize."

Naomi's laugh was sharp and hollow. "Of course he does. And you believed him."

"I'm not saying I believe him," Lindsay had said, though she could hear how weak it sounded. "I'm saying we need more time to figure this out. I have date night tonight. Greg will be home any minute. Can we please talk about this tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow." Naomi stared at her. "You want me to just… wait until tomorrow."

"I just want us all to be calm. I'll talk to Damian again. You can talk to him if you want. We'll figure it out together, yeah?"

Naomi had looked away, her jaw tight. "Fine. But I'm not happy about this."

"I know, you're a great daughter. Thank you for being so patient. I love you."

Naomi hadn't said it back. She'd just stood up and walked upstairs, her footsteps heavy.

Now, standing in front of her open closet, Lindsay pushed the memory aside. She didn't have time to dwell. Greg would be home soon, and she needed to look presentable. More than presentable. She wanted to feel like herself again—the version of herself who wasn't exhausted, who wasn't tangled up in Damian's problems, who could put on a dress and go out with her husband and remember why she'd married him.

She reached for a burgundy dress and pulled it off the hanger.

The dress was dark red, almost wine-colored, made of heavy silk that caught the light. It had a wrap front that tied at the waist and a neckline that dipped low—lower than she remembered. She stepped into it, pulled the fabric around her body, and tied the sash. The silk slid over her hips like water.

She turned to the mirror.

The woman looking back had cleavage that was almost obscene. The wrap front gaped open across her chest, revealing the soft swell of her breasts, the shadowed valley between them. The fabric pulled tight across her stomach, her hips, her thighs. Her nipples were visible through the silk—just barely, two dark shadows pressing against the burgundy.

She should change. She should find something more modest.

She didn't.

She was still adjusting the neckline when Greg walked into the bedroom, already unbuttoning his work shirt.

He stopped. Stared.

"Jesus, Linds."

She felt her face flush. "What?"

He crossed the room in three strides, his hands finding her waist, pulling her against him. His shirt was half-open, his chest warm through the thin fabric of her dress. He smelled like soap and coffee and something else—something familiar and safe.

"You're trying to kill me," he said, his mouth close to her ear. "That's what this is. **** by dress."

She laughed—a real laugh, the first one all day. "It's just a dress."

"It's not just a dress." His hands slid down to her hips, squeezing gently. "It's a statement. The statement is 'I'm the hottest woman in the restaurant and my husband is the luckiest man alive.'"

"Greg."

"What? I'm not wrong." He pulled back slightly, looking her up and down. "Spin for me."

She rolled her eyes but turned slowly, letting the dress swish around her thighs. The back was even lower than the front, scooping down to the small of her back, exposing the curve of her spine.

Greg made a low sound in his throat. "Okay. New plan."

"What plan?"

"We eat dinner fast, and then I get you home and take that dress off you with my teeth."

Lindsay's stomach flipped. She pressed her thighs together without meaning to. "You're ridiculous."

"You love it."

She did. God, she did. After the week she'd had—the resume, the yelling, the guilt, the waffles, the laundry, the bathroom incidents, the feeling of Damian's face pressed into her chest—she wanted this. She wanted to feel desired. Wanted. Not needed. Not leaned on. Just wanted.

Greg kissed her neck, just below her ear, and she shivered.

"We should finish getting ready," she said, her voice breathier than she intended.

"We should," he agreed. But he didn't move. His lips trailed down her throat, slow and warm.

"Greg."

"Fine, fine." He pulled back, grinning. "But I'm holding you to the teeth thing."

She laughed again and pushed him toward the bathroom. "Go shower. You smell like the office."

He saluted and disappeared into the bathroom. She heard the water start.

Lindsay turned back to the mirror. Her cheeks were flushed. Her eyes were bright. She looked alive in a way she hadn't all day. She touched the neckline again, adjusting it, then let her hand drop. Let it gape. Let it show.

She put on earrings—gold hoops that brushed her collarbone. A spritz of perfume behind her ears, on her wrists, between her breasts. She ran her fingers through her hair, fluffing it, letting it fall loose around her shoulders.

When Greg came out of the shower, towel around his waist, she was sitting on the edge of the bed in her heels.

He stopped. Stared again.

"Ten minutes," he said. "Give me ten minutes."

"Take your time."

He dressed quickly—dark jeans, a navy blazer, a white shirt open at the collar. He looked good. He always looked good. She watched him in the mirror, admiring the line of his jaw, the way his shoulders filled out the jacket.

He caught her looking. "See something you like?"

"Maybe."

He crossed to her, held out his hand. "Ready?"

She took it. "Ready."

They walked downstairs together, his hand on the small of her back. The warmth of his palm through the silk made her feel grounded. Safe. Normal.

At the front door, she stopped.

"Shit. My purse."

Greg laughed. "I'll get the car started. Meet you out front."

He kissed her forehead and disappeared outside.

Lindsay turned back toward the stairs, her heels clicking on the wood. She was halfway up when she heard a door open.

Damian stepped out of Naomi's room.

He was wearing his usual sweatpants and t-shirt, his hair messy, his expression soft. He looked surprised to see her—then smiled, that shy, innocent smile.

"Oh. Hey, Lindsay!"

She paused on the stairs suspiciously. "What were you doing in Naomi's room?"

"I just had a quick chat with her." He looked down at his feet, then back up. "She's still mad. But I think my apology helped her see from my perspective. Isn't that great?"

Lindsay felt a wave of relief. Maybe things weren't as bad as she'd thought. Maybe Damian really was just clumsy and awkward, and Naomi would come around.

"Yes, that's great, Damian," she said automatically. "I'm glad to hear that."

She started to move past him, but his eyes caught her dress.

He looked at her—really looked. His gaze traveled from her face down to her neckline, where the burgundy silk gaped open, and then lower, to where the fabric hugged her hips and thighs. His lips parted slightly.

"Lindsay," he said sweetly. "You look really pretty. That dress is really beautiful on you."

The warmth bloomed in her chest—sharp and sweet and automatic. But underneath it, something prickled. Why is he looking at me like that? He was nineteen. She was his foster mother. The compliment felt too intimate, his eyes too slow.

She pushed the thought away. He was just being nice. That's what he did.

"Thank you," she said, her voice a little flat.

He tilted his head, innocent and shy. "You should wear more dresses. Like, around the house. You always look so pretty in dresses. Don't you agree?"

The question hung in the air. She felt it click into place, the same way all his questions did—a key turning in a lock.

"Yes," she said. "I do look pretty in dresses."

She blinked. Did I just say that out loud? It was true—she did look pretty in dresses. But the way she'd said it, so earnestly, as if agreeing with him was the most natural thing in the world… it felt strange. Like the words had come from somewhere else.

The warmth spread through her chest, and for a moment she almost believed it. Almost wanted to wear more dresses. Just because he'd asked.

No. That's ridiculous. She shook off the thought.

Not wanting to make Greg wait, she hurriedly added, "I guess I'll… think about wearing them more."

Even that felt like too much of a concession. But she couldn't take it back.

He smiled, that bright, uncomplicated smile. "I'm glad you agree. Have fun on your date, Lindsay!"

He stepped back into his room and closed the door quietly behind him.

Lindsay stood in the hallway for a moment, her hand on the banister. Her heart was beating a little too fast. Why does he keep looking at me like that? Why do I keep saying yes to things I don't mean?

She shook her head, grabbed her purse from the hall table, and walked out the front door. Never mind that. It wasn't important. Greg was going to throw a fit if they missed their reservation. She hurried downstairs.

Greg was waiting in the car, engine running. He smiled when she slid into the passenger seat.

"Ready?"

"Ready."

She buckled her seatbelt and tried not to think about the way Damian had looked at her. The way his question had made the answer just… appear in her mouth. The way she'd half-agreed to wear more dresses even though every sensible part of her knew it was weird.

She was going to have a good night. She deserved a good night. She pushed the thoughts away and let Greg take her hand as he pulled out of the driveway.