The grocery store parking lot shimmered with heat, waves rising off the blacktop in visible ribbons. Nadine killed the engine and sat for a moment, letting the air conditioning wash over her skin one last time before she stepped out into the late afternoon sun. The house was still visible in her rearview mirror, white clapboard heat-warped and peeling, and she watched it for a beat too long, thinking about the quiet rooms inside, the way the afternoon light fell across Jim's bed, the things that had happened there while Sara worked her shifts.

She shook her head and grabbed her purse. Dinner. She was here for dinner.

The sliding doors parted with a sigh and the cool hit her like a blessing, fluorescent hum and the smell of clean produce and floor polish. She grabbed a cart, the wheels catching on the tile, and let herself drift. Tonight mattered. Sara's husband Marcus was coming home after two weeks away, and Sara wanted everything perfect—a real meal, not their usual thrown-together pasta. Nadine had offered to handle it. It gave her something to do with her hands.

She moved through the produce section first, testing avocados with her thumb, letting her gaze wander over the tomatoes. The cart filled slowly: greens, lemons, garlic, a bag of new potatoes. She was reaching for a bunch of asparagus when her phone buzzed against her thigh, the vibration sharp through the thin cotton of her sundress.

She pulled it out. Sara's name glowed on the screen.

Nadine swiped it open, thumb smearing a smudge of dirt across the glass.

Marcus just texted. He's bringing a colleague from the trip. David. So we'll be 5 tonight. Hope that's okay!

Nadine read it twice. A colleague. David. Five for dinner instead of four.

She stared at the words, the asparagus still dangling from her other hand. A small thing, really. An extra chair at the table. One more plate. But something in her chest shifted anyway, a low ripple of anticipation she couldn't quite name. She hadn't expected anyone new. The whole point of these three weeks had been the opposite of new—an old friend, a quiet house, a boy she'd taught to be a man.

She typed back: Of course. What does he like?

The reply came almost instantly. No idea. Just make something good. You're the artist.

Nadine smiled despite herself and pocketed the phone. She looked down at her cart, then back at the rows of wine. She added a second bottle of red without thinking, then a third, and told herself it was just good hosting.

David. The name rolled around in her head as she pushed the cart toward the butcher counter. She didn't know anything about him—not his age, not his face, not whether he'd be charming or dull or somewhere in between. But the word colleague conjured a man in a rumpled suit, a man with ink on his fingers and stories in his eyes. She caught herself smiling at nothing and looked away, embarrassed by her own imagination.

The butcher wrapped the lamb chops without ceremony, white paper and twine, and she added them to the cart. She moved through the aisles mechanically, gathering what she needed: cream, butter, a bag of coffee beans, olives for the salad. Her phone buzzed again on the way to the checkout.

Marcus lands at 5. Should be home by 6:30. You're a lifesaver.

Nadine glanced at the time on her screen. Four-forty. She had less than two hours to get back, unpack, and start cooking. She slid her phone into her purse and joined the queue, watching the stranger ahead of her load his groceries onto the belt with practiced efficiency. She wondered, briefly, if she'd recognize David when she saw him. If he'd look the way she'd already started to imagine.

The cashier scanned her items with a flat, tired rhythm, and Nadine paid, swiping her card and signing the little screen with her fingertip. She bagged everything herself, plastic handles cutting into her fingers, and carried it all out into the dying heat of the afternoon.

The parking lot had thinned since she'd arrived. She loaded the trunk, the crinkle of plastic bags loud in the quiet, and paused for a moment with her hands on the latch. The heat pressed against her bare shoulders. A man was walking across the lot toward a silver sedan, tall, dark-haired, his back to her, and for a split second her breath caught—something about the set of his shoulders, the way he moved.

Then he turned and she saw his face. A stranger. Just a stranger.

She exhaled, not sure why she'd been holding her breath, and closed the trunk. The name echoed in her head anyway as she slid into the driver's seat and started the engine. David. She didn't know a single thing about him—not his age, not his face, not whether he'd be charming or dull or somewhere in between. But the word colleague conjured a man in a rumpled suit, a man with ink on his fingers and stories in his eyes. She caught herself smiling at nothing and looked away, embarrassed by her own imagination.

The drive home was short, the roads quiet. She pulled into the driveway and killed the engine, sitting for a moment in the sudden silence. The house looked the same as it always did—white clapboard, peeling paint, the porch boards rough underfoot—but tonight it felt different. Charged. Like the air before a storm.

She carried the groceries inside in two trips, setting the bags on the kitchen counter and surveying the damage. The kitchen was a warm, cluttered space, all worn wood and copper pots, and it smelled faintly of the rosemary she'd dried and hung above the stove. She tied her hair back with a rubber band from her wrist and got to work.

The lamb went into a marinade of garlic and rosemary, the potatoes were scrubbed and halved, the salad greens torn into a bowl. She moved through the tasks with the ease of long practice, her body finding its rhythm, but her mind kept drifting back to the text still glowing in her memory. Five for dinner. A stranger at the table.

She was whisking the vinaigrette when she heard the front door open, and Sara's voice called out, warm and tired, "I'm home!"

"In here," Nadine called back, not looking up from the bowl.

Sara appeared in the kitchen doorway a moment later, still in her scrubs, her auburn hair escaping its ponytail in wisps. She dropped her bag by the door and crossed to the counter, peering at the spread with an appreciative noise.

"You're a goddess. This looks incredible."

"It's just dinner."

"It's more than just dinner." Sara reached past her and stole an olive from the salad bowl, popping it into her mouth with a grin. "Marcus texted again. They're about twenty minutes out."

Nadine nodded, whisking a little harder. "So tell me about this David."

Sara shrugged, leaning against the counter. "I don't know much. They've been working together on some project for the last few months. Marcus says he's sharp. A journalist, I think. Writes for one of the big papers."

"A journalist." Nadine kept her voice neutral, but something in her stomach tightened. "That's interesting."

"Is it?" Sara's eyes were sharp, knowing. She was a nurse; she'd seen a thousand things people tried to hide. "You're not usually this curious about Marcus's coworkers."

"I'm not curious. I just like to know who I'm cooking for."

"Mm-hmm." Sara's smile was insufferable. She pushed off the counter and headed for the hallway. "I'm going to grab a shower before they get here. You'll survive?"

"I'll manage."

Nadine listened to Sara's footsteps fade up the stairs, then stood alone in the kitchen, the whisk still in her hand. The vinaigrette had emulsified into a pale gold emulsion, and she stared at it without seeing it. A journalist. David. She had no reason to feel anything, and yet the word kept snagging on something in her chest.

She finished the salad, set the table with five place settings instead of four, and was just sliding the lamb into the oven when she heard the crunch of tires on gravel outside.

Her hands stilled on the oven door.

Voices drifted through the open window—Marcus's deep, familiar laugh, and another voice, lower, smoother, a voice she didn't recognize. She wiped her hands on her apron and crossed to the window, peering out through the screen.

Marcus was getting out of the driver's side, already loosening his tie, his salt-and-pepper hair catching the evening light. And on the other side of the car, straightening up from the passenger door, was a man who made her breath stop.

He was tall. Lean, but not skinny—the kind of frame that looked like it had been built for movement, for long walks and longer days. His hair was dark, tousled, falling over his forehead in a way that looked careless but probably wasn't. His face was sharp, all angles and shadows, with a jaw that could have been cut from stone and eyes that were gray, the color of a winter sky, and they were looking directly at the window. Directly at her.

Nadine's hand went to her chest, where her heart was suddenly pounding hard enough to bruise.

He saw her. She knew he saw her, because his step faltered for just a fraction of a second, and something passed over his face—surprise, maybe, or recognition of a kind she couldn't name. Then Marcus said something, and he looked away, and the moment was gone.

Nadine stepped back from the window, her hand still pressed to her chest. Her skin felt hot, too hot, and she was suddenly aware of everything about herself—the flour dusting her forearms, the sweat on her brow, the way her sundress clung to her curves.

She had imagined him a hundred different ways in the last two hours. She had not imagined him like this.

The front door opened, and she heard Marcus's voice fill the house—"Sara! We're here!"—and then footsteps in the hallway, and then they were in the kitchen doorway, both of them, and the air went thick and still.

"Nadine!" Marcus crossed to her and kissed her on both cheeks, his hands warm on her shoulders. "God, it's good to see you. Sara says you've been holding the fort down."

"Something like that." Her voice came out steadier than she felt. She smiled, and it felt real enough. "Welcome home, Marcus."

"Thank you. And this—" He gestured to the man behind him, who was standing in the doorway with his hands in his pockets, watching her with those gray eyes. "This is David. David, this is Nadine. She's Sara's oldest friend. And apparently our chef tonight."

David stepped forward, and she caught the smell of him—coffee and printer ink, something warm and papery underneath. His hand was cool when he took hers, his fingers stained dark at the tips, and his grip was firm, deliberate.

"Nadine." He said her name like he was tasting it, like he was cataloging it for later. "Marcus didn't mention you."

"He doesn't mention much." She smiled, and she saw something flicker in his eyes. "It's nice to meet you, David."

"The pleasure's mine."

His hand lingered a half-second longer than necessary before he let go, and Nadine felt the absence of it like a missing step on a staircase. She turned back to the oven, grateful for something to do with her hands, and heard Marcus's voice behind her, asking about drinks, about Sara, about the house.

She answered on autopilot, her body going through the motions of hospitality while her mind replayed the look in his eyes—gray, sharp, missing nothing. He was a journalist. He was trained to see things. And she had the sudden, dizzying sense that he had seen her, all of her, in that single moment at the window.

"I'll get the drinks," she said, and fled to the fridge, her hands trembling just slightly as she pulled out the wine.

The lake was a sheet of glass that afternoon, the water so still it held the sky upside down. Jim stood at the edge with his toes curling into the mud, watching Laura wade out ahead of him, her blonde ponytail swinging against her bare shoulders. She turned back to him, water up to her waist, and laughed.

"Are you coming in or are you just going to stand there looking at me?"

He grinned and dove, the cold hitting him like a slap, and came up shaking water from his hair. She splashed him and he splashed her back, and for a while they were just two kids in a lake, the whole world reduced to the span of her smile and the glint of sun on wet skin.

She swam a few strokes ahead of him, easy and smooth, then flipped onto her back and floated, arms spread wide. "You swim so well," she said, her voice carrying across the water. "I want to be as good as you."

"You're already good."

"Not like you." She righted herself, treading water, and looked at him with that earnest expression she wore when she was serious. "Will you teach me?"

"Teach you to swim?"

"Mm-hmm." She drifted closer, her feet finding the sandy bottom. "I mean, not today. Today I just want to be with you."

The words landed somewhere in his chest, warm and unexpected. He ducked his head, smiling at the water, and when he looked up she was closer still, close enough that her toes bumped against his under the surface.

"Today I just want to be with you too," he said.

She beamed. Then she pushed off the bottom and launched herself at him, and he caught her, her legs wrapping around his waist, her arms around his neck. The water sloshed around them. She was light and solid all at once, and the smell of her—sun and lake and something floral—filled his head.

"This is nice," she murmured against his ear.

"Yeah." His hands found her waist under the water, thumbs pressing into the soft skin above her bikini bottoms. "Really nice."

She pulled back to look at him, water beading on her lashes. Her green eyes searched his face for a moment, and then she kissed him, slow and sweet, the lake lapping at their chins.

They stayed like that for a long time, bobbing in the shallows, trading lazy kisses and half-finished sentences. She told him about her mother's roses, how she'd learned to garden from watching her, how the pink ones were her favorite because they reminded her of Sunday mornings. He told her about the summer he'd spent learning to dive off the old dock, how he'd been terrified of the deep end until his father had simply picked him up and thrown him in.

"He didn't!"

"He did. Said I'd either swim or sink, and I chose to swim."

She laughed, her head tipped back, and the sound echoed across the water. "I like your dad."

"He's alright." Jim shrugged, but he was smiling. "He's away a lot. Work stuff. But he's a good dad."

"My mom's gone." Laura said it simply, without drama. "She died when I was twelve. It's just me and my dad now."

The words settled between them, heavy but not sad. Jim didn't know what to say, so he just held her a little tighter, and she let him.

"That's why I like the roses," she said after a moment. "They're like her. Still growing, even though she's not here."

He kissed her forehead. It felt like the right thing to do. She closed her eyes and leaned into him, and they floated together in the quiet water.

Eventually the sun shifted, the light turning gold and long across the lake. Laura shivered, her skin goosebumped, and Jim felt it too, the water turning cool against his warming body.

"We should get out," she said reluctantly.

"Yeah." He didn't move.

She laughed and pushed off him, swimming for the shore with clean, efficient strokes. He followed, slower, watching the way her body moved through the water, the flex of her shoulders, the kick of her legs. She was beautiful. He still couldn't quite believe she was his.

They dried off on the blanket, the late afternoon sun warming their skin. Laura sat with her knees drawn up, her towel wrapped around her shoulders, and watched him pull his shirt over his head. He caught her looking and felt a flush of pride, standing a little straighter.

"What?" he said.

"Nothing." She smiled, secretive. "Just looking."

They dressed in comfortable silence, the kind that comes easy between people who are learning each other. She folded the blanket and he carried the empty basket, and they walked back along the path through the trees, the lake disappearing behind them.

The walk to her house was short, past the hedgerow and up her driveway, the gravel crunching under their feet. Her house was smaller than his, painted white with blue shutters, a garden that had gone a little wild at the edges. The pink roses were still blooming by the porch.

They stopped at the front door. Jim set down the basket and turned to her, and she was already looking at him, her green eyes bright in the fading light.

"Thank you," she said. "For today. It was perfect."

"You don't have to thank me." He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling suddenly shy. "I had a good time too."

She stepped closer, close enough that he could smell the lake on her skin, the faint floral of her shampoo underneath. Her hand came up to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

"Come over tomorrow," she said. "Two o'clock."

His heart kicked. "Tomorrow?"

"Two o'clock," she repeated. "My dad works Saturdays. We'll have the house to ourselves."

He understood what she was offering. The words hung in the air between them, bright and terrifying and wonderful. He swallowed.

"Okay."

"And Jim?" She tilted her head, a small smile playing at her lips. "You should stop by the pharmacy before you come."

His face went hot. "Yeah. I was planning to—"

"And don't you dare buy only two."

He blinked. "What?"

"You heard me." Her smile widened, mischievous. "Two isn't enough. Not for what I have in mind."

His mouth went dry. She stepped back, still smiling, and put her hand on the doorknob.

"Tomorrow at two," she said. "Don't be late."

The door closed behind her. Jim stood on the porch for a long moment, his heart hammering, the echo of her words ringing in his head. Then he turned and walked home on legs that didn't quite feel like his own.

The house came into view, warm light spilling from the kitchen windows. He could hear voices inside, his father's deep laugh, his mother's answering tone. He paused at the back door, suddenly aware of how he must look—damp hair, lake-dried skin, a grin he couldn't quite suppress.

He took a breath and went in.

The kitchen was full of people. His mother was at the stove, her auburn hair loose around her shoulders, and his father was uncorking a bottle of wine at the counter. A man he didn't recognize stood by the window, a glass in his hand, and Nadine was at the fridge, pulling out a bowl of salad.

She looked up as he came in, and something flickered across her face—a smile, quick and private, gone before anyone else could see it.

"There he is," his mother said. "We were starting to wonder if you'd been eaten by a fish."

"Sorry." He ran a hand through his damp hair. "Lost track of time."

"I bet you did." His mother's smile was knowing. "Laura's a lovely girl."

Jim felt his face heat. "Mom."

"What? I'm allowed to say nice things about your girlfriend."

His father laughed and crossed to him, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "Good to see you, son. Looks like the lake treated you well."

"Yeah." Jim ducked his head, smiling. "It was a good day."

"This is David," his father said, gesturing to the man by the window. "He's been working with me on the project. David, this is my son, Jim."

Jim crossed to him and shook his hand. David's grip was firm, his gray eyes sharp as they took him in. "Nice to meet you," Jim said.

"Likewise." David's gaze flicked to Nadine, then back to him. "Your father's told me a lot about you. He says you're quite the swimmer."

Jim shrugged, embarrassed. "I'm alright."

"He's being modest," his father said. "He's been on the school team for years."

"Well." David smiled, a dry, crooked thing. "Maybe you can give me some pointers. I'm more of a desk man myself."

"Sure," Jim said, and meant it. He liked David already, the easy way he carried himself, the way he didn't seem to be trying to impress anyone.

Nadine set the salad on the table and brushed her hands on her apron. "Dinner's ready if everyone wants to sit."

They moved to the table, a bustle of chairs and napkins and the clink of glasses. Jim found himself seated across from David, with Nadine at the other end, next to his mother. His father sat at the head, carving the lamb with practiced ease.

The conversation flowed around him—work, the trip, some story about a delayed flight that made his father laugh—and Jim let it wash over him, his mind still half at the lake, still replaying Laura's words. Don't you dare buy only two.

He felt a kick under the table and looked up. Nadine was watching him, her whiskey-brown eyes warm with something that might have been pride. She gave him a small, almost imperceptible nod.

He smiled back, just as small, just as private. Then he reached for the bread and joined the conversation, the evening settling around them like a warm blanket.