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Icicles bucketed down on me.

I knew what she was hinting at because I wasn’t an idiot.

Or, maybe I was, but I was an observant idiot.

“It’s just a nickname,” I said, lowering my voice.

“Are you sure?”

“What does that mean?”

Her throat rolled through a tight swallow. “Nothing.” Blinking rapidly, she swiveled back around to the sink. “Forget it.”

I reached for a dishrag and dried my hands, the mood thick with unsaid words and tension that teased the brink of imminent destruction. It wasn’t the time or place for this conversation, with our daughter and Halley a few feet away, but I wanted to know what was going through her mind. I needed to assess impending damage control and debate my next move.

Pressing forward on my hands, I stole a glance at her profile. Her doe-like features were pinched, freckles wrinkled with all the things she was too scared to ask me. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

She huffed. “That’s never ended well.”

“Whit.”

Rolling her tongue across her teeth, she dipped her head. “All that time training together,” she said softly, warily. “And then that reckless, impulsive assault on her father that I’m still scratching my head over. Now, a nickname?” Cautiously, she canted her head toward me until our eyes locked. “Tell me nothing is going on there, Reed.”

Needle-pointed guilt stabbed at me, and there was a part of me that would rather die a liar than whatever the hell the truth would make me.

But I had to find the balance.

I couldn’t give her the whole ugly truth, but it wasn’t in my nature to tell a bold-faced lie.

I set a plate down and turned around, leaning back against the counter and crossing my arms. Whitney was watching me, her chestnut eyes trying to unravel my threads, until a clearer picture was revealed. “Listen,” I began gently. “We did develop a bond during training. Of course we did. Those sessions are built upon a strong level of trust, so it’s impossible not to draw connection out of that. I care about Halley. It’s remarkable what she’s survived and what she’s capable of becoming.”

Her slender throat worked through another swallow as she continued to read me. “So, she’s like a daughter to you?”

My heartbeats sputtered, shredded tires on ice. She was trying to decipher the exact nature of the connection we shared, while desperately wanting to believe it was familial. But I couldn’t shove her in that direction. Morally, I couldn’t allow her to think our relationship was rooted in a father-daughter dynamic. “No,” I admitted. “It’s about respect. I respect her as a woman, a fighter, and a survivor.”

Whitney ran a hand through her hair, analyzing my words, studying me for a long bated breath before slowly blowing it out. Whatever expression I’d managed to school my face into seemed to have worked. And it was all true.

“Okay.” She scratched her collarbone, fidgeting in place. “Sorry for the inquisition.”

“You don’t need to apologize. You care about Halley, and I’ll never villainize you for making her best interest a priority.”

I would do the same.

I will do the same.

“I do care about her. I’ve witnessed a lot. I’ve heard her crying into Ladybug’s fur when she thinks no one is listening. I’ve seen the fear in her eyes when there’s a knock at the front door, or when the phone rings, or when I drop something and she nearly hits the ceiling. There’s been long talks where she spills her heart to me and I take her in my arms and promise her she’s going to be okay.” Her eyes watered, glinting underneath the kitchen lights. “I just want the best for her. The world has been so cruel.”

“I want that, too.” Sighing deeply, I slung one arm around her shoulders and pulled her to me. Whitney stiffened for a beat, caught off guard by the hug, until she relaxed against me and breathed a soft exhale against my chest. “You’re doing an incredible job. Those girls have all the tools to create beautiful, fulfilling lives, and that’s because of you. I hope you know that.”

She nodded. “Thank you.”

A presence moved in behind me and my skin tingled with familiarity. Letting go of Whit, I turned around to find Halley reaching into the refrigerator for whipped cream. She didn’t look at me right away, didn’t acknowledge either of us. Not at first.

But then her gaze flicked up, for just a millisecond; for the span of half a breath. Our eyes caught, and it felt as though we were breathing a thousand wayward breaths. Each one suffocating. Each one void of oxygen. The back of my neck heated, my fists clenched, and whatever piss-poor version of truth I’d led Whitney to believe only a moment ago dissolved into ashes.

Shutting the fridge door, Halley darted her gaze away from me, her posture stiff like a board, then whirled back around and flitted out of the kitchen, returning to the table.

I cupped my jaw.

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