The first few dinners with Curtis were quiet.
Not awkward—just… careful.
He would sit at the edge of his chair, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to take up space. His massive hands—those same hands that rebuilt engines and carried grief for years—rested gently on his knees like he was afraid of breaking something.
Lisa, of course, erased that …
👇 👇 👇 👇 👇
