Page 94 of Cinder
I cut the engine and sit there for a second, hands still on the wheel. The quiet presses in after the radio static and the sirens, and the woman’s voice climbing angrily in that living room. The kid’s face flashes behind my eyes, and the way he held that bear like it was something solid in a room that wasn’t.
I rub a hand down my face and exhale, then grab my bag and head inside. The door clicks shut softly behind me, and Gus makes his way over to me with a lazy wag of his tail.
“Hey, bud,” I whisper, giving him a gentle pat, which seems to satisfy him before he pads back to his bed.
The house is clean and warm and lived in, and the air smells faintly like whatever Penny cooked earlier, mixed with the scent of bubble bath.
My boots come off by the mat, and I toss my hoodie over the back of the chair in the dining room before moving down the hallway to check on Elle.
Her nightlight glows against the wall when I silently pad into her room, but her bed’s empty. My stomach drops for half a beat before I remember—when I’m late, she migrates. Always has. Used to crawl into my bed until I got home.
I turn toward my room and see the door’s cracked open, a sliver of hallway light cutting across the floor. I push it wider with my knuckles, careful not to let the door creak.
Elle’s sprawled across the middle of the bed, one leg thrown over Penny’s hip. Her penguin stuffie is tucked under her chin, and her mouth is open, breathing deep and even.
Penny’s curled toward her. One arm bent, hand resting near Elle’s back like she fell asleep mid-sentence. Her blonde hair falls half across her face, the other half fanning out around her like a halo. There’s still space on the other side, too.
Mine.
The thought lands way too fast, and I step back from it immediately, instead settling to just stand there, watching them. After a call like that, something usually lingers. A tightness in my chest and an urge to lock everything down before it gets messy.
Especially after tonight. After walking into another house where a kid was trying to make himself small while the adults around him fell apart. That it’d remind me why lines exist. That, after tonight, after hearing another addict swear everything was fine while their kid sat terrified, this would feel reckless somehow.
But standing here now, looking at Elle tangled across the bed with Penny curled around her like she’s been part of this house for years instead of weeks, the noise in my head starts to dull around the edges.
All I hear is Elle’s steady breathing. All I see is Penny’s hand curved at her back, thumb resting just beneath her shoulder blade.
I step closer to the bed and tug the blanket up over Elle’s shoulder, where it’s slipped down. She stirs but doesn’t wake, and Penny shifts with her, fingers fanning out instinctively, protective even in sleep.
The image of Dylan curled into that couch still sits heavy, but my daughter is sprawled across my bed, and her world is safe.
And that’s the problem, because Penny’s become part of this house so quietly, I didn’t even notice it happening. She fits here.
The thought washes over me again, and my chest tightens, as though my heart wants to shove it back out before it settles too deep.
I back out of the room before I stand there any longer, thinking about things I shouldn’t. About how natural this looks and how comfortably Elle sleeps beside her. How easy it would be to get used to this.
How badly I already have.
The shower runs hot, and I stand under it longer than I need to, letting the heat pound against the back of my neck until my pulse slows. But it doesn’t do much about the thoughts still swirling.
Penny asleep in my bed, Elle curled into her side, and the feeling that hit me when I saw them together. The space on the other side for me.
I dry off harder than I need to, hoping that’ll somehow scrub the thoughts loose too, then I grab Elle’s blankets from her bed and move into the living room, dropping onto the couch.
My hair’s still damp as I lean back and get comfy. I place a forearm over my eyes and wait for the images of the call to replay the way they usually do.
They don’t.
Chapter fourteen
I don’t blur lines for the hell of it
Penny
Iwake slowly, tangled in warmth and weight and the faint, steady rhythm of breathing that isn’t mine.
It takes a second to remember where I am.
