Page 35 of Carnival’s Playground

AVERY

Sunlight cuts through the gap in my curtains when I wake up, warm and golden striping filters across the blanket like the morning's trying to apologize for last night. Carnival's still here, arm heavy across my waist, breathing slow and even against the back of my neck. For one second I just lie there and let myself feel it—the weight of him, the warmth, the fact that he stayed. My chest feels tight, but in a good way, like something's finally settling into place after weeks of chaos. Like maybe I'm allowed to have this. "You're staring at the wall like it owes you money," he mumbles, voice rough with sleep, and I feel more than hear the rumble of it against my shoulder blades.

"I'm thinking," I inform him, twisting around to face him.

"Dangerous habit before coffee," he teases, cracking one eye open.

"Everything about me is dangerous before coffee," I warn.

"Noted," he chuckles, low and easy, and then he leans in and kisses me slowly, unhurried, like we've got nowhere else to be, like there isn't a saboteur running loose somewhere out past the fence line. Like this is normal, like we do this every morning, and maybe that's what scares me most—how much I want it to be.

"Morning," I finally breathe out against his mouth.

"Best one I've had in longer than I want to admit," he murmurs, brushing a thumb along the apple of my cheek. We lay there a while longer, tangled up, trading small kisses and quieter touches, his hand tracing lazy patterns along my spine, mine curled against his chest where I can feel his heartbeat, it’s steady and sure. It's the kind of quiet I'm not used to. The kind that doesn't feel like it's waiting for the other shoe to drop. The kind that makes me nervous because I don't know how to trust it yet.

"I should make coffee before I fall back asleep," I announce, forcing myself to sit up.

"I'll take some of that," Carnival requests, stretching until his spine pops.

I climb out of bed, throw on one of his flannels because it's warmer than anything I own, and pad barefoot to the tiny kitchenette while he watches me from the bed like he's got all the time in the world to just look. It should feel invasive. It doesn't. It feels like something I could get used to, and that terrifies me.

"You've got a good stare," I accuse, pouring water into the pot.

"Been told," he admits.

"By who?" I press, glancing over my shoulder.

"Nobody worth mentioning," he assures me.

"Convenient answer," I mutter, though I let it go for now.

I bring two mugs back to the bed, hand him one, and settle in beside him with my back against the headboard, his arm looping around my shoulders like it belongs there. Like we've done this a hundred times before instead of just once.

"Can I ask you something?" I venture, watching the steam curl off my mug.

"Go ahead," he encourages.

"Where'd you grow up?" I ask. "Real answer. Not the road name version."

"Small town outside Amarillo," he reveals, staring into his coffee like it's easier to talk to than me. "Dad worked on oil rigs, came home twice a month if we were lucky. Mom raised me and my sister mostly on her own."

"That sounds hard," I gently offer.

"Was what it was," he shrugs, though there's something tight in his jaw that says it cost more than he's letting on. "I left home at seventeen. Bought a bike with money I saved doing odd jobs, and I never really stopped moving after that."

"Why'd you leave?" I carefully ask.

"Didn't fit there," he confesses. "Never fit anywhere long, if I'm honest. Carnivals and circuses were the first places that didn't make me feel like I had to explain myself."

"And now?" I press.

"Now there's a woman who threatened me with a tool belt and somehow made me want to stick around," he admits, glancing sideways at me.

"That's twice you've said that line," I point out.

"Because it's still true," he counters, sounding unbothered.

I nudge him with my shoulder, and he laughs, low and warm, wrapping his arm a little tighter around me. It feels easy, natural, and I'm still waiting for the part where it gets complicated.