She’s moving without thinking, swaying faintly to the music as she butters toast and packs Elle’s lunchbox with the kind of unnecessary detail that’s become routine.
Penguin-shaped sandwiches are lined up neatly, and fruit is threaded onto skewers. There’s a folded note with a doodle readyto be tucked carefully into the corner pocket. Gus thumps his tail against the cabinet, hoping one of the two of them will feel sorry for him and sneak him a snack.
Elle is half kneeling on a chair at the counter, narrating every memory she’s ever had.
“And then you put the blueberries on the top because that’s where the eyes go and Daddy always forgets the eyes—”
“I do not forget the eyes,” I say from the doorway.
Both of them turn. Elle beams, and Penny blinks once, then smiles and tries to stifle it by pressing her lips together.
“Morning,” she says lightly.
“Are you critiquing my penguin pancake technique already?” I ask.
“She’s been taking notes,” Penny replies, sealing the lunchbox. “Apparently you’re weak on facial symmetry.”
“That was one time,” I mutter.
“It was three times!” Elle corrects.
Penny reaches for the coffee pot, pouring some into a mug and handing it to me.
“It’s hot,” she says, as our fingers brush.
“I like it hot.”
She glances up with an amused look. “Convenient, given your profession.
I’m not talking about fire, and she knows it. Her eyes hold mine and only move when Elle slides off the chair.
“Penny, can I have my hair in the bunches today?”
“Of course you can,” she replies.
Elle makes a noise of excitement, then barrels into her side, hugging her around the waist, and Penny responds by wrapping an arm around her automatically. She holds her own coffee in her other hand gently, out of harm’s way.
It’s seamless. The way Penny fits here, the way she adjusts to my kid without even thinking.
Elle skitters off to get dressed, and Penny turns back to the counter to finish packing her lunch. She tugs the sleeves of my hoodie up absently with her teeth, then goes back to slicing strawberries.
I try not to watch her.
I fail.
“Coffee’s strong,” she says casually, clearly aware I’m watching. “Thought you might need it after your late night.”
“I’m fine.”
Her mouth curves slightly. “Mhm.”
That sound does something low and warm in my gut, and I step around the kitchen island and close in behind her. She turns as I do, and I take the knife from her hand, setting it down on the counter.
“Did you sleep?”
“Enough,” she murmurs, her eyes flicking over my face. “Did you?”
“Not really. Too many thoughts running through my mind.”
