Careful not to rush or assume. Careful not to build something he might decide he shouldn’t have started.
Reckless, because I want him to anyway.
“Is Daddy home soon?” Elle calls.
“Soon,” I call back.
Soon.
***
The front door opens just after seven, with the familiar scrape of it catching slightly before it shuts. Elle’s head pops up from the couch, my heels dangling off her toes.
“Daddy!”
He steps inside with that end-of-shift heaviness he never complains about, boots thudding once on the mat before he toes them off. His hair’s flattened slightly from the cap he’s had on, and he runs his fingers through it lightly.
“Hey, bug,” he says, tossing his cap onto the table on the way through.
He spots me over her head a second later. It’s subtle, the way his gaze pauses, then travels down my body and up again.
“Smells good in here,” he adds, bending to kiss Elle’s head before she runs back into the living room.
“Saved you some,” I say, nodding toward the stove. “It’s still warm.”
He steps into the kitchen, close enough that I catch the faint trace of smoke and clean station soap clinging to him. His hand brushes mine when he reaches for a plate, and neither of us comments on it.
Elle patters in toward him, her flannel penguin pajamas wrinkled, and my silver heels clacking loudly against the floor.
“Look!” she announces proudly, pointing to her feet.
He looks down, then up, then back down again.
“You’re about six inches taller than you were this morning,” he says dryly.
“I know.” She beams. “Penny let me.”
His eyes flick to me at that, because Elle’s still in my heels, but I am very much not in penguin pajamas.
My tight black jeans hug my hips and thighs, and the light blue top I have on feels flimsier now that he’s standing in front of me. His gaze catches briefly on the black velvet choker at my throat before lifting again.
“You’re gonna freeze, Pen,” he says, as though that’s the most pressing issue in the room instead of a damn compliment.
I blink at him. “Excuse me?”
“It’s cold out,” he clarifies, already reaching for the fridge. “You can borrow a jacket.”
I fold my arms loosely. “I own a jacket.”
“You’re not wearing one.”
“I’ll survive,” I shoot back.
He glances over his shoulder at me, his eyes moving down my body. “You won’t.”
There’s a small spark under his tone, and I feel the challenge of it.
“I’ve survived colder,” I say lightly.
