I turn to find Elle standing on a chair beside one of the old station guys, absolutely sharking him with the kind of concentration usually reserved for chocolate chip pancake negotiations.
“She learned from watching Tucker gamble during playoffs,” Fletch says.
Tucker whacks him in the arm. “That is slander.”
Elle sinks the ball badly enough it bounces off two rails before dropping into the corner pocket anyway, and she throws both arms into the air triumphantly while the entire side of the room cheers like she’s won the Stanley Cup.
And for a second, I swear I can almost hear Colt in the middle of it.
Laughing hardest out of everyone.
Chapter twenty-eight
That terrible, beautiful feeling
Penny
The coffee machine hums low while I stand at the counter packing Elle’s lunch. Apple slices and pretzels, plus one of the little yogurt pouches she likes because apparently the tube makes it “taste more fun.”
My still ache when I twist too fast, and every now and then, a cough catches deep enough in my chest to remind me exactly what smoke feels like on the way down.
Gus lifts his head from his sleep when Elle thunders down the hallway in mismatched socks. “Penny, where’s my library book?”
“No idea,” I answer automatically, sealing the lunchbox. “Did you check the coffee table?”
“Yes.”
“Did you actually check it?”
There’s a pause.
“…no.”
I huff out the closest thing to a laugh I’ve managed in a few days, and she disappears back toward the living room.
Down the hall, a door creaks. A few seconds later, Evan appears in the kitchen doorway wearing grey sweats and a station shirt, hair sticking up on one side from sleep. His face still carries that rough, exhausted look grief leaves behind, and there’s a fading bruise disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt that catches me right in the throat every time I see it.
His eyes find me immediately. They always do.
Without saying anything, he crosses the kitchen and slides one arm around my waist from behind, pressing a sleepy kiss against my shoulder while he reaches for the coffee pot with the other hand.
“Morning,” he mutters.
The familiar comfort of him settles around me instantly, and I realize how much it’s a necessary part of my day now. His warmth, his hands. Just him.
“Morning.”
His fingers drift absently beneath the hem of my hoodie, palm flattening against my stomach. He’s been doing this frequently—holding onto me for a second before fully waking up, and I lean back into him.
That’s the problem. Everything inside me still reaches for him automatically.
“You’re supposed to be in bed still,” I murmur.
“So are you.”
“I’m making Elle’s lunch.”
“You’re putting snacks into a container,” he corrects, voice still raspy with sleep. “Very different.”
