Colt claps my shoulder as he walks past. “Don’t forget next Tuesday. First game of the Maplewood Cup.”
Fletch grins. “Six p.m. sharp for the annual humiliation of the PD—don’t be late to the rink, or I’m telling Elle you switched teams.”
I roll my eyes but nod and make a mental note to remind Penny.
By the time day shift ends, my body feels heavier than it did this morning. My shoulders ache in that dull, familiar way that means I’ve worked hard, but didn’t lose anyone.
We had two more calls—one a false alarm, the other a small kitchen fire that could’ve been worse if someone hadn’t been home. Nothing catastrophic, but enough to remind me why the job doesn’t let you coast.
I drive home with the window cracked, cool air cutting through the lingering scent of smoke.
Most nights, I brace before I turn into the driveway. Even when Miss Mabel was here—and she was solid, the kind of woman who always had tissues in her cardigan pocket—the house ran on a different rhythm. She was brilliant with Elle. Patient and warm, but the energy was older and quieter. More grandmotherly.
So by the end of a shift, there were usually half-finished puzzles on the table and laundry mid-fold. Some leftovers in the fridge for reheating because she and Elle would eat earlier than my arrival.
I turn the key in the front door and step inside. The scent of garlic and herbs hit me first, and there’s music playing softly in the background—not loud and obnoxious this time, but enough to fill the gaps in between the low murmuring of happy voices.
Shoes are lined up by the door, and Elle’s school bag is hung properly on its hook. I walk into the living room, immediately noting the laundry folded in neat stacks on the arm of the couch.
Before I can process it properly, Elle slams into me.
“Daddy!” She collides with my legs, wrapping her arms around my waist. “Guess what happened?!”
I drop my bag and lift her easily, breathing in the faint scent of shampoo and playground dirt.
“What happened?”
“I remembered where the drink bottles go, and Cora didn’t steal my window seat, and everyone liked my sandwich, and Mrs. Patel said my handwriting got better!”
“That’s a lot for one day,” I tell her with a grin.
“I told you I’d be brave,” she says proudly. “And my sandwich was famous.”
“Famous?”
“Mhm! Two people asked for a bite.”
Over her shoulder, I see Penny in the kitchen. She’s at the stove, sleeves pushed up, wooden spoon in hand. She’s clearlygiving me and Elle a moment to say hi, but then she looks up at me and smiles.
“Perfect timing,” she says. “Go wash up, dinner’s ready.”
I set Elle down, and she sprints toward the bathroom while I step further inside and take in the room properly.
“You don’t have to cook every night,” I say before I can stop myself.
Penny’s brows pinch slightly. “Okay?”
“I’m serious.”
“And I’m serious too—I wanted to.”
“Yeah, well, you don’t need to play house.”
The words sit ugly in the kitchen the second they leave my mouth, and her hand stills on the spoon.
“I’m making dinner, Evan. Not auditioning for wife.” She looks back down at the stove, jaw tight for half a second.
I scrub a hand over the back of my neck. “That’s not what I meant.”
