Father.
Survivors.
“Goldie,” I said patiently, reaching for the shoe.
She narrowed her eyes.
“No shoes.”
“Your father won’t be pleased if you ruin his wedding photos.”
Her expression shifted.I finally had her attention.
Archie was wrapped around her finger in a way that should concern me more than it did.
“Really?”
“Yes.You know he’s been looking forward to this day since before you were born.”
Her mouth rounded.
Little monster.
Before I could continue, the door opened.
Archie stepped in.
And just like that, the room changed.
All these years later, and the sight of him still did something reckless to my nervous system.
He was in an impeccable black suit with a white shirt.He had ditched the tie.
His light hair was pushed back.
The scars were still there if you knew where to look.In the set of his shoulders.The occasional stillness in his eyes when memory dragged at him.
But he was whole.As whole as men like Archie ever got.
His gaze landed on me first.And stayed there.
Three years.
A child.A home.A thousand ordinary mornings.
And still… that look.Like I was the centre of every violent orbit in him.
Then he looked at Marigold.
“What’s happening, buttercup?”
Marigold pointed at the shoes.
“They’re bad.”
Archie crouched beside her immediately.
Traitor.
