I'm not leaving, Firefly. Not this time. Not ever.
"Bedtime, piccola." Angelina's voice cuts through gently. "Go brush your teeth. I'll be up in ten minutes."
"But I wanted to ask Mr. Cole more questions."
"Tomorrow. Teeth. Now."
Chesca sighs with the dramatic weight of an eight-year-old being denied critical intelligence.
"Fine." She gathers her papers, then pauses at the bottom of the stairs to look back at me. "You'll still be here tomorrow?"
The question lands somewhere in my chest and stays there.
"I'll be here."
She nods once, satisfied, and disappears upstairs. Her footsteps creak across the ceiling, then the bathroom faucet runs.
The kitchen goes quiet except for the sauce bubbling on the stove.
I think about how stilted dinner was when Angelina goes upstairs. Chesca's chatter about her spelling test filled most of the silences, her questions providing cover for the tension neither Angelina nor I acknowledged. Normal, almost. If you didn't know to look for the way her hands trembled when she passed the bread, or the way she flinched when headlights swept across the window.
Normal, almost. If you didn't know to look for the way her hands trembled when she passed the bread, or the way she flinched when headlights swept across the window.
Now the house settles into evening quiet. Angelina clicked off Chesca's light twenty minutes ago.
It's just us.
Angelina stands at the sink, hot water running and dish soap bubbles multiplying across the surface. She grabs a pot and starts scrubbing like she's trying to erase something that goes deeper than tomato residue.
Whatever Adrian did, I hope it hurt less than that pot.
I pick up the towel, position myself next to her. Close enough that my arm brushes hers when I reach for the plate she sets in the drying rack. She shifts away. Not enough to be obvious, but enough that I notice.
Touch aversion. Not with Chesca. She held her daughter earlier without flinching. Just with me. Or maybe just with men.
What did he do to you?
"He's going to be in your courtroom." I keep my voice low, even. The voice of a strategist presenting analysis, not a manwhose blood is running hot with protective fury. "Every day of the trial. Watching you."
Her shoulders tighten. "I know."
"He's associate counsel. Not a witness passing through." I let that sit. "Weeks. Months, if Harrison keeps filing continuances."
"I'm aware of how trials work, Cole." The words come out brittle. "I do run a courtroom."
I dry another plate, set it down. "This doesn't concern you?"
She scrubs harder. "I can handle Adrian."
"How?"
"The same way I've handled everything else." Her words come out sharp. "Alone."
The distance between us feels wrong. Forced. Like she's working twice as hard to maintain it as she would if it came naturally.
I move closer. Not threatening, but not giving her space either. Her breathing changes. Shallows.
"You're not alone anymore."