Valentine is 22 and just graduated college with a PHD in Child Development. After her parents died on her birthday and she was thrown into the foster system she developed a passion for kids and their mental capacities.
Her life was regular to her n...
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She woke up to the smell of coffee.
Not the instant kind she'd been making for herself since he left. The real kind. French press. Beans from the freezer. Water heated to the exact right temperature. Only one person made coffee like that in this house.
Valentine lay there for a minute, hand on her belly, staring at the ceiling. Her face was swollen from crying. Her pillow was still damp on one side. Her body felt wrung out, like someone had taken her emotions and twisted them like a wet towel until nothing was left.
But he was still here. She could hear him in the kitchen. Cabinets. A mug on the counter. The fridge opening and closing. Moving through the space the way his body had always moved through it. Like muscle memory. Like home.
He'd slept on the couch. She knew because she'd come out at 2 a.m. for water and seen him there, shoes off, blanket pulled to his chest, jaw tight even in sleep. She'd stood in the hallway watching him and almost said something. She didn't.
That was old Valentine. The one who almost said things.
She got up. Washed her face. Brushed her teeth. Pulled her hair into a bun and walked to the kitchen.
Quincy was leaning against the counter with a mug in his hand. Same clothes from last night, slightly wrinkled. He looked up when she came in and his eyes dropped to her belly for half a second before meeting her face.
"Morning," he said.
"Morning." She poured herself water instead of coffee. He noticed.
"Since when do you skip coffee?"
"Doctor said half a cup max. I already had my half yesterday."
"So you been following doctor's orders."
"I've been trying."
He nodded. The silence sat between them for a few seconds. Not comfortable. Not hostile. Just two people standing in a kitchen that used to be theirs trying to figure out what language to speak this morning.
Valentine set her glass down. "Do you want to sit? I feel like we should talk."
"Yeah," he said. "We should."
They moved to the living room. She took the armchair. He took the couch, the same spot he'd slept in, and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. The blanket was already folded. His shoes were by the door. He'd cleaned up after himself like a guest.
She hated that. He wasn't a guest. This was his house.
"I want to start," she said.
He raised an eyebrow. That was new. She could see him register it.
"Okay."
She took a breath. Not a dramatic one. Just a real one. The kind you take before you say something that costs you.
