“Hey, bug,” she said. “You ready to come home with me?”
“Where’s home?” I asked.
“With me,” she said. “That’s all that matters.”
Her house felt like a different planet.
Peeling wallpaper.
Books stacked everywhere. The permanent smell of cinnamon, old pages, and laundry detergent. The floor creaked in exactly three places.
That first night, she made pancakes for dinner.
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