“Come!” he said
softly. “Let’s go. My pad is just round the corner.”
As she locked the
street door, even though she wasn’t looking at him, she was conscious of him
next to her, his presence solid and … male …. yet not her father. Good.
Reassuring. Comforting. Fitting.
His flat was
big. Almost as big as the whole house
she and Luke shared. It was on the top
floor of a Victorian or Federation house, with tall windows looking out on the
street outside.
“Sorry for the
mess,” he apologised.
She shook her
head. There were clothes on the sofa,
and small piles of books everywhere, as well as bookcases made of bricks and
planks. It felt like home, warm,
accepting, unjudging, happy.
She felt unshed
tears ready to fall. Home. This was what a home was like, not the prison
she’d grown up in. The walls here
weren’t scented with fear and pain. She
swallowed hard. She would not cry. She would
not.
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