Sophie grinned. “We have grilled cheese. Dad burns it, but I scrape it.”
For the first time, Owen smiled.
Nathan didn’t know what truth waited ahead. But something had already shifted.
The drive was quiet. Sophie whispered in the backseat. Owen listened more than he spoke, memorizing turns, flinching at sirens, folding his empty paper bag neatly.
Nathan told himself this was caution, not dread. But memory stirred anyway—rain on pavement years ago, a woman beneath a flickering streetlight, coat too thin.
He tightened his grip on the wheel.
At the penthouse, Owen hesitated at the doorway, as if he’d stepped into someone else’s life.
“You can take your shoes off,” Sophie chirped. “The floor’s cold, but friendly.”
They ate soup. Owen moved carefully. A faint scar marked his eyebrow. Sophie talked enough for both of them.
“Can I show him my room?” she asked.
They disappeared down the hall. Soon laughter drifted back—Owen’s laughter. Real.
Nathan swallowed and sent a message to his assistant asking for information on shelters and local services. Responsible. Reasonable.
When they returned, Owen held one of Sophie’s stuffed animals gently. “I’ll give it back.”
“I know,” she said.