Page 40

Cleo

S o this was healing. Real, true, deep healing.

It was rebirth, it was change, it was perfect.

I was still the same person, but it felt like somewhere, deep down in my deepest self, something had been opened and unlocked. It felt like for the first time since I was a kid, I could finally hear that little voice inside me, the voice that was me. The voice that decided who I was.

And that voice would help me grow.

A week. Seven days since Sanctuary, since I'd spilled every poisonous secret and watched Dex transform them into forgiveness with leather and love.

The bruises had faded to yellow-green memories, but the lightness in my chest remained.

In bed, next to my lover, my boyfriend, my Daddy , I shifted slightly, pressing closer to his warmth.

His arm tightened around me automatically.

"Morning, little one," he murmured, voice rough with sleep. His hand found my hair, fingers working through the tangles with practiced gentleness.

"Morning." I tilted my head to look at him, still amazed that I got to wake up like this.

He studied my face with those dark eyes that saw everything. "How are you feeling?"

It was a question he asked every morning now, and I knew he wasn't looking for "fine" or "good." He wanted truth, the kind that used to terrify me to speak.

"Happy," I said, and the word felt foreign on my tongue, like speaking a language I was still learning. "Really, actually happy. Is that—is that weird?"

His laugh rumbled through his chest into mine. "Not weird. Overdue."

I traced the scar on his ribs, the one from a knife fight he'd told me about during one of our evening talks. Everything between us was like that now—open, honest, nothing hidden in shame or fear. "I keep waiting for it to go away. For the anxiety to come back, for something to go wrong."

"That's normal." He caught my hand, brought it to his lips. "Trust takes time to settle in. But we've got time."

Time. Such a simple concept that felt like luxury after years of living moment to moment, crisis to crisis. Now I had time to plan, time to breathe, time to just be.

We moved through our morning routine with the easy rhythm we'd developed.

Him shaving while I brushed my teeth, me braiding my hair while he made coffee.

Domestic intimacy that should have felt mundane but instead felt like a miracle.

When he handed me my coffee—vanilla sweet cream, two sugars, exactly right—I pressed a kiss to his jaw, still amazed I was allowed to do that whenever I wanted.

"What's that smile for?" he asked, pulling me against him.

"Just thinking about how I used to make instant coffee because I couldn't afford anything else." The memory didn't sting like it used to. "Now I get real coffee made by someone who loves me."

"Damn right you do." He kissed me properly then, deep and claiming, until I forgot about coffee entirely.

By the time we pulled up to Sweet Dreams, I was running five minutes late, but I couldn't bring myself to care. Mrs. Kowalski looked up as I hurried in, and her whole face brightened.

"There's my star employee," she called out, already pouring a cup for Mr. Harrison, who liked his coffee black as midnight. "Cutting it close this morning, aren't we?"

"Sorry, Mrs. K." I tied my apron with quick movements, falling into the rhythm of morning prep. "Traffic was—"

"That handsome man of yours is traffic now?" She winked, making me blush. "Can't say I blame you. If I was forty years younger . . ."

I laughed, really laughed, as I checked the pastry cases. When had laughing become so easy? When had I stopped monitoring every sound I made, every expression, afraid of taking up too much space?

The morning rush hit like it always did, a steady stream of familiar faces and regular orders.

I moved with confidence. Mrs. Watts got her skinny latte with an extra shot before she could ask.

The construction crew's order was boxed and waiting when they walked in.

I even handled Mrs. Anderson's complicated half-caf-soy-no-foam-extra-hot situation without breaking a sweat.

"Someone's on fire today," Mrs. Kowalski observed during a brief lull, watching me restock the muffin display with efficient movements.

"Just feeling good," I said, and meant it. "Actually, I've been thinking—if you ever need help with the baking, I'd love to learn. Maybe come in early some mornings?"

Her eyebrows shot up. "You want to learn the baking side?"

"If you're willing to teach me." The old Cleo would have backtracked, would have apologized for asking. This Cleo stood straight and waited.

"I've been thinking about training someone," she admitted. "These old bones aren't getting any younger. If you can make it in at five tomorrow morning, we'll see what you can do."

Five in the morning meant leaving Dex's bed even earlier, but the opportunity to learn, to build skills that could support me—that was worth any sacrifice. I was building a future now, not just surviving each day. Plus, I knew that Daddy would support me.

"Thank you," I said, meaning it with every fiber. "I won't let you down."

"I know you won't, sweetheart."

The bell chimed, and Mr. Peterson shuffled in, punctual as always. I had his order memorized.

"Morning, Mr. Peterson," I chirped, sliding his order across the counter.

He studied me over his glasses, the way he'd been doing all week. "You're different, young lady."

"Different how?" I asked, though I knew what he meant.

"Brighter. Like someone turned a light on inside you." He patted my hand with his papery one. "It's good to see. Reminds me of my Helen when she was young. Same kind of glow."

"Thank you," I managed around the lump in my throat.

My phone buzzed as he shuffled to his usual table. Dex's name on the screen made my stomach flutter like I was sixteen with a crush.

"How's my little one today?"

I glanced around—Mrs. K was in the back, no customers at the counter—and quickly snapped a selfie. Me in my flour-dusted apron, beaming like an idiot, the coffee machine gleaming behind me. I sent it before I could second-guess the goofiness of my expression.

His response was immediate: "Beautiful. Can't wait to take care of you tonight."

My body reacted to the promise in those words.

Our evenings had developed their own rhythm—sometimes intense, sometimes gentle, always exactly what I needed.

Some nights I colored in my little space while he read to me.

Other nights he took me apart systematically in bed, rebuilding me with praise and pleasure.

Every night, I fell asleep knowing I was safe, cherished, home.

"Get back to work, little one. Don't want Mrs. K thinking I'm a bad influence."

I grinned at my phone. He was the best influence I'd ever had.

T he afternoon lull at Sweet Dreams always felt like the building was catching its breath—coffee machines quiet, display cases picked over but not yet empty, sun slanting through windows to pool on empty tables.

I was refilling the napkin dispensers, mind drifting to what Dex might be making for dinner, when a familiar voice called my name.

"Cleo? Is that really you?"

I looked up to see Elena pushing through the door, and my heart did a complicated leap of joy and nervousness.

She looked exactly the same—silver-streaked hair pulled back in a practical ponytail, kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses, that smile that had gotten me through so many dark days at the shelter.

"Elena!" I came around the counter without thinking, and she met me halfway, arms already open.

The hug felt good—she smelled like vanilla hand lotion and laundry detergent, like safety and acceptance and all those nights she'd sat with me while I'd cried over Mom. Her arms were strong and sure, holding me like I mattered, like I'd been missed.

"Let me look at you." She pulled back, hands on my shoulders, studying me with those sharp eyes that never missed anything. "Oh, sweetheart. You look wonderful. There's color in your cheeks, and your eyes—you look healthy. Happy."

"I am." The words came out thick with emotion. "I really am."

"Come, sit with me." She guided me to one of the corner tables, settling onto a stool with the easy grace of someone used to making herself comfortable anywhere. "Tell me everything. Where are you living? How's the job? That nice young man who gave you a ride that night—are you still seeing him?"

Heat flooded my cheeks. "You remember that?"

"I remember everything about my people." She reached across the table to squeeze my hand. "Especially the ones I worry about. And I worried about you, Cleo. I feel so bad that we had to let you go . . ."

"It’s okay. And I'm sorry I haven’t come by." Guilt twisted in my stomach. "I should have come by, should have let you know I was okay. I just—things were complicated for a while."

"No apologies necessary." Her squeeze turned into a pat. “I'm glad to see you landed somewhere good. This place suits you."

"Mrs. Kowalski is teaching me the baking side," I offered, pride creeping into my voice. "I start training tomorrow morning."

"That's wonderful! And the young man? Don't think I didn't notice that blush."

"His name is Dex." Just saying it made me smile. "He's—we're living together. He takes care of me."

Something flickered in Elena's eyes, concern maybe, but she must have seen something in my expression that reassured her. "Good. You deserve someone who sees how special you are."

"How's the shelter?" I asked, hungry for news of the place that had been my second home. "The families I knew—are the Hendersons still there? Did Maria's daughter ever get into that preschool program?"

Elena's face lit up the way it always did when she talked about her people. "The Hendersons got housing last month—subsidized apartment on the east side. Maria's little one did get into the program, and she's thriving. Reading already, can you believe it? At four years old."