Cora-James POV
I loved Pa's room, not that I would ever admit it out loud.
Just something about it that always made me feel better on a bad day.
The room was small. Warm. Cluttered.
Books lined every surface. Stacked on the nightstand. Piled on the dresser. Spilling from the shelves. Half-finished cups of tea sat among them, gone cold.
A single window faced the garden. The curtains were faded. Worn.
The bed was unmade. The quilt was old. Patched. Soft.
It smelled like him. Like paper and ink and something earthy. Something safe.
It was the room of a man who had given up on appearances long ago.
And against every urge that screamed to stay nested in Pa's arm, I pulled away.
What am I doing? I'm not seven anymore in pig's tail crying to my Pa at any slightest heartache.
My face was wet. My nose was running. I looked like a mess. I felt like a mess. Fuck.
"Damn," I muttered, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. "When did I turn into a watering pot?"
