She woke up deliciously warm. Sleep fell away slowly, letting her down easy, and sunlight glowed behind her closed eyes. When she blinked them open, everything was flushed with yellow, edged in soft shadows. The window was closed, but she could still smell the ocean salt outside, locked in on the balmy air from yesterday. There was a faint citrus sharpness from somewhere she had yet to find. And she took a long breath in, pushed it back out, conscious, but thoughtless.
He breathed behind her.
Her back rested against his ribs. His arm laid flat beneath her neck. She listened to him, gently waking into the strange room.
Answers served with alacrity
Kate Kearney searched: Alright, who irritated the sun?
What? Did you expect an apology or an excuse to follow that?
The boys were playing their games again.
The sun had risen, warm and inviting, after a week of hiding on the far side of the clouds, and they rushed to the surface, desperate to splash into the air, eyes shut against the blinding light. They held their breath and threw themselves high, spinning with the hands tucked around their knees before they came back down, head-first into the water. Then they swam hard, down deep, fins kicking, spilling bubbles after them, eager to cool off again.
Hiding was not always about being covered from head to toe. Sometimes it was remembering the length of her nose, and the tips of her toes, and the exact distance from ribcage to elbow. Sometimes it was measuring bone and finding the precise narrowness of her shoulders. Sometimes it was seeing a small corner and knowing that she could fold entirely inside it without an echo.
But sometimes, Jennika knew, it was just being where no one thought to look.
So, she stood on the roof, the sun tracing her outline, her shadow lying like bold black paint on the eaves, because her bones fit better there.