Chapter Six
The apartment still smells faintly like pancakes when the alarm goes off. Syrup sticks to the edge of the table because Bella insisted on pouring it herself last night, and I never got around to scrubbing it off. She laughed the whole time, mouth shiny with sugar, and I told myself that was what winning felt like—papers stamped, Bella officially mine, our tiny celebration before the world crept back in. I hold on to that thought while I tug open the blinds and let in the thin morning light.
“Shoes,” I call, stuffing a granola bar into Bella’s backpack. “And jacket. It’s colder than it looks.”
“I know,” she sing-songs from the bedroom. She comes out hopping on one foot, blonde hair already escaping the braid I tied a minute ago, green eyes bright. “Do we still have whipped cr
