CARLA I stepped out of my bedroom, the floorboards cold against my bare feet, and the scent of sizzling butter hit me before I even reached the hallway. I didn't need to check the time to know my mom was not home. She’d been pulling double shifts at the clinic for a week, trying all her best to build a future for us. I used to think her version of a future was as bleak as her taste in fashion, or anything but two weeks ago, that changed. I rounded the corner into the kitchen and stopped dead. Blake was right there standing by the stove, his back to me. He was shirtless, wearing nothing but a pair of low-slung grey sweatpants that clung to his hips in a way that should have been illegal. He was flipping an egg with a spatula, his movements fluid and precise, like he was a professional chef in some five-star kitchen instead of a guy making breakfast in a suburban ranch house. The morning sun streamed through the window, catching the sheen of sweat on his skin. Every time he
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