Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Charity
The last few days blurred into an easy rhythm—morning coffees in the cottage, Lucky trailing us like a furry shadow, small lessons slipped between moments.
I’ve taught him tiny pieces of the life he never got to have—easy mornings, shared silence—and I’ve watched in awe at how naturally he steps into them.
He’s taught me how to read a subway car before I step onto it.
We stay busy enough that the heat between us simmers instead of detonates, but it’s there—constant, humming, impossible to ignore.
It’s late morning, and my hands won’t stay still.
I unzip the inside pocket of my tote and check the folded bills Draco made me count last night.
His rule echoes: inside pocket or not at all.
I almost slipped money into the outside slot this morning without thinking.
Even now, I hear his voice correcting me.
Lucky noses my knee as if to say, don’t forget. I rub behind his ear. "Back soon, Lucky." His tail thumps once in solemn agreement.
Draco waits at the cottage door, jacket on, gaze steady. He can tell I’m nervous, so he steps forward and walks beside me. We lock up and cut along the treeline toward the road, slipping out quietly so no one notices us heading to the train.
The October air bites sharp. On the train platform, I want to grip the post but don’t.
Instead, I stand with my shoulder an inch from his.
Breathe like we practiced: in four, out six.
He doesn’t touch me, just shifts so I’m shielded when the crowd presses close.
He always knows where the pressure will come from.
"Where are we going?" I ask once we board.
He names a neighborhood I've only heard about on the news. The doors close. My heart kicks. Away we go.
The streets smell like coffee, metal, and something fried. Music hums from open doors. A mural of teeth and flowers swallows a brick wall whole. A kid on a scooter carves around us like water. I feel like I’m walking inside a pulse.
"Here," Draco says, steering me toward a storefront painted matte black. Rat Queen Vintage. A bell tinkles when we step in.
Leather. Dust. Bergamot. Maybe a million stories.
Racks crowd close—military jackets, shredded tees soft as secrets, velvet dresses dark as midnight. A clerk with a lip ring and a shirt that reads "pay artists" sees us, then grins. "Welcome. Sizes are suggestions. Try whatever calls you."
Whispering, I say, "Nothing calls me yet. I don’t know how to choose."
I edge between the racks, fingers brushing fabrics. A black top with a slashed neckline catches my eye, silver grommets glinting on the shoulder. I lift it, surprised at my own boldness. Draco doesn’t direct me—he just watches, quiet and steady, as if waiting for me to recognize myself.
I turn to Draco, half-expecting him to laugh at my choice. Instead, he tips his chin toward a row of long velvet dresses that look like they've lived through history. "There are pretty things here. But pretty isn’t the point. Who are you when you’re not performing as the perfect daughter?"
The words strike harder than I want to show. "I don’t know."
"Then we find out," he says simply.
I browse through the shop, looking first, then touching textures and fraying hems. I grab a pair of checkered pants because the fabric feels sturdy, not polite.
A jacket—soft leather, lived-in. At the counter by the jewelry, a thin chain with a tiny silver star calls to me. I snag it with one finger.
As I wander, Draco picks up a battered toy sword from a clearance bin, balancing it in his hand. "Too light," he mutters with a half-smile, before setting it back. The clerk doesn’t notice, but I do. It feels like a wink, like he’s letting me glimpse something he’ll never name.
The mirror in the tiny booth is too close. The top slides on; the neckline bares my throat like a dare. The pants hug firm. The jacket whispers against my skin.
My pulse hammers in my throat, breath catching. Who am I if I pick myself?
I pull the curtain back.
Draco goes still. Not frozen—present. His eyes trace me once, then hold my face.
"Turn," he says lightly.
I turn. The mirror shows someone I half-recognize. A woman who might say yes.
He steps close, lifts the collar with his thumbs, adjusts it. My skin wakes everywhere. He doesn’t linger. Just nods once. "Better."
The clerk reappears with ankle boots and a chain belt. "These boots are religion."
I laugh, shaky but real.
Draco crouches to lace them when my fingers fumble. His knuckles graze my ankle. My whole body takes note. When I stand, the floor feels different. I feel different.
At the counter, I unzip the inside pocket of my purse and count out the smaller bills. My hands don’t shake. Draco watches my count, not the money, and nods once when I’m done.
"Wear the jacket out?" the clerk asks.
I look in the mirror, not at Draco, and hear my own voice: "Yes. Please."
They cut the tags and slip them into the inner pocket. I smooth the leather at my sides like armor.
We duck into a CD shop with a sandwich-board that reads "Touch Everything". It smells of plastic and time. Draco flips through cases until he finds an album: a woman screaming into a mic on the cover. "She sings until the whole room feels different."
"I don’t know her."
"You will." He glances at me with a faint curve to his mouth. "Your collection starts somewhere. And I want to watch what happens to you when you play it loud." The thought of his unflinching, approving gaze on me makes my chest tighten and my pulse quicken.
I pay for it, the bills crisp against my fingers.
On the curb outside, I buy a pretzel and break it in half, steam puffing into the air. Draco accepts his share, salt clinging to his rough fingertips. I smile. "Strange how something this plain can taste so good."
He snorts, biting off a corner. "Because it’s real. Honest. That makes it better."
Mustard dribbles down my wrist, and Draco shows me how to fold the waxy paper so the mustard doesn’t drip.
I memorize the trick and can't help wondering about his life.
I want to know everything he's ever done, every thought that's flown through his mind.
But I would no more ask intrusive questions than flap my arms and fly to the moon.
Across the street, a corrugated door yawns open, spilling sparks and metallic sounds into the air. A man in goggles welds inside. I can’t look away.
"You keep watching," Draco says, tilting his chin toward the door.
"I like… making things." My voice goes thin. "Metal. Fire. It’s interesting."
He doesn’t press, keeps his gaze on the door, and not me. "When you’re ready, you’ll tell me more." After a beat, he adds, "The sound of hammer and spark—it’s always the same. Work. Creation. Survival."
Something in me softens.
We don’t talk much on the ride home, the rhythm of the train filling the silence. By the time we cross the familiar paths of the estate, twilight is deepening.
Back at the cottage, Lucky launches himself at my knees. Draco rubs his chest until Lucky sighs like an old king and collapses on his boots.
I dig an old CD player out of the small closet still filled with some of my sister’s things that no one thought to remove. Dust puffs when I set it on the counter. The CD slides in. The speakers crackle alive. The woman screams, then sings like she’s on fire. Something in me stands taller.
I shift my shoulders once. My hips answer. Not performance—agreement.
Draco watches with his head slightly tilted. "You move freer already," he says. "Like the music unties you." He doesn’t grin. He just gives that complete stillness that means keep going if you want.
Something in me opens.
We cook eggs with too much cheese and eat standing at the counter while Lucky stares like he’s never been fed. When Draco’s sleeve brushes my arm, I don’t flinch. The heat moves through me like sound in a struck glass. His breath hitches, quiet but certain. Recognition.
"Tomorrow," he says, rinsing bowls. "You pick a place."
"For what?"
"A place you choose. Somewhere you want to stand and say this is mine."
My face heats. I think of the locked building at the edge of the property. I hear myself say, "Maybe."
"Maybe is good," he says. His expression shifts—something I can't quite read, but somehow softer than before.
My boots strike the gravel with a sound I know belongs to me. In my tote, the change rustles where it should—in the inside pocket. Safe. Waiting. Mine.