Chapter 13 Striking Distance #2
“We… money was… tight. What we did have, my dad spent on things that weren’t keeping the fridge stocked. And my mom didn’t work, so we relied on government assistance. Some months, it was enough. Some months, it wasn’t.”
Her thumb traced the rim of her glass, absently, the motion grounding.
“I learned young that food wasn’t guaranteed,” she continued, her voice measured as though recounting someone else’s story.
“We had stretches where dinner was whatever could be scraped together from the back of the pantry. And stretches where there was nothing to scrape together at all.”
A pause.
“I knew real hunger.”
The words settled in the space between them, quiet but weighted.
“Not the kind where you forget to eat lunch and feel a little shaky after. The kind that sits in your stomach for days until it stops feeling like an ache and starts feeling like… nothing.”
Penny stayed silent, but Arden felt the weight of her attention, not just hearing, but absorbing every word.
A slow breath escaped Arden, her throat constricting around memories that refused to stay buried.
“My grandparents were good people,” she added after a moment, steering the conversation toward something easier to hold.
“They tried. But I wasn’t allowed to go to their house—my dad made sure of that.
So they came to me when they could. Sometimes when he was at work, sometimes when… he wasn’t around.”
Her fingers traced the rim of her glass again.
Penny didn’t ask what that meant. She just waited.
“They’d bring us groceries, tell me stories, try to make me feel safe in a house that never was. I used to beg my mom to leave him. I thought maybe… while he was gone, she’d see a way out. That we could start over without him.”
She let out a slow breath, eyes flicking toward the window as if she could see that younger version of herself, waiting for a decision that never came.
“But she never did,” Arden said, voice steady but quiet. “By the time I hit my teens, my grandparents were already gone.”
Gone.
The word was too small for something so earth-shattering.
Penny adjusted the blanket, curling her legs under herself with a sleepy sigh. “And after that?”
Arden forced a smile, one that barely reached the surface. “After that, I figured it out on my own.”
Silence settled between them.
Penny didn’t push.
Didn’t prod for more.
Just sat with it—the way real friends do.
Then, finally, Penny sighed.
“Just so we’re clear—if I ever get access to a time machine, I’m going back to throw hands.”
A laugh slipped out before she could stop it—quick and surprised.
She grinned like she'd just called dibs on chaos. “I’m serious,” she said, pointing at Arden like she meant business. “I’ll come in swinging like a pint-sized gremlin and make everyone uncomfortable.”
Arden shook her head, smiling despite herself. “That, I would pay to see.”
“You joke, but I’m scrappy.”
“I believe you.”
With a sweeping gesture worthy of theater, Penny raised her glass. “Well, cheers to found family, then. Because, for the record, you’re stuck with me now.”
Arden rolled her eyes, but her chest felt a little less tight.
She lifted her own glass. “Stuck with you, huh?”
“Absolutely. No take-backs.”
Their glasses clinked, and for the first time in a long time, Arden let herself believe it.
Maybe Penny was right. Some family was chosen.
Maybe Arden wasn’t as alone as she thought.
Penny shifted, reaching behind one of the throw pillows.
“Oh—by the way, a package came for you.”
Arden blinked. “For me?”
“Yeah.” Penny dug it out and passed it over. “Didn’t check the label, figured it was something boring, but it’s got your name on it. Came this afternoon.”
Arden set down her glass, frowning as she took the small parcel. No return address. Just her name, neatly printed in a clean font.
She peeled the tape back, heart ticking a little faster for no good reason.
Inside, nestled in pale tissue, sat a bottle of Mon Guerlain.
Her signature perfume.
A new bottle—sleek and familiar. Identical to the one on her dresser, almost empty now.
Arden stared at it.
“I didn’t order this,” she murmured.
Penny glanced up from the last bite of naan. “Maybe you did and forgot? You’ve been… elsewhere, lately.”
“Maybe.” Arden turned the package over, searching for some kind of explanation, an invoice, a card, anything.
Nothing.
She studied the delicate etching across the glass, lingering longer than she meant them to. The scent was right. The bottle was right.
Everything about it was right… and that’s what unsettled her most.
“I mean, it’s your usual, right?” Penny asked, half-lounging again. “Could’ve been a freebie from somewhere you ordered before.”
Arden nodded slowly as she carefully set the bottle on the coffee table, like it might shift or shatter if she looked away.
“Yeah. That’s probably it.”
But the lie clung to her skin, heavier than it should have.
He didn’t get to see her this time.
That was the part he hated most.
Every other moment—every gift, every message—he’d been there.
Watching her breath hitch.
Watching the question bloom behind her eyes.
But now...
He could only imagine—her turning the box in her hands, searching for something. A receipt. A note.
Proof that this wasn’t a mistake.
But there wasn’t one.
That was the point.
It was perfect.
Almost.
Next time, he wouldn’t settle for imagination.
This gift. Her perfume—Mon Guerlain.
Warm jasmine, wild lavender, smoldering vanilla.
A storm softened into something wearable.
Not sweet. Not innocent.
A scent like her—strength cloaked in softness, sharp where no one expected it.
The bottle itself was a tribute to everything she didn’t realize she was.
Strong lines and curves. Elegance made physical.
Feminine, yes. But unyielding.
Like flame poured into glass.
He could see the moment she hesitated.
Her fingers slowing over the gold adornment, her gaze narrowing.
She didn’t remember ordering it.
She would brush it off.
She would tell herself it was nothing.
But already, it was a part of her.
She would wear it.
She would move through the world wearing him. And no one would know.
No one but him.
That was the beauty of it.
She wouldn’t see it as a message. Not yet.
But it was one.
Not a warning.
A promise.
She was his.
Not to own.
To understand.
He hadn’t touched her. He didn’t need to.
She was breathing him in.
She would think of him and not know why.
Feel watched and wonder.
Because he was there.
Moving through her life like breath through a flame. Gentle at first. Invisible. Patient.
His Little Fire.
Not fear.
Not obsession.
Recognition.
She was rare.
And what was rare had to be protected—studied, cherished, claimed.
So he sent her the only thing worthy of her skin.
And soon, she would understand.
Not because he said it.
Because she’d feel it.
In the quiet.
In the dark.
In the way the world shifted when she moved through it.
She would come to see it for what it was. Not a gift. A bond.
She didn’t know it yet.
But she would.
And when she finally saw what he saw—what he’d always seen—everything else would fall away.