The wooden floorboards of the second-floor hallway didn't creak, but Nina still stepped like she was walking on eggshells. It was ten o'clock at night. She'd spent forty-five minutes humming a nameless melody while Ethan slowly let go of his grip on her index finger, his dark eyelashes finally fanning out over his cheeks in deep sleep.
Watching him drift off always did something strange to her chest, a tightness that felt equal parts tenderness and fear, as if loving a child who wasn't technically hers might break her heart in ways she wasn't prepared for.
She'd stopped trying to name the feeling weeks ago. It was easier to simply let it sit there, unexamined, than to ask herself what it meant that she'd started thinking of his small hand in hers as something precious rather than something temporary.
She pulled the door shut until the latch clicked softly, letting out a long, silent sigh of relief. She turned around, and slammed straight into a wall of solid charcoal wool.
