Agnes
The scent of garlic and tomatoes greeted us as we stepped inside the house later that evening. Elijah was already at the stove, stirring a pot of what smelled like spaghetti sauce with the white sleeves of his button-down rolled up to his elbows, exposing his muscular forearms. He looked up as we entered and smiled.
“There are my girls,” he said warmly, and I felt my stomach turn to molten lava at the tender phrase. “How was your day?”
Thea hesitated, looking sheepish.
“What happened?” Elijah asked, noticing her strange look.
I sighed, giving Thea a reproachful look. “Thea got into a fight at school. She punched a boy in the nose.”
Elijah’s eyebrows shot up. “You what?”
Thea gulped audibly. Haltingly, she explained herself, wringing her hands the whole tim
