Dayo let himself in with the key Luna had given him two weeks ago. It still felt heavy in his pocket, heavier than any hotel keycard or executive access fob. The apartment smelled like vanilla and something warm from the oven, a domestic combination that always stopped him at the door for half a second. He wasn't used to places that smelled like someone actually lived in them.
He found Luna in the living room, cross-legged on the rug, wearing an oversized shirt and leggings, her hair pinned up with a pencil. Jennifer was propped against a cushion nearby, wearing a onesie with small elephants printed on it, smacking a plastic block against the floor with the focused intensity of a demolition expert.
"Hey," Luna said, not looking up. She was trying to coax Jennifer into a sitting position that the baby had already decided against. "You're late."
