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Mel enjoyed the warmth of fresh laundry. He noticed last autumn when she wrapped herself in a freshly warmed flannel before unloading the dryer. Langdon filed it under an honest mistake the first few times; he wouldn’t miss the shirt anyway.
Months go by and more go missing—fine by him, she needs all the comfort she can get during finals. He catches her again a year later. By now, Mel has more flannels than birthdays—nineteen flannels to be exact.
Langdon forgives easily since the hemline falls right under the curve of her bare ass. She also bites the sleeves when she’s concentrating particularly hard. So endearing and adorable. All the more reason to let her take.
She’s a sweet girl, always smiling, always laughing at a joke after she catches on, always complimenting strangers. Too kind and proper. Funnily enough, he offers her three of her own for Christmas and receives half-hearted gratitude. It isn’t until he sneaks her kiss goodnight that he discovers why. Neatly folded away in a box under the bed was a collection of them, all worn and thoroughly loved.
“Sorry about those,” Mel whispers in the quiet of her bedroom. It’s still nearly empty despite a year since she moved in, only a poster and some candles. “It gets chilly up here.”
He’d offer to turn up the heating or buy her thicker blankets but everything new seems to prick at her. Maybe she chases familiarity, something to calm the shifting winds. After all, it had been 14 months since he had wed her mother. Kids need time to adjust.
“Keep ‘em, I got plenty more.” Not a loss if they cure her loneliness, he figures, though he should offer her a better solution soon, something more permanent. For now, he bids her goodnight with another kiss to her lips. “Goodnight, Melissa.”
Then, from under the covers, a giddy g’night, daddy.
Christ, he could get used to this.