It went well

Chapter 6 - Like father like daughter

Samantha balanced on the chair, two nails pinched between her lips, hammer gripped in her left hand.

"Brg mm the lites," she commanded, voice muffled.

Natalie lifted the strand of wires.

As Samantha took them, she caught Natalie staring at her long, polished legs.

*tzk* Samantha clicked her tongue, nearly swallowing a nail. "Eyesh hup herr."

Natalie blinked, giggled, and muttered, "Sorry."

Samantha rolled her eyes, hammered the last two nails at even intervals, then wound the LED wire around them in neat loops.

"Curtains next." She hated the apartment's metal blinds—the kind that screamed "rental" and couldn't be swapped out—so she'd brought her own.

Natalie nodded and hauled more boxes across the floor.

They spent the morning transforming the place: clothes folded into the open closet, exotic lava lamps glowing under strips of purple LEDs that stretched from kitchen to living room, their light shimmering in a slow, hypnotic gradient that felt like gravity dragging the eye downward.

A Sisters of Mercy poster hung above the sofa, flanked by three plushies: a dark-red unicorn with an eyepatch, a pink-and-black rabbit crisscrossed with stitch scars, and Kuromi in a black dress, tiny ribbon on her left ear.

"Pass me the batsticks," Samantha said. "They'll crown the bed nicely."

Natalie handed them over without a word.

The room lacked color except for those glowing accents. It carried a surreal, almost regal atmosphere.

"Not bad, huh?" Samantha said, stepping back with hands on hips.

Natalie smiled; longingly wanting to wrap her hands around those hips as well. However, she recognized the style—echoes of Samantha's own bedroom—but kept that to herself.

"That'll do for now," Samantha added.

Natalie collapsed the empty boxes and tucked them by the door. "You hungry?!" She yelled across the apartment.

Samantha emerged from her room, surprised. "You can cook?"

"I picked up a few recipes. Bacon and eggs isn't rocket science."

Samantha's stomach growled; she'd forgotten breakfast entirely. "Sureee."

The pan hissed as bacon crisped. Eggs fried in the leftover grease. "Gives them extra saltiness," Natalie explained.

"Aha," Samantha said, already scrolling her phone.

Natalie felt a small sting of disappointment but pushed it aside.

A couple seconds later the coffee machine gurgled. Samantha popped in two pods, set two mugs beneath the spout.

Soon steam curled upward, mingling bacon fat and dark roast in the air.

Natalie slid a plate across the table with a soft scrape. "Here."

Samantha stared at the arrangement: two sunny-side-up yolks and three bacon strips forming a lopsided smiley face. She opened her mouth for the obvious sarcastic jab—

Then caught Natalie's face: bright, hopeful, hanging on approval.

"Cute," Samantha said instead. She took a bite. "Delicious, even."

Natalie's grin outshone the morning sun slanting through the new black curtains.

She remembered her mom arranging breakfast like this when she was little—two eggs for eyes, bacon strips curled into a goofy smile. Back then, it had felt embarrassing, especially as she hit her teens, but now it stirred a quiet comfort. Even though she got into many arguments with her mom; breakfast was always done lovingly, it was like the only constant, only way the two woman were capable of finding a middle ground.

Why did growing older mean judging the things that once made you happy? The simple joys that lit up your world as a kid—did they really expire with age?

Her mind drifted to the fallout with her mother, the endless arguments that had frayed their bond like worn rope. And her father's quiet support when she'd decided to move out of town for college, his steady presence amid the chaos. She'd always felt like the rope in a tug-of-war between them, pulled taut until she feared she'd snap.

It started with that one day, years ago, when she was just a wide-eyed kid. A brown Ford cruised down the highway, radio blasting some old rock tune her dad loved. Natalie bounced in the passenger seat, excitement buzzing through her like static. Her father glanced over, then back to the road. "You do as I say, okay? Don't touch any papers. Greet my colleagues politely. That's all. Got it?"

Young Natalie nodded vigorously, admiring him from the corner of her eye. His cool agent jacket, the gadgets clipped to his belt, the ID badge tucked into his shirt pocket—it all screamed adventure. She pressed her face to the window, watching the world blur by. "When are we thereee?"

"Soon," he sighed, cranking the radio up two notches to drown out her impatience.

Her mom was away on a business trip, the babysitter had called in sick, and her dad couldn't leave her home alone. So, against his better judgment, he brought her to work. The Ford pulled up to a clinker-bricked building that looked like any ordinary office—nothing flashy, no parked police cars or sirens or flashing lights like in the movies.

He took her small hand in his calloused one and led her inside. "Good morning, Jared," the receptionist greeted, her smile warm. She leaned over the counter for a better look at Natalie. "And who do we have here? She's as adorable as you described."

"Mhr mhr!" Jared cleared his throat awkwardly.

The woman chuckled and returned to her paperwork.

As they walked down the hallway, Natalie glanced back. "She was nice."

Her father grunted.

"You weren't," she added, tilting her head up at him.

To that, he laughed—a rare, genuine bark that made her giggle in response. "Don't worry about it" he said, ruffling her hair, though his cheeks flushed a bit.

The day unfolded in a whirlwind of adult mysteries. Hands were shaken, introductions made. Natalie was shuttled between rooms, given crayons and paper to doodle on while her dad handled "important detective work."

She was kept at arm's length from the real grit—escorted out whenever voices dropped low or files were spread across tables. All she grasped was that her father was a hero: searching for lost people to rescue, or chasing down the bad guys to catch.

The office smelled of fresh printer ink, stacks of paper, and endless pots of coffee—surprisingly cozy, like a secret clubhouse. She was glad for the stolen time with him; weeks could pass without seeing him, sometimes even a month when cases pulled him under. Those absences stung, but that day made her feel chosen.

It took years for her to understand the weight he carried. The nights he came home unwashed and hollow-eyed, cases unsolved or revelations too horrific to shake off. She'd resented him in her teens—ignoring his calls, slamming doors—blaming him for not being there. But when she realized his work wasn't abandonment, just duty, the guilt hit hard.

Choosing to follow in his footsteps embarrassed her at first, a reminder of how she'd treated him. Yet it made him prouder than ever. "I was a teenager once too," he'd said with a wink. Having his daughter walk his path felt like legacy.

Her mother, though? Not thrilled. *She comes after you. It's unsafe. Did you let her watch too many detective movies?* The words still echoed, laced with disapproval. Natalie could never pinpoint why her mom saw her as competition, an enemy from the cradle. No heart-to-hearts, no reconciliations—just a bitter scar that fueled her drive. She'd prove herself, climb to commissioner one day, if only to silence that doubt.

"Earth to Nat," Samantha said, annoyed.

Natalie blinked back to the present. "Sorry—what were you saying?"

Samantha's expression soured further. "Your classes next week. What are they?"

Natalie checked her phone. "Sociology and Criminal Justice."

Samantha's eyes widened for a split second before she masked it. "Really? How come?"

Natalie hesitated, then answered simply. "I guess I stepped into my father's shoes."

Samantha chewed slowly. "How boring."

Natalie looked out at the sunlit street and smiled faintly.

"Yeah... I know."