“I made coffee,” I say. “Do you take it the same way I do? Elspeth’s special?”
“Always liked it that way.”
“Good answer,” I say and pour.
He takes the mug, sniffs. “This is a lot of cinnamon, yeah?”
“Just a pinch.”
He sips, fights a smile, loses. “Not terrible.”
I put a hand to my heart. “Your generosity overwhelms me.”
“That’s what I’m known for.”
The toaster situation is trickier. It’s the kind of ancient that probably belonged to my grandmother’s grandmother, Dorothea. I turn the dial to a cautious setting and watch the coils glow. The bread edges curl and crisp. I pull the lever when the smell shifts from warm to warning.
“Don’t breathe over it like it’s a bomb,” Wells says. “You’re hovering.”
“And you’re loitering.”
With a huff, he moves to the far side of the table. I set a plate in front of him, then mine across from his. Eggs, toast, a spoonful of Mirabelle jam from the back of the fridge. Two forks. Two knives. Two napkins folded better than my mood.
He eyes the plate. “You don’t have to bribe me. It’s not gonna sway my decisions about the property.”
“It’s not a bribe. I’m trying to be a person who contributes. If I’m living here for upwards of sixty days, I can’t sit around and wait for things to happen.”
He tries the eggs and doesn’t make a face. Encouraging.
I take a bite of toast and crunch too loudly. He lifts a brow.
“I like it like this,” I say.
“Like what? On the edge of carbon?”
“It’s called texture.”
“Sure,” he says as he reaches for the jam. He passes me the jar without being asked. The motion is easy, thoughtless, and it warms me more than the coffee.
We eat. It isn’t silent, exactly. The house has its own sounds—the kettle’s soft breath, the radiator’s polite knock, the clock in the parlor insisting on being heard through the walls. Wells drinks his coffee in steady swallows and keeps glancing at the bandage on his hand.
“How’s it feel?” I ask.
“Like I tried to shake hands with a lawnmower.”
“We should rewrap it after breakfast.”
“We?” He chews, considers. “You planning to fail upward into nursing?”
“Again,” I murmur, “I’m contributing to the household.”
I take a big bite of eggs so I won’t say something reckless. He watches me pretend the fork is fascinating. When I’ve proven I won’t jab him with it, he sets his mug down with a quiet click.
“Ground rules,” he says.
“For the kitchen? I only scrubbed the pan with a sponge, no soap.”
“I mean for us,” he clarifies. “I propose we don’t talk about the committee outside of official meetings. No designation arguments over breakfast, lunch, or dinner. You want to discuss it, bring it to the agenda. Otherwise, the house gets to stay the house I’ve come to know and love.”
