He moved to stand beside me at the stove, close enough that I could smell his woodsy body wash and feel the warmth radiating from his shoulder. His hand reached past me to move the bag of bread away from the burner, where the plastic had started to melt.
"You always fix stuff like that?" I asked, flipping the bacon.
Something unreadable flickered behind his eyes. "It's easier than cleaning up a mess I could've prevented."
The words were simple. Soft. But they landed heavy.
I wanted to ask what messes he'd prevented, what messes he'd cleaned up—the kind that happened at corporate cesspools, the kind middle management swept under the rug. But the question felt too close to my own wreckage.
Instead I cracked an egg into the pan, watching it sizzle, and gestured at his shirt with the spatula. "That where you grew up?"
He leaned against the counter beside me, mug cradled in both hands. "Born and raised in Marin County, just across the Golden Gate Bridge. Stayed close for college to save on student loans."
"You're a long way from San Francisco." I poured the scrambled eggs into the second pan, letting the silence stretch like an invitation.
He sipped his coffee slowly, like he was deciding how much to share. "I worked as a paralegal at a law firm there. That's where I started working for Victoria. When some shit went down last winter, we all started looking for other work." He paused, watching me stir the eggs. "Alex Clarke—one of the senior associates who grew up here in Saratoga—decided to move home. Invited us to come with him and start a law firm."
"And you just... left?" I slid the spatula under the bacon, flipping each piece with more focus than necessary. "Left your whole life?"
He tilted his head, his eyes softening. "I needed a fresh start."
The bacon popped and hissed. I wanted to ask what he was running from, whether it was something he'd done or something done to him. Whether a fresh start ever really worked, or if you just carried all your shit to a new zip code.
"What did you—"
"Oh my god, do I smell bacon?" Teresa's voice boomed from the hallway.
Connor
Teresapaddedintothekitchen dressed in black pants and a fitted polo with an embroidered spa logo, her pastel pink hair catching the morning light.
She stopped short when she saw me. “Connor, I didn’t know you were back.”
“Hey,” I said, straightening and adjusting my glasses. “I texted you.”
She patted her pants for her phone, then shrugged. “Must’ve missed it.” Her gaze bounced between Hannah and me, assessing. “I see you’ve met my sister?”
Looking between them, I wondered how I missed it. They had the same bone structure, same fair skin, similar height. But where Hannah pulled her blonde hair back in a practical ponytail and moved with quiet efficiency, Teresa’s pink hair and easygoing nature filled the space with wilder energy.
How had I lived with Teresa for six months and never known she had a sister?
“Yeah, I introduced myself,” I said.
“Technically you didn’t,” Hannah said. “You just mansplained your drink.”
“I can’t be blamed for my exacting specifications,” I replied, and warmth bloomed in my chest when her mouth quirked up.
Teresa hopped onto the counter beside the stove, her eyes ping-ponging between us with growing interest. “Wait, did you two know each other in New York or something?”
My attention sharpened. “You lived in New York?”
“Until April,” Hannah said, too casually.
“She's being modest," Teresa bragged. "She worked on Wall Street."
“No, I workednearWall Street. You make me sound like an investment banker,” Hannah’s voice came out crisp, almost defensive.
“It wasnearCanal Street,” Teresa said with a playful grin. "All I cared about when I visited was Gucci knockoffs and that incredible dim sum place."
