Every nerve in my body fires at once. I spring up, adrenaline surging, and grab my cane from where it’s propped against the nightstand.
I hate this fucking thing; it makes me feel old and crippled, and it’s impossible not to fucking hobble as I use it.
But the wound’s still healing, and mornings are the worst. My leg is stiff and uncooperative, the muscle tight and angry from hours of stillness.
I hobble as fast as I can out of the bedroom and down the stairs, my mind racing through worst-case scenarios. After everything we’ve been through, from the shootouts, thebetrayals, and the goddamn severed head on my doorstep, I’ve learned to expect the worst.
My hand itches for my firearm. I’m already calculating how fast I can get to the safe in the hall closet when the pleasant smells hit me.
Pleasant smells like crisp bacon and sweet syrup and earthy coffee.
I pause at the bottom of the stairs, blinking.
“Dad! Breakfast!” Jack calls again. He must be grinning as he does; I can tell by his tone of voice.
Not an ounce of panic or fear to be heard. Just a ten-year-old boy who’s hungry and impatient and his father who’s paranoid and overprotective.
The tension seeps out of me like air from a punctured balloon. I let out a slow breath, shaking my head at myself. Looks like I don’t need my firearm after all.
I limp into the kitchen and stop in the doorway, taking in the scene before me.
Solana’s at the griddle, spatula in hand, flipping pancakes like a pro. She’s still in her PJs, collar slipping off one shoulder and her hair piled up in a loose bun.
She looks soft and rumpled and so damn beautiful, the corner of my mouth quirks.
Then there’s Tabby, who’s perched on one of the counter stools, her phone propped up against a mixing bowl, music playing from the tiny speakers. Some pop song I don’t recognize but she’s bobbing her head to it, mouthing the words.
Jack’s in the far corner, carefully pouring orange juice into glasses, his tongue poking out in concentration. He tips the carton a little too far and juice sloshes over the rim, pooling on the counter.
“Whoops,” he mutters, glancing around to see if anybody noticed.
I noticed. But I don’t say anything, my lips spreading further in a grin.
Tabby spots me first. She hops off her stool and dashes over, rising on her tiptoes to plant a kiss on my cheek. “Morning, sleepyhead! Solana was right—you really do hibernate like a bear.”
I cock a brow. “I don’t sleep like a?—”
But they’re already laughing, all three of them, and the sound fills the kitchen like music. Better than music.
Solana steps away from the griddle and crosses to me, sliding her arms around my neck. She presses a soft kiss to my lips, making me relax even further, the last of the tension melting away.
“Just kidding,” she murmurs against my mouth. “Sit down. We made some of your favorites.”
“I made the eggs!” Jack announces proudly, puffing out his chest.
Tabby rolls her eyes. “He dropped shells in them and we had to redo them.”
“It’s the thought that counts,” he protests, his face scrunching with indignation.
They open their mouths to keep bickering, but then seem to catch themselves and remember they’d decided this morning was supposed to be peaceful.
A truce is silently declared.
They return to their tasks, Tabby setting out plates and Jack mopping up the spilled orange juice with a paper towel.
I settle into a chair at the kitchen table, propping my cane against the wall.
We dig into breakfast together—eggs, bacon, toast, and a stack of pancakes Solana insists I take the biggest portion of. Jack and Tabby sip their orange juice while Solana and I nurse cups of hot coffee.
