The thought makes me smile again. I love sparring with her.
When I come back into the room, she’s standing by the bathroom doorway wearing the same clothes from last night. Her eyes are still sleepy, but there’s a spark there—one makes my chest tighten.
“Morning,” I say.
“Morning,” she answers softly. “You’re dressed.”
I nod. “Work calls.”
Her lips quirk. “Does work know you got married?”
I grin. “They’ll figure it out.”
We make our way downstairs. The smell of coffee fills the kitchen; Mabel must’ve set the pot before she left last night. I pour two mugs and hand her one. She looks at it like it’s a peace offering. Maybe it is.
“You eat breakfast?” I ask.
“Sometimes.”
“Not good enough.” I start cracking eggs. “Sit.”
She raises an eyebrow. “You cook?”
“Apparently better than you eat,” I say, sliding bacon onto a pan.
She laughs—soft, easy—and something about the sound fills the house in a way it’s never been filled before.
Over breakfast, we talk about the day.
I tell her I’ve got back-to-back meetings. She tells me she needs to check on Olga,
“Olga,” I repeat. “You’re going over there alone?”
She rolls her eyes. “I promised I’d watch her for a few hours this morning.”
“You’re supposed to be packing,” I remind her.
She gives me a look over her mug. “You mean for the move I didn’t agree to?”
I tilt my head. “You’re really going to fight me on this?”
“Obviously.”
“Sweetheart,” I say, setting my fork down and leaning forward, “you’re moving in. End of discussion.”
Her jaw drops slightly. “You can’t just—”
“I can,” I interrupt gently. “And I am.”
She huffs, crossing her arms, but there’s a faint smile hiding at the corner of her mouth. “You’re impossible.”
“I prefer determined.”
She shakes her head but doesn’t argue further.
“I’ll come by after work,” I tell her, standing and taking her plate. “We’ll pack together.”
She groans. “You’re really not letting this go, are you?”
