“Mom!” Noah appears in my doorway, shirt now on correctly but untucked. “I can’t find my red folder!”
“Kitchen counter. By the—” I stop. Sniff the air.
Pancakes.
The smell of pancakes drifts up from downstairs—butter and vanilla and that particular sweetness that means someone’s cooking breakfast.
Oh, thank God. Sienna must have let herself in. She knew I’d be frazzled, knew the first day would be chaos even though I’ve been a single mom for five years and should theoretically have mornings figured out by now. But mornings are always a circus, and first-day mornings are a circus on fire.
“Go get your folder,” I tell Noah. “And find your brother. Breakfast is ready.”
He thunders down the stairs while I do one final check of his room. Backpack—there. Lunch box—wait, where’s his lunch box? Did I pack lunches last night, as I planned, or did I get distracted by?—
No. Focus. Lunches first, existential crisis later.
I head downstairs, already running through the mental list. Turkey and cheese for Liam, no mayo. Peanut butter and honey for Noah, cut into triangles. Apple slices with lemon juice so they don’t brown. Carrots because I’m a good mom who includes vegetables even though Noah will trade them for literally anything else. Juice boxes. Napkins. Did I remember napkins?
The kitchen comes into view, and I freeze.
It’s not Sienna.
Silas stands at my stove, spatula in hand, flipping pancakes with the easy competence of someone who’s done this before. He’s indark jeans and a black t-shirt that stretches across his shoulders, hair still damp like he showered recently.
Cal sits at my kitchen island, surrounded by lunch supplies and what appears to be a laminated calendar with color-coded meal plans. Color-coded. He’s sorting items into two piles—Monday’s lunch for Liam, Monday’s lunch for Noah—cross-referencing against the calendar like he’s planning a military operation.
And Jace.
Jace stands at my counter with a cutting board, assembling sandwiches with the same precision he probably uses to field-strip weapons. Turkey, cheese, bread. Cut diagonally. Into the container. Next sandwich. His movements are methodical, efficient, almost meditative.
They’re in my house. Making breakfast. Packing lunches. Like this is normal. Like they do this every day.
“What—” My voice comes out strangled. “What are you doing?”
Cal looks up, that devastating smile already in place. “Good morning to you, too, angel. We figured you’d forget to ask us to help get the boys ready for their first day, so we took the liberty of inviting ourselves.”
“You can’t just—” I gesture vaguely at everything. “You can’t just walk into my house and?—”
“And make sure our children are fed?” Cal’s amber eyes dance with mischief. “Shocking behavior, really. We should be ashamed.”
“I remember when you refused to use an agenda for your homework assignments,” Jace says without looking up from hissandwich construction. “Seventeen-year-old you would be very confused about who this color-coded lunch calendar woman is.”
My face heats. “That’s different. That was?—”
“Rebellion disguised as chaos?” Jace’s lips quirk slightly. “Yeah. We remember. You wrote assignments on your hands out of spite after Charles bought you that planner.”
“It was a stupid planner.”
“It was a very nice planner,” Cal corrects. “Leather-bound. Your initials embossed in gold. You threw it in the pool.”
I did. I absolutely did.
My eyes finally land on Silas, who’s been silently flipping pancakes this entire time. He glances over his shoulder, storm-gray eyes meeting mine, and shrugs.
“Pancakes,” he says simply. As if that explains everything. As if breaking into my house to cook breakfast is perfectly reasonable behavior.
“You can’t—” I start again, but the words tangle. Because what am I even angry about? That they’re helping? That they’re helping without being asked? That they just walked into my house like they belong here?
Or am I angry because part of me is relieved? Because I was drowning in the chaos, and they just appeared and took half of it off my plate without being asked?
