I square my shoulders. I am a professional. A scholar. A woman of intellect and dignity.
…Who absolutely got railed on a table by a green alien beekeeper less than eight hours ago.
“Morning,” I say as breezily as I can manage, stepping into the kitchen.
Flora’s at the stove, her blonde braid looped over one shoulder, humming to herself as she flips something golden and fragrant in a wide cast iron pan. Davrin’s leaning against the counter with a mug in hand, his eyebrows shooting up the moment he sees me. Pan is already seated, buttering a tower of toast like he’s preparing to scale it, while his dad Ivarr tries to monitor the situation.
No sign of Garrik yet. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or if he’s thrown me to the wolves.
“You sleep alright?” Flora asks without turning around.
I open my mouth.
Davrin cuts in. “You look very well-rested.”
Pan squints up at me. “You look like you have a sunburn on your neck.”
I clap a hand over the love bite as his dad snorts.
Flora turns then, eyes sparkling. “You must’ve had a very comfortable pillow.”
“Flora,” I say, scandalized.
She just grins, unrepentant. “What? You’re glowing.”
Davrin raises his mug. “To be fair, so is Garrik. And his hair’s wet, which means he panicked and showered, which means he was the one doing the sneaking.”
I drop into the nearest chair, face blazing. “I hate all of you.”
Pan beams. “I made jam.”
“You’re the only one I like right now,” I tell him, and Flora actually cackles.
I’m pouring myself a cup of tea when Garrik finally appears—fresh shirt, damp curls, face carefully neutral. He doesn’t look atme at first, just walks around the table like a man preparing for execution.
“Morning,” he rumbles.
He goes to the counter to pour himself some tea, Pan looking between the two of us like he’s well aware we’re keeping a secret. The kid grumbles, frowning at Garrik, then he looks at me.
“Why’d Uncle Garrik give you a piggyback ride this morning? I saw out the window.”
Garrik freezes mid-sip of his tea.
So do I.
Flora stifles a laugh at the counter, while Ivarr arches one eyebrow over his cup. Davrin makes a strangled sound that might’ve been a laugh, quickly covered with a bite of toast.
“I—uh—” I begin, brain sprinting through possible explanations and finding none.
“She twisted her ankle,” Garrik says, a little too fast.
My eyes narrow. “I did?”
Flora chokes delicately into her napkin. Davrin turns to the window and pretends to be fascinated by the orchard view.
Pan frowns, entirely sincere. “You didn’t limp.”
“It was just a little twist,” Garrik says stiffly. “Barefoot walk. In the orchard. Thistles.”
