Whisking the milk, vanilla, and cinnamon was a marathon. My right arm protested violently, muscles seizing mid-motion. I switched to my left hand, awkward, uncoordinated, splashing liquid across the counter and somehow onto the ceiling.
"How," I said, staring upward at the splatter, "did that even happen? That defies physics."
I wiped the counter. I did not attempt to wipe the ceiling. Some battles weren't worth fighting.
The bread wanted to tear when I dipped it. The spatula jumped in my grip like it was trying to escape. I nearly sent one slice flying across the kitchen and caught it by some miracle of desperation.
"We do not discuss this with Charlotte," I informed the rescued French toast. "What happens in this kitchen stays in this kitchen."
By the time I was plating the golden slices, topping them with berries and a clumsy dusting of powdered sugar, the kitchen looked like a war zone. Eggshells everywhere. Batter splattered across three surfaces. Powdered sugar coated the counter like snow.
But on the plate? It looked good. It looked like I was trying.
"Miles?"
I turned. Charlotte stood in the doorway, wrapped in one of my oversized sweaters, her hair sleep-tousled, her eyes still puffyand shadowed. But she was staring at the culinary chaos with something that looked almost like wonder.
"What did you do?"
"I made breakfast." I gestured at the plate like a game show host. "Ta-da."
"You made..." She looked at the French toast, then at the kitchen, then at me. Her voice cracked. "This must have taken you hours."
"Forty-five minutes, actually. Which is approximately forty minutes longer than it should have taken, but who's counting."
"The ceiling is counting." She pointed upward. "There's batter up there."
"Romantic, right? I read online that it makes people smile."
A laugh escaped her; it was small, surprised, still edged with grief, but real. The sound of it lessened the worry I had for her.
"How did you even?—"
"I don't know. Physics abandoned me. The eggs were hostile. The whisk staged a rebellion." I pulled out a chair. "Sit. Eat. Before it gets cold and my suffering becomes meaningless."
She sat, her eyes never leaving my face as I carefully carried the plate over. My steps were measured, my focus entirely on not tripping. I set it before her with a small flourish that was probably more wobbly than triumphant.
She stared at the French toast, then up at me. Her eyes were shimmering.
"Miles," she whispered. "You shouldn't have. With your hands, this must have been?—"
"Worth it." I cut her off, sliding into the chair across from her. "If it makes you smile, even for a second, it's worth any amount of struggle."
She took a bite, and her eyes closed. When they opened, tears were tracking down her cheeks, but she was smiling.
"It's perfect," she said.
"It's acceptable at best?—"
"Miles." She reached across the table and took my hand, the trembling one I'd been hiding. She held it firmly, not trying to still the shake. "It's perfect. Because you made it. For me."
We finished breakfast together, talking softly about nothing important—the weather, the documentary we'd abandoned, whether I should attempt to clean the ceiling or just pretend it was always that way. The grief wasn't gone; I could still see it in the shadows under her eyes. But it was shared now. And that made all the difference.
That evening, I had another plan.
"Get dressed," I told her around four o'clock, trying to sound casual. "We're going out."
Charlotte looked up from the book she'd been pretending to read. "Out where?"
