"Called it," Eli says under his breath.
I roll my eyes but my hands are already moving—stove on, eggs out, bacon unwrapped, bread for toast. Cooking grounds me. Steps, measurements, predictable transformations from raw to finished. Follow instructions and something good happens. Unlike everything else in my life.
By the time bacon starts sizzling, the smell fills the house like a summons.
Drake appears first, hair damp from a quick shower, t-shirt half-tucked into jeans. He stops in the doorway, inhaling dramatically.
"Is that bacon?"
"No, it's performance art. Very avant-garde."
He grins, tension easing from his shoulders. "You're my favorite person."
"That's because I feed you."
"It's at least sixty percent of the reason."
Eli moves around me like always, grabbing plates, slipping into our usual rhythm. Me at the stove, him at the counter, Drake hovering uselessly until we shoo him to the table.
For a moment, it almost feels normal.
Then Ragon walks in.
His presence changes the air like it always does—today there's an extra charge under it, crackling like live wire.
"Smells good."
"Thanks," I mumble.
His gaze flicks over me in that assessing way—Are you okay? Breaking again? About to bite someone?—then moves on. "I'll get Marie."
My stomach clenches. "She can smell food. If she's hungry, she'll come."
Eli makes a soft warning sound in his throat.
Ragon's blue eyes meet mine. Not hard, not soft. Measuring. "We invited her. We meet our guests at the door."
"She's more than a guest."
"I'm aware. I still have manners."
He leaves before I can craft a retort sharp enough to satisfy the gnawing inside me.
Drake fiddles with the salt shaker. I cut him off before he can start. "Don't. Just don't."
He sighs and sits.
By the time the last toast pops up, I hear footsteps. Two sets. Ragon's heavy, measured stride and a lighter one, hesitant.
Marie enters the kitchen like she's stepping into sacred space.
Her dark hair falls in glossy waves over her shoulders today. She's wearing a soft sweater and jeans, clothes that look new but not expensive. Her hands twist together as she hesitates in the doorway.
That scent hits me again—sweet, creamy, edged with nervousness.
"Morning."
Her eyes do a circuit of the room like she's taking inventory. Ragon near the door. Drake at the table. Eli at the counter. Then me at the stove.
