I stir my pancake batter and pretend I'm not watching them in my peripheral vision. Pretend it doesn't sting that Drake used to come to me first in the mornings, pressing a kiss to my temple while stealing bites of whatever I was cooking.
Eli arrives next, already dressed for his shift, glasses slightly fogged from the shower steam still clinging to him. His path into the kitchen is more deliberate than Drake's, more controlled.
But his eyes still track to Marie first.
Just for a second. Just long enough for his expression to soften before he catches himself and glances my way.
"Morning, Vee," he says.
"Morning."
"Pancakes?"
"Yeah."
He nods, pours himself coffee, and settles at the kitchen table with his tablet. Professional. Distant. The same way he's been since the sleep schedule got implemented and our nights together became rationed.
Marie plates her French toast with a flourish just as Ragon enters.
He's the worst—or best, depending on how you look at it. His self-control is tighter than the others, his awareness of his own instincts more acute. But even he can't quite help the way his attention shifts toward Marie when she turns with the plate, face bright and eager.
"I made this for you," she says. "I hope it's okay."
Ragon's expression doesn't change much. But his scent warms. Just slightly.
"Thank you," he says, taking the plate. His eyes cut to me, holding my gaze for a beat longer than necessary. Checking in. Making sure I see him seeing me.
I look back down at my pancakes.
"Vee's making pancakes," Eli offers, like he's trying to balance the scales.
"I can see that," Ragon says.
No one asks if they can have one.
The afternoon finds me in the garden with dirt under my nails and the sun hot on the back of my neck.
It's my space. The only area of the house that's still completely mine. Marie doesn't garden. She told me once that she's allergic to something in the soil, that it makes her hands break out. So this—this small patch of earth with its tomatoes and herbs and the basil I've been nursing since spring—is safe.
Or it was.
I'm on my knees pulling weeds when I hear the back door open.
"Vee?"
Marie picks her way across the grass in sandals, careful to avoid the mud. She's carrying a glass of lemonade, condensation dripping down the sides.
"Thought you might be thirsty," she says, offering it.
I sit back on my heels, wiping my forehead with the back of my wrist. "Thanks."
She hovers while I drink, arms wrapped around herself even though it's not cold. After a moment, she sits on the porch steps, just at the edge of the garden.
"This looks really nice," she says, gesturing to the plants. "You've done an amazing job."
"Thanks."
"I wish I could help." She sighs. "But my hands swell up like balloons if I touch dirt for too long. It's so frustrating."
