I’mupbeforedawnon purpose. The house is quiet in that soft, blue-grey way that makes everything feel suspended, as if time itself is taking a breath. I drink my coffee slowly, letting the warmth settle into me while the familiar thrum of order slides into my bones. I try to convince myself I won’t see Lucky today. That avoiding her is the safest thing I can do, for her and for myself. It sounds reasonable in a silent kitchen. It always does.
Avoidance only works, though, when the person you are avoiding isn’t living ten strides from your back deck.
By seven-thirty, I am outside pretending to check a loose board below the back porch that doesn’t need checking. The morning air still carries the coolness of night. The whole yard feels washed clean and brightened by that early June light that sharpens everythingit touches. For a moment, I let myself believe I can ride that sense of calm, that maybe today will stay quiet.
Then I hear her patio door slide open, the metal track dragging in a tired, gritty rush. She exhales softly, the kind of breath a person takes when they are bracing themselves for whatever the day decides to throw at them. Something tightens inside my chest, hot and unwelcome, as if someone has hooked a finger under a stitch I thought had healed.
I straighten and put on the expression I learned to wear after Mara. Neutral. Polite. Closed. A face that says I’m fine and don’t ask and don’t get close. It fits too easily.
Lucky steps out onto her deck with her sunglasses on and her hair pulled into a messy knot. She holds a coffee mug in both hands, curled into it as if she is using it for warmth or courage. She looks smaller today. A little tired around the edges. But when she spots me, she pauses. There is a tiny shift in her stance, barely a second of stillness, as if she is waiting for something I would rather not name.
“Morning,” she says. Her voice is light but careful, like she’s tapping the surface of a frozen pond to test whether it will hold.
I make myself stand straight, forcing calm into my posture. “Morning,” I reply.
The word comes out too sharp and entirely too flat. I hear the mistake the second it leaves my mouth. Her head tilts slightly as she studies me from behind her sunglasses.
“You’re up early,” she says.
“I’m always up early.” The answer is clipped, practically cut from stone. It sounds like a defence instead of a fact.
She shifts her mug from one hand to the other. “Yeah, I just meant… earlier than usual.”
I nod once. “Had things to do.”
Another lie. Another wall I stack between us with steady, practiced hands.
Her brow pulls in the smallest amount. Not a full frown, but close enough that I can picture what her eyes must look like behind the dark lenses. Curious. Hurt. Searching. “Right,” she murmurs.
The silence that settles between us is not the soft, easy kind she carried into my kitchen yesterday. This one has a brittle edge, thin and uncomfortable, like a sheet of glass that might crack under the wrong tone.
She steps closer to her railing, the morning light catching on the loose strands of her hair. “Listen, about last night—”
“Nothing to talk about,” I say, cutting her off.
It’s too fast. Too sharp. Too defensive.
Her mouth presses into a tight line behind the rim of her mug. I cannot see her eyes, but I hear the small, pained breath she draws in. The sound lands like a punch straight to the ribs.
Christ. I didn’t mean for it to come out like that. But apologising would open a door, and I am not ready for any doors to open. Not with her. Not after everything that surfaced last night at the quarry.
She swallows and lifts her chin a fraction. “Okay,” she says, her voice thin around the edges. “If that’s what you want.”
It isn’t. Not even close.
But want and need rarely match.
“I’ve just got a lot on,” I say. Softer, but still too controlled. “Family here. Work. Things to sort.”
She lets out a tiny huff of laughter. There is no humour in it. “Do you always list reasons, or am I special?”
I blink. “What?”
“Oh, nothing.” She waves it off, though her fingers tremble slightly. “You’re very tidy with your excuses, that’s all.”
I grit my teeth. “I’m not making excuses.”
Her head tilts again, this time with sharp precision. “Then what are you doing?”
