“Like what?”
Thinking for a moment, I say, “I make a mean French toast. Or breakfast burritos, if you’re into that kinda thing.”
“Hmm… Can we do waffles tomorrow, and maybe next time, the burritos?”
“Absolutely! We can run to the store and grab everything after dinner.”
That earns me another smile. This one’s a little less timid. “Cool.”
The rest of the evening goes without issue. He’s talking more and seeming at least a little more comfortable. After he goes to bed, I try to do the same, but I don’t sleep much. Being a firefighter, I’ve been trained to listen for alarms, for the wrong kind of silence. Tonight, I listen for grief. For doors opening. For tossing and turning. For the quiet sounds of a kid trying not to cry. Because as a boy who suddenly feels like he has to be strong every second of the day, I remember nighttime was my one safe space to let it all out. When nobody was around to hover and watch. When I didn’t have to be strong.
I don’t hear a peep out of Lukas’s room all night, though. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s pretty tuckered out from the move and everything leading up to it.
Around 6:30 a.m., I smell something. It’s sweet and warm. I’m up instantly, my bare feet hitting the cold floor as my heart pounds before my brain has a chance to catch up. The kitchen light is on, but otherwise, the house is still dark. I’m quiet as I round the corner, a smile tugging on my mouth as I spot Lukas standing in front of the counter, staring down at my waffle maker like it’s a complicated piece of machinery.
“I don’t think you’re supposed to operate heavy equipment without supervision,” I say gently.
Clearly not having heard me walk in, Lukas startles, nearly dropping the measuring cup he’s holding. “Crap, sorry,” he sputters. “Figured I’d get started on breakfast while you slept.”
“No, hey.” I step farther into the kitchen. “You’re good. No need to apologize. I’m just teasin’.”
There’s waffle mix on the counter, a couple cracked eggshells set aside, and he’s got the waffle maker turned on, a little bit of batter dripping down the sides.
“What can I help with, Chef?” I ask as I turn the faucet on and wash my hands.
His mouth twitches as he watches me. It’s not quite a smile, but it’s close. “Maybe the bacon? My dad always handled that part of it.”
“I can do that.” Something in my chest tightens.
I turn on some music, then we work side by side. I’ll give it to the kid… For only being thirteen, he sure knows his way around a kitchen pretty well. A hell of a lot better than I did at his age.
“You puttin’ any chocolate chips or anythin’ in your waffle?” I ask once I get the bacon in the oven. I don’t care what anybody says, cookin’ bacon in the oven is far more superior than on the stove. Less hassle and less mess.
He shakes his head. “Dad liked blueberries in his, but I think they make the waffles soggy.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Yeah, I’m not a fan of fruit in my pancakes or waffles either.”
Once we’re finished, we eat at the table with syrup and way too much better. Unlike yesterday when he got here, his shoulders aren’t up to his ears anymore.
“You sleep okay?” I ask.
“Yeah.” He nods. “That’s a really comfy bed.”
I smile. “It’s the same mattress brand I use. I’ve never slept better than on that thing.”
“Thanks,” he murmurs. “For lettin’ me stay here and for doin’ all this.”
My chest tightens again. “I’m happy you’re here.”
He smiles, but doesn’t say anything. I don’t miss the way his eyes get misty.
Halfway through his second waffle, he says, “I didn’t think I’d get to do this again.”
The words are soft, barely above a whisper, but they’re honest. Raw. I swallow past the lump in my throat.
“We can do this every weekend I’m home, if you want. Keep the tradition goin’.”
Lukas nods slowly. “Okay.”
