My kitchen smells like coffee and something warm and buttery. The lights are on. The table is set. Like actually set. Plates. Cutlery lined up. A folded napkin at each place like we’re hosting brunch.
And Talia is standing at the stove in an oversized T-shirt—
Wait.
Is that mine?
Her hair is twisted into a messy knot, and she’s flipping something in a pan with the easy confidence of someone who belongs here.
My brain short-circuits.
For a second, I don’t know if I’m furious or… impressed.
She turns when she hears me.
“Morning,” she says, casual.
I stare at the table. “What is this?”
“Breakfast,” she replies, like that should be self-explanatory.
There’s a plate of eggs. Toast. Something that looks like bacon. A bowl of fruit. A coffee mug already poured and sitting at my usual spot like she somehow knows exactly where I sit.
I blink slowly. “Why?”
She shrugs, but there’s a nervous edge beneath it. “I know how early practice is. I figured you don’t usually have time to make somethingdecent. My dad always says breakfast is the most important meal of the day for an athlete.”
Her voice trails off.
I want to snap at her. I want to tell her I’m perfectly capable of feeding myself.
Instead, my eyes catch on one tiny thing that makes my throat tighten.
She used the good plates.
Not the everyday ones. The ones I keep stacked neatly and rarely touch because they’re… nice.
She not only found them, she used them, and she set them like she cares.
It shouldn’t matter.
It does.
I walk into the kitchen anyway, forced by some combination of suspicion and hunger, and stop at the edge of the table. “You didn’t have to do this.”
Talia keeps her focus on the pan. “I know.”
“You also didn’t have to wear my shirt.”
She glances down, then back up, a hint of a grin tugging at her mouth. “Do you want it back right now?”
Heat rises in my face, sharp and unwelcome.
“No,” I say too fast, and she definitely notices.
I yank out a chair and sit, posture tense like I’m preparing for an interrogation instead of breakfast. She slides a plate in front of me with eggs that actually look good.
I stare at them like they might be a trap.
