“Morning,” I say, sliding onto one of the bar stools.
She glances over her shoulder, grinning. “Look who’s alive. Sit. You look like you’d hurt yourself with a spatula.”
“I resent that.”
“Resent it sitting down.” She slides a mug of coffee across the counter without asking. “Eggs? Bacon? Something that won’t kill you?”
“All of the above.”
The door to the back room opens and Theo appears, hair still damp from a shower, looking more awake than anyone has a right to be this early. He nods at me, then at Zira. “Smells good.”
“Sit,” she says again, pointing at the stool next to mine with her spatula. “I’m not running a cafeteria line.”
Theo sits, accepting his own mug of coffee. We don’t talk much—just the comfortable kind of quiet that comes from being too tired to fill silence with words.
Jace stumbles in a few minutes later, looking like he got maybe three hours of sleep. “Coffee,” he mumbles.
“Magic word,” Zira says without turning around.
“Now.”
“Close enough.” She pours him a mug and he takes it like a lifeline.
“Where’s everyone else?” Theo asks.
“Rhett’s doing perimeter check,” Zira says. “Gray’s with him. Wes is still asleep. Thane and Bree are—” She pauses, smirking slightly. “Resting.”
Jace snorts into his coffee.
We eat in relative peace—bacon, eggs, toast that’s only slightly burnt. It’s the first normal meal we’ve had in days, and I let myself sink into the ordinariness of it. The clink of forks on plates. The smell of grease and coffee. The easy rhythm of people who’ve survived something together and made it to the other side.
Theo finishes first, pushing his plate away. “I’m going to check on the others. Make sure everyone’s actually awake.”
“Good luck with that,” Jace mutters.
Theo leaves. Jace drains his coffee and stands, stretching. “I’m gonna grab a shower before all the hot water’s gone.”
And then it’s just me and Zira.
She hums while she scrapes the grill clean, then disappears into the back room muttering something about needing more eggs.
I’m alone.
Zira’s humming fades down the hallway, the only sound left the slow drip of coffee behind the bar.
The bell over the front door jingles.
The sound cuts through the quiet—not urgent, just unexpected.
I turn toward the door as it swings open, and a woman steps inside.
She moves like she owns the place. She wears a leather jacket and dark pants, boots that don’t make a sound on the wooden floor. Her hair is black—crow-black, with a faint iridescence when the light catches it just right. Sharp features, eyes like polished obsidian, and a smile that knows too much.
She looks at me once—quick, deliberate, assessing—and the smile widens slightly.
“Morning,” she says, voice smooth. “Didn’t expect anyone that pretty to be conscious at this hour.”
I blink. “Bar’s closed.”
