She closed her door softly.
I stood there for a long time, the weight of everything I'd just said still settling around me—the raw honesty I'd shared with the nurse I'd employed for my sister.
But somehow, it didn't feel wrong.
It felt like the first honest thing I'd done in months.
CHAPTER NINE
MIREYA
The coffee makerbeeped sharply at six in the morning.
I shuffled into the kitchen wearing threadbare pajama pants and an old college shirt, my hair pulled into a messy knot. The penthouse felt hushed and peaceful at this hour. Only the hum of the city stirring beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows.
It had been two weeks since I moved in and it was starting to feel less foreign. Less like I was intruding on someone else’s life.
I poured coffee into my favorite mug, the blue one with the chipped handle that Emma insisted I claim as mine.
Riven had already left for his run. He did that every morning without fail, like his internal clock was set to military precision.
I sipped my coffee and watched the city wake below. Cars began their slow crawl through downtown streets. People lived their normal lives in apartments I couldn't even dream of affording on my own.
“Is there still some juice?”
I turned to find Emma standing in the doorway wearing pajamas covered with cartoon cats, her dark hair sticking out in approximately twelve different directions. She yawned so widely I could see her molars.
“Good morning to you, too,” I greeted, grinning.
"Morning isn't good until I've had fresh-squeezed orange juice." She stumbled to the counter and grabbed a glass. "Why are you up so early?"
"Couldn't sleep." I filled her glass with the juice I'd prepared earlier.
Her eyes narrowed. “Again? That’s the third time this week.”
“Just restless.”
"Mm-hmm." She took a long sip and smiled blissfully. "This is perfect. You make it better than anyone." She hopped onto the counter and swung her legs. "So what's keeping you awake?"
“Nothing specific.”
“Liar.”
I looked at her pointedly. "I'm not lying."
"You absolutely are. Your left eye does this twitchy thing." She grinned. "It's okay. I won't push. Not yet, anyway."
We sat in comfortable quiet. This had become our routine: early mornings in the kitchen before Riven returned. Emma would talk about books she was reading or complain about chemistry homework. I would listen, trying not to think about how temporary all of this was.
“He’s been stress-baking,” Emma said suddenly.
“What?”
"Riven. He's been stress-baking at night when you're on your hospital shifts. Made three batches of cookies this week. All complete disasters." She counted on her fingers. "He really can't bake, but he keeps trying anyway."
I blinked. “When was this?”
“When you were on night shifts. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday.” She took another sip. “Chocolate chip cookies Monday, burned them. Sugar cookies Tuesday, burned again. Oatmeal cookies Wednesday, not burned, but tasted like cardboard.”
