My heart did something stupid. A hard, quick kick.
I hated my heart.
Regan tugged me toward the house. “Breakfast. Bandit can come too.”
Mason looked at the cab. Bandit slammed a paw against the crate bars and hissed.
Mason’s mouth curved. “Good luck with that.”
Regan cleaned my wrist like I’d been mauled by a rabid wolf instead of scratched by a twelve-pound cat with abandonment issues. She used soap first, then peroxide, then some kind of ointment from an overstuffed first aid kit that looked better stocked than an urgent care clinic. I sat at the kitchen island, hissing through my teeth while Amber poured coffee and Savannah made toast like this was all completely normal.
Evie stood at the stove flipping bacon. Skye sat across from me, calm and perfect, braiding her hair like mornings didn’t personally offend her. Regan moved around the kitchen barefoot and bossy. This was apparently what chaos looked like when it had money, good skin, and access to fresh eggs.
Mason leaned against the counter near the back door, drinking coffee like he had no intention of helping anyone emotionally.
Which suited him.
Emotionally unavailable looked like his natural habitat.
Regan taped gauze over my wrist with brisk efficiency. “There.”
I flexed my hand. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Don’t get sepsis.”
“I’ll put it on my list.”
Amber slid a mug in front of me. “Drink.”
I took it because arguing with them had proven useless. The coffee was strong enough to restart my truck. I took one sip and nearly saw God.
“Oh.”
Regan grinned. “Good?”
“I may propose.”
“Get in line,” Amber said.
Mason grunted into his mug.
I ignored him.
Mostly.
Evie set a plate in front of me. Eggs. Bacon. Toast. Sliced avocado. Something with peppers and potatoes that smelled like butter, salt, and a reason to keep living. My stomach made a deeply personal noise before I could stop it.
Savannah’s brows rose. “You always sound like that?”
“I’ve been on a gas station diet for three days.”
Amber leaned her elbows on the island. “That explains the feral energy.”
“I thought the cat covered that.”
“The cat is a symptom,” Regan said, pouring herself coffee. “You are the diagnosis.”
I took a bite of eggs, and my entire nervous system briefly shut down to process gratitude. “This is offensive.”
