"You're AWAKE!"
"Riley—" Casey appears at the top of the stairs, wearing jeans and a faded blue t-shirt, hair damp like he just got out of the shower. He sees me and winces. "I'm so sorry. I told her to be quiet—"
"It's fine," I say quickly. "I'm usually up early anyway."
It's not entirely a lie. Six months of sleeping in my car has made me a light sleeper, attuned to every sound and movement. Actual walls and a door are a luxury, but old habits die hard.
Riley is still staring at me. "Do you like pancakes?"
"I... yes?"
"Daddy makes really good pancakes on Wednesdays."
"It's Tuesday," Casey says.
"It could be Wednesday pancake Tuesday."
"That doesn't make any sense."
"It makes PERFECT sense!"
I'm trying not to laugh as I follow them downstairs, Riley chattering about the merits of Wednesday pancakes on Tuesday while Casey mutters something about "four-year-old logic" under his breath.
The kitchen is brighter in the morning, sunlight streaming through the window over the sink and making everything warm and golden. There's a coffee maker on the counter already brewing, and the smell alone is enough to make me want to weep with gratitude.
"Coffee?" Casey offers, already reaching for a mug.
"Please. Yes. Thank you."
He pours me a cup and slides it across the counter, and our fingers brush when I take it. It's nothing. Barely a touch. But I feel it anyway, a spark that travels up my arm and settles somewhere in my chest.
I take a sip of coffee to cover my reaction and nearly moan. It's perfect, strong and hot and exactly what I need.
"Good?" Casey asks, and there's something in his voice that makes me look up.
"Really good," I manage.
Riley has climbed into her chair at the table and is swinging her legs impatiently. "So, are we having pancakes or not?"
Casey breaks eye contact first, turning toward the fridge. "We're having cereal because it's Tuesday and I have to be at the shop by seven-thirty."
"But what about Morgan?"
"Morgan can have cereal too, or she can make herself whatever she wants. She's a guest, not a prisoner."
"Cereal's great," I say quickly. "I'm not picky."
This is an understatement. I've been living on gas station sandwiches and protein bars for six months. Actual cereal in an actual bowl feels like fine dining.
Casey pulls out a box of something colorful and probably ninety percent sugar, then pauses and looks at me. "Unless you want something healthier? I think there's oatmeal somewhere..."
"That's perfect," I say, gesturing to the cereal.
He looks skeptical but pours me a bowl anyway, along with one for Riley and one for himself.
We eat in a silence that's surprisingly comfortable, broken only by Riley's occasional commentary on the shapes in her cereal ("That one looks like Mr. Shellby!") and the clink of spoons against bowls.
I can't remember the last time I had breakfast with other people. Really sat down and ate, not just grabbed something and kept driving.
