“She took one bite, stared at me, and said, ‘Mom would haunt you for this.’ Then she poured cereal.”
I smiled, but his mother’s name settled softly between us. Not sharp. Not untouched. An old grief sitting down beside us without demanding all the air.
“She sounds like Olivia,” he said, then immediately went rigid.
I looked at him.
“Sorry,” he said fast. “That was weird. My mouth ran a red light. I didn’t mean to compare them. I meant the practical violence of competent women.”
I let out another laugh, quieter this time.
“Olivia would probably accept that description,” I said.
Jace nodded, but the humor thinned. “I hope she’s okay tonight.”
“So do I.”
He didn’t look away from me for that answer. He didn’t make it smaller. He let it be true.
That mattered more than I knew how to say.
After a while, he asked, “If things weren’t complicated, what would we do tomorrow?”
I stared at the ceiling.
Tiny snored between us, all trust and terrible breath.
“We’d sleep in,” I said.
“You? Impossible.”
“You said if things weren’t complicated. Apparently we’re inventing better versions of ourselves.”
“Okay. Sleep in. Then?”
“Coffee. Breakfast.”
“Here?”
“Here.”
“Do I cook?”
“No.”
“Insulting.”
“You nearly poisoned your sister with pancakes.”
“I was thirteen.”
“Have you improved?”
“I can make eggs.”
“Can you?”
He opened his mouth, thought about lying, then shrugged. “I can acquire eggs.”
