She’s holding two coffee cups, wearing jeans and a soft sweater that probably costs more than my truck payment, and her hair is already perfect because apparently that’s just how she wakes up. She smiles when she sees me—not the sharp smile from yesterday, something softer—and holds out one of the cups.
“Morning.”
I’m in sweatpants and a ratty Slammers t-shirt from 2019. My hair is doing something spastic on one side. The asymmetry bothers me more than it should.
I don’t take it. “What are you doing here?”
“Delivering caffeine.” She pushes the cup toward me. “Take it. It’s your order.”
“How do you know my order?”
“Bennett.” She tilts her head, an amused flickering in her eyes. “I’ve known you since you had braces and that unfortunate haircut in eighth grade. I know your coffee order.”
I take the cup because I don’t know what else to do. It’s still hot. Perfect temperature. She timed this down to the minute. She uses the moment to step past me into my house like she was invited, like this is completely normal, like 6:23 AM home invasions are just part of our friendship now.
“Looks good in here.” She looks around my living room—clean lines, minimal furniture, everything in its designated spot. “Very... controlled.”
“Gisele.”
“Hmm?”
“Why are you in my house?”
She settles onto my couch, tucking her legs underneath her in a way that pulls her sweater tight across her shoulders. Cradling her coffee in both hands, she’s perfectly at ease. “Because you were going to skip our nine o’clock appointment.”
“I wasn’t—”
“You were absolutely going to come up with some excuse about practice or team obligations or the existential weight of captaincy, and I decided to cut that off at the pass.” She takes a sip of her coffee. “You’re welcome.”
The confidence of it—the sheer, unflappable certainty—throws me more than anything else. Gisele has always been warm, understanding, willing to meet me where I am. This version of her doesn’t wait. Doesn’t ask permission. Just shows up and reorganizes my entire day.
It should piss me off. It doesn’t. That’s new. I don’t like new.
“I have a routine.”
“I noticed. Four-minute steep time, very precise.” She nods toward my abandoned breakfast. “Finish eating. I’ll wait.”
“You’ll—” I stop. Take a breath. Try again. “This isn’t how it works. You can’t just show up at my house before sunrise and—”
“And what? Disrupt your careful structure?” Her smile sharpens slightly. “That’s kind of the whole point.”
I open my mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. Because she’s right. My structure is exactly what she’s here to disrupt, and fighting her on this feels like proving her point. So I do the only thing I can do. I sit. I pick up my fork. I take a bite of cold, unseasoned eggs while Gisele LaRue watches me from my own couch like she’s conducting an experiment. This is my life now, apparently. And I have no idea how to stop it.
“Yes, Bennett,” she says, more gently now. “Eat your sad eggs. Drink your precisely timed coffee. We’ll leave when you’re ready.”
“Leave for where?”
“The salon. I have everything set up.”
“Everything being what, exactly?”
She just smiles and takes another sip of her coffee.
I add salt to my icy food. I never add salt. Gisele doesn’t comment, but I see her notice. Somehow her presence inmy space has made everything feel slightly off-kilter, like the furniture shifted three inches to the left while I wasn’t looking.
By the time we’re in her car—because she insisted on driving, probably to keep me captive—I’ve cycled through irritation, resignation, and something uncomfortably close to anticipation. Gisele doesn’t try to fill the silence. Just drives with one hand loose on the wheel, her other hand wrapped around her coffee, looking completely at ease with the tension crackling between us.
“You’re doing that thing,” she says finally.
