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I grin and wander toward the refrigerator.

Last night, Grayson told me things I know he hasn’t told anyone in years. I watched him struggle through a nightmare, heard the guilt he’s carried since Eli died, and held him while he finally let some of it out.

This morning, he’s still grumpy.

Still sarcastic.

Still dressed like the human embodiment of a thundercloud.

But something’s different.

He isn’t avoiding my eyes.

And when I brush past him to grab the eggs, he doesn’t step away.

In fact, his hand settles briefly against my lower back.

It’s such a small thing.

And it nearly makes me drop the carton.

“Making breakfast?” he asks.

“Unless you have a personal chef hidden in the basement.”

“Had one. Ghost ate him.”

I turn.

He takes a sip of coffee.

Completely straight-faced.

I gasp. “Grayson Blackwood. Was that a joke?”

“No.”

“You made a ghost joke.”

“Must be the head injury.”

“Too soon.”

His mouth curves.

I point at him.

“You’re smiling.” I grab a mixing bowl. “Sit down. I’m making pancakes.”

“Regular pancakes?”

“Pumpkin spice.”

He closes his eyes.

“Jesus Christ.”

“What?”