“Got it, Cricket?” I let go of her hair but I don’t step away.
She holds my stare, letting me feel the full extend of her anger before she finally answers—through gritted teeth—“Fine. I’ve got it.”
I nod once, cold and sharp. “Good.”
She turns, storming toward the bedroom, but tosses the last word over her shoulder like a live grenade.
“Good.”
The door slams shut behind her.
Ismell bacon before I even round the corner.
For a split second, I think maybe she’s trying to make peace but when I step into the kitchen, that hope dies a quick, brutal death.
She’s at the stove, moving with slow, deliberate ease—like she has all the time in the world and not a single thought about me. Her back is to me. No greeting. No glance. Just that same infuriating silence that’s hung between us since last night.
And on the island is one plate.
One fork.
One cup of orange juice.
One cup of coffee already poured and waiting.
Everything about it screamsintentional.
She finishes plating her food and moves past me without even brushing my shoulder. Takes her spot at the counter, slides onto the stool, and eats like I’m not standing five feet away watching her pull a power play with scrambled eggs.
Wow. You can make eggs without turning them into a nuclear bomb.
Whoop-de-fuckin’-doo.
I grab a bowl from the cabinet, fill it with the first cereal I see, splash some milk in the bowl and lean against the fridge like I couldn’t care less.
And I don’t. I don’t evenwantbacon.
We exist like that for a while—her slowly slicing into her toast with unnecessary precision, me making sure the fridge doesn’t escape while I crunch through my breakfast like I’m chewing nails.
When she finally stands, I think maybe she’s done with this little game—maybe she’s ready to apologize before retreating back to her room.
But instead of walking away, she turns to the coffee pot.
She pours the last cup—I didn’t get any coffee yet, but whatever—and wraps both hands around the mug like she’s savoring a private victory. Her movements are slow, precise, like she knows I’m watching and wants me to feel every second of it.
Then she glances at the fridge.
The creamer’s behind the door. She knows it. I know it.
Still, I stay exactly where I am, shoulder propped lazily against the stainless steel, bowl of cereal in hand, doing my best impression of someone utterly unbothered.
She doesn’t say a word.
Neither do I.
I lift another spoonful to my mouth, focusing on the sugary swirl of colors and the dull scrape of metal against ceramic—anything but the fact that I can feel her next to me. She’sstanding close enough to reach the handle, but not quite close enough to push me out of the way.
For a moment, I think maybe she’ll give up. Maybe she’ll wait.
