“Bluebird day,” Callum said, his voice annoyingly cheerful for a man who hadn’t slept. “Hear that?”
The sound of a plow grinding down Main filtered in—slow, steady, the metallic sound of a town earning its sunrise.
“Beautiful,” I said. “Music to my frostbitten ears.”
He shoulder-checked me. “That’s the sound of hope.”
“It’s the sound of overtime,” I muttered, ladling batter onto the griddle. The smell of butter and browning sugar rose instantly—sweet, warm, domestic. Dangerous.
“Don’t ruin it with realism,” my brother said. “How many we feeding?”
“Everyone who’s upright,” I said. “Plus the road crew, if you want to bribe them.”
“We do.” I grinned.
Riley appeared out of nowhere, pouring coffee like she was dealing blackjack. “Two for the griddle gods,” she said, handing us each a steaming cup, “and one for our local noir hero, still pretending heartbreak is a fashion statement.”
“I’m fine,” I said.
“You’re sepia,” she said, “and sepia men don’t get the good syrup.”
Lydia swept in next, clipboard in hand, hat slightly crooked. She’d traded last night’s adrenaline for boss energy and was currently leading the charge like a Christmas general.
“Five minutes to service,” she said. “Mel’s got trays, the McCafferty boys are on syrup, and yes, the syrup’s warmed. This isn’t anarchy.”
Callum saluted her with a spatula. “Yes, ma’am.”
I flipped pancakes, the rhythm steady: pour, wait, flip, stack. The smell of cinnamon and sugar coated the air. For the first time since last night, people smiled for no reason. Coffee and carbs—better than therapy.
And every time I looked up, I found her.
Melanie moved through the crowd like she’d always belonged to this kind of morning—hat low, scarf loose, cheeks pink from cold and exhaustion. She was laughing with a group of kids negotiating for extra bacon like they were brokering peace. She handed napkins to Mrs. Crowley, squeezed her shoulder until she smiled. She accepted coffee from Riley, sniffed it, and said, “Which roast is least emotionally manipulative?”
Riley shot back, “Neither. I run a judgment-free zone,” and they both grinned.
I caught myself grinning, too. Couldn’t help it.
“You’re smiling,” Callum said, flipping bacon.
“I’m flipping pancakes.”
“You’re praying.”
“Same motion,” I said, and he chuckled.
Outside, the plow passed again, sunlight flashing off its blade. Reckless River gleamed like it had decided to audition for a snow globe.
“We’re almost out of batter,” I said, peering into the bowl.
Lydia drifted past and dropped a bag of chocolate chips on the table like Santa’s chaotic niece. “Festive,” she said, and disappeared into the crowd.
I threw a handful into the next round. “For morale.”
Callum smirked. “Make ’em pretty. You’ve got an audience.”
“Who—?” I started, and then saw her.
Melanie.
