“It doesn’t.”
“It’s caffeine.”
She watches me, then her expression shifts.
“You didn’t sleep.”
I lean back against the counter. “You?”
“Eventually.”
I nod once.
Rook breaks the silence. He shifts, stands, then noses his way between us like he’s testing the space, testing the air, testing us.
I freeze. Lark stills too. Rook looks up at me first, cautious, uncertain, then back at her like he’s deciding something.
I lower my hand slowly. He watches it. Sniffs once. Twice. Then leans forward just enough that his nose brushes my knuckles.
I don’t move. Don’t push. Don’t rush it.
He exhales, then steps back again, settling at Lark’s feet like that interaction was enough for now.
“Progress,” she murmurs.
“Sure.”
“It counts.”
I nod once, then glance at the stove.
“You eat?”
She hesitates, then shrugs.
“Not really.”
I push off the counter.
“You are.”
“I didn’t—”
“I know.”
I move anyway. Pull a pan from the cabinet. Crack eggs into it. Simple. Routine. Controlled.
The smell fills the kitchen slowly, warmer than the coffee, grounding in a way the rest of the morning hasn’t been.
She watches. I feel it without looking.
“You do this often?” she asks.
“Eat?”
“Cook.”
“When I have to.”
