The thread disappears without ceremony.
I set the phone down and turn back to the stove.
By the time the butter hits the pan, I hear movement behind me.
I don’t turn right away.
Bare feet on the floor. A pause in the doorway.
I glance over my shoulder.
Melanie stands there wearing my shirt, the fabric falling loose over her thighs, sleeves pushed back once like she’s already settled into it. Her hair is still tangled from sleep, her face soft in a way it wasn’t yesterday, and for a second she just watches me, taking in the kitchen, the stove, the food.
“You look better in that shirt than I do.”
Her fingers brush the hem. “I like it,” she says, almost to herself. Then she looks at me. “Smells like you.” A small pause. “Smells like safety.”
Something in my chest lifts, quiet and sudden, like stepping into clean air after smoke, the kind you don’t notice until it’s gone. I draw in a breath and turn back to the stove before it shows in my face.
I nod once toward the table.
“Sit.”
She shifts immediately, crossing the room and lowering herself into the chair, one leg folding under her without thinking about it. I set a mug in front of her as I pass, and she wraps both hands around it, drawing in a breath over the steam.
The sound of her breathing changes.
I hear him before I look. The steps are slower than hers were, heavier, each one placed instead of drifting, the floor taking the weight of it in a way that carries through the room. A brief pause follows at the threshold, long enough that it settles into the space behind me.
I give him a moment to take it all in, before I glance over my shoulder.
He stands just inside the kitchen, hair still rough from sleep, cheeks dark with beard stubble, and his shirt hanging open, and legs in comfy-looking sports shorts. He holds his injured arm afraction too rigidly to his side before he shifts it, easing it down like he won’t be caught favoring it.
His gaze moves first, taking in the table, the plates, and the food and coffee.
Then he slides over to her.
“Morning.” His voice holds a sleepy rasp.
“Morning.” I turn back to the stove and slide the eggs onto the plates, setting them down without waiting for him to decide what he thinks about it. The chair moves behind me a second later, wood scraping softly, and when I look again, he’s already sitting beside her, close enough that their legs press together under the table.
“Didn’t have to?—”
“You need to eat.” I set the plate in front of him and place the glass beside it, my fingers resting on the rim a second longer than necessary before I let go.
He looks at it.
Then at me.
I don’t move.
His shoulders shift, a breath leaving him slower than it came in, and he reaches for the fork instead of finishing the sentence. I let that stand, turning back to the counter, stacking what’s left, keeping the rhythm of it steady so there’s nothing to push against.
Melanie nudges her glass away with her fingertips, barely a movement, like she hopes it will go unnoticed if she doesn’t make a thing of it.
I see it anyway.
“Finish it.” I don’t raise my voice. I don’t need to. I rest my hand against the back of her chair and wait.
