Her competence, specifically, is beginning to feel actively dangerous.
“Dad’s awake,” Oliver says, ruining my vantage point with the efficient betrayal typical of children.
Addy turns.
For half a second, too many emotions pass over her face, too quickly to name. Surprise, certainly. Awareness, definitely. Then the expression settles, becoming easier. Lighter.
“Good morning,” she says.
“Morning.”
I step into the kitchen. Captain abandons all restraint and comes to investigate my existence. Oliver goes back to breakfast. Addy reaches automatically for the coffee pot before I ask.
I notice that too.
I notice everything, apparently, which is becoming exhausting.
She pours a cup and sets it on the counter near my usual place. “I made coffee. I figured that was safer than letting you greet the day unsupported.”
“That was prudent.”
“I have many strengths.”
I take the cup. “Modesty among them?”
“Obviously.”
Her mouth curves just slightly when she says it, but she doesn’t meet my eyes for long. That's wise. If she did, there's a very real chance I would think about last night in far too much detail, standing here in front of my son with coffee in my hand and no excuse worth respecting.
Oliver holds up a slice of toast. “Captain wants this.”
Captain does, in fact, want that.
“Captain wants most things,” I say.
“That’s because he believes in abundance,” Addy replies.
I look at her.
She looks back this time.
There's an entire conversation in that glance that neither of us can afford to have at eight in the morning over eggs.
I break it first. “You’re up early.”
“So are you.”
“I usually am.”
“Yes, but today you’re not yet doing it in a suit, which feels more aggressive.”
“Work often does.”
She hums softly, then turns back to the stove to plate the rest of breakfast. The movement shifts her cardigan at the shoulder just enough to reveal the line of her neck.
I look at my coffee instead.
Professional, necessary, correct. None of those words are doing a particularly impressive job.