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The scent of coffee wafts up the staircase, followed by the soft clang of pans. With a deep breath, I swing my legs over the side of the bed, still feeling the weight of the previous day's revelations pressing on me.
Divorce.
I’m getting adivorce.
The idea still feels surreal. And a little bit hollow.
And yet …
I hesitate for a moment, debating whether to head straight downstairs or freshen up first. Deciding on the latter, I grab my clothes from the chair, and tug them back on.
Then I make my way to the small bathroom across the hall. After doing my business, I catch my reflection in the mirror and pause. With mascara and makeup smeared beneath my lids, haunted, dark eyes stare back at me.
Inhaling softly, I turn on the water, letting it flow through my fingertips as it heats up. When it reaches temperature, I wash my hands, then cup them together and bring the water to my face.
I let the warm water wash away the tears still clinging to my cheeks from the night before. When my makeup is gone, I pat my face dry and try to tame my unruly hair.
When that last task seems impossible, I take another deep breath, throw my shoulders back, and venture downstairs. The comforting aroma of breakfast grows stronger, guiding me towards the kitchen.
So much about the house has changed, yet the layout, the one I could have run with my eyes closed as a kid, is still the same.
When I enter the kitchen, I find London, standing beside a large island—something that wasn’t there before—wearing a casual tee and sweatpants, his focus on flipping pancakes.
The sight of him like this does strange things to my stomach.
He glances up, his eyes meeting mine, and a soft smile plays on his lips. "Morning, sleepyhead.”
I chuckle, feeling a blush creep into my cheeks. "Morning.”
“I hope you’re hungry,” London says, adding bacon to one of the pans.
My eyes open wide as I take a seat at the kitchen island. "You cook?"
He glances up, holding my gaze for a beat. Then, he winks. "Only when I have special guests."
“Special guests, huh?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. “Have lots of those, do you?”
He narrows his eyes and scrunches his face, then turns back to the stovetop, letting that go unanswered.
The sizzle of bacon fills the room, coupled with the sweet aroma of his pancakes. I watch as London's hands move, deftly flipping a pancake here, stirring something there.
"I didn’t know you were such a culinary expert," I tease.
He chuckles softly, but glances up at me from under his eyebrows, "There’s a lot you don’t know about me these days."
The comment hangs in the air, and the familiar tension between us rises again. There’s so much we haven’t said, so many emotions tangled between us.
In an attempt to diffuse the atmosphere, I ask, "Need any help?”
Without missing a beat, London reaches across the island and hands me a bowl filled with mixed berries. "You can toss these with some honey and lemon zest. Should be over there, on the counter." He jabs a thumb to the space behind him.
I nod, getting up from my seat and making my way to the ingredients. As I mix, I can't help but sneak glances at London, who seems lost in thought, his eyebrows knitted slightly.
“So, just a week until the big event,” I begin, not entirely sure if it's the right thing to bring up but I need to bridge the silence. “I sent the invitations out a few days ago.”
He glances over to me and grins. “Yeah, coming up fast.”
I drop my gaze. “Yeah.”
