Caesar's POV
The kitchen was painfully quiet—except for Helena's theatrical sighs punctuating every limp stab at her sad excuse for breakfast.
I barely touched my coffee.
My head wasn't here—it was out there, with Sylvia. Who, for the second night in a row, hadn't come home.
Helena let out another overacted groan. "Cae, seriously. Why don't you cook anymore? This takeout tastes like regret and cardboard."
I didn't even bother looking up. "Sylvia's not here. I'm not in the mood."
Truth is, I never cooked breakfast for anyone else. Just Sylvia.
Without her scent in the house, the kitchen just felt… hollow. Pointless.
Helena pushed her plate away with a dramatic clatter. "You could still cook for me, you know. Like old times."
I finally glanced at her, deadpan. "H
