The next morning brought with it the kind of slow, golden light that made the kitchen feel like a sanctuary. The storm of last night—our fears, our confessions, our hopes—had passed, leaving in its wake a strange but welcome calm. Outside, birds chirped lazily, and the scent of fresh dew filtered through the cracked window, mingling with the smell of pancakes on the stove.
I padded in barefoot, wearing one of Edward’s old shirts and a pair of sleep shorts, the hem brushing the tops of my thighs. The fabric still smelled faintly of him—clean linen and cedarwood—and something about it made me feel grounded. Daniel stood at the stove, flipping pancakes with the kind of precision that suggested this wasn’t his first time stress-cooking. There was a quiet focus to him this morning, his movemen
