The scent of chamomile and cinnamon drifted through the kitchen as Dakota poured hot water into a thick ceramic mug. The apartment was quiet, the early morning light just beginning to stretch across the courtyard. His movements were slow, deliberate—bare feet whispering against the tile floor.
Behind him, a door creaked open.
He turned just as Xochi stepped into the room, barefoot and sleep-tousled, her curls soft around her face.
“Morning, baby girl,” he said with a quiet smile.
“Morning,” she murmured, eyes flicking to the mug in his hand. “Is Mom up?”
Dakota set the kettle down and met her gaze. “She had something to take care of. She’ll be back later.”
There was a pause, but Xochi didn’t push. She wanted to ask more, but didn’t. Something about the quiet between them felt fragile
