Eira’s POV
The apartment smells like burnt coffee before I even open my eyes, I wake up with a dull ache behind my eyes. The mattress is too warm, the room too quiet. I lie there for a minute, just listening.
In the kitchen, Draven is arguing with the coffee maker.
“Come on, you cheap piece of junk,” he mutters, smacking the side of it.
Soren laughs. It’s a good sound, rough with sleep. I peek around the corner. Soren is stretching his arms over his head. I noticed he's not wincing. No sharp intake of breath. His ribs are finally healing. Art is on a step stool, quietly swapping out a burned-out bulb above the sink. He moves with that heavy, deliberate grace of his, making sure not to wake the neighbors.
I watch them. Draven finally gets the coffee to brew and pours it into a mug,
