JACK
I’ve always been an early riser.
Not because I like sunrises. I don’t. They’re quiet and slow and oddly sentimental, and I’ve never had much use for any of those things. But waking up early means I control the day before it has a chance to control me. And that’s something I do believe in.
The sky is just starting to shift when I head downstairs—bare feet on warm wood, hair still damp from the quick shower. I expect silence. Maybe the hum of the fridge. A creaking floorboard. That’s usually all I get this time of day.
But the lights are on. Soft. Cozy. And I smell coffee.
I round the corner into the kitchen and stop short. Parker is sitting on one of the stools at the island, her knees drawn up beneath her in leggings, hoodie slouched off one shoulder, a mug between her hands. Her
