GAVIN
I wake to the smell of waffles.
Real ones. Not the frozen kind you pop in a toaster, but fresh batter on cast iron, crisping into golden edges and soft middles. There’s cinnamon in the air too, and something citrusy—orange zest, maybe? Someone’s gone gourmet.
It’s not Jack. He doesn’t believe in breakfast that doesn’t come in a shaker bottle. Can’t be Harrison. The man treats food like fuel—efficient, unceremonious.
Parker.
I lie in bed a few seconds longer than I should, staring at the ceiling. There’s a knot low in my chest that’s been there since yesterday—since I agreed to bring her here, into this place that was never meant to hold anything fragile.
The lodge is for retreat. For strategy. For solving problems in a place where noise can’t follow. Bringing her was reckless.
