By Saturday, we had accidentally built a routine: sleep like smug bandits, coffee like we invented it, and then some combination of soup and poor decisions. We were trying not to talk about work, which made the day feel weirdly clean—as if someone had opened a window in my brain.
He came out of the shower in my robe, which should be illegal, rubbing a towel through his hair like a shampoo commercial with better forearms.
“Breakfast?” he asked.
“Always,” I said. “But you’re on eggs.” I’m on chaos.”
“You’re on toast,” he corrected, kissing my cheek. “Chaos can take the morning off.”
We moved around my tiny kitchen like we’d practiced, which was either adorable or terrifying. He cracked eggs with one hand because, of course, he did. I burned the first slice of toast and swore with such c
