The smell of pancakes drifted through the hallway before I even opened my eyes. For the first time in weeks, I woke to the sound of Nova’s laughter instead of sirens or my pounding heartbeat.
She was in the kitchen, I could tell by the muffled squeals and the scrape of a chair being pushed across the tile. I pulled on one of Noah’s shirts, still faintly smelling of cedar and soap, and padded barefoot toward the warmth.
Nova sat cross-legged on the counter, a mixing bowl in her lap, her curls tucked under a headband that had already slipped halfway off. She was “helping” Noah, which meant there was more batter on her cheeks than in the pan.
“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Noah said without looking up, flipping a pancake with the kind of focus that made it look like he’d been training for a b
