Soft morning light filled the kitchen, pale and quiet.
Paisley sat at the table with her back straight and her feet tucked neatly beneath her chair. A bowl of cereal rested in front of her. She ate slowly, deliberately, each spoonful measured. No spills. No wasted movement. The kind of care that came from long practice.
Quinn leaned against the counter with a mug of coffee cooling in his hands. He pretended to scroll through his phone, but his attention never left her. He watched the way she held herself, the way she seemed to take up as little space as possible, like the room itself might notice her if she didn’t.
“Today’s probably like… a seven,” Paisley said.
Quinn looked up, surprised by the number, by the casual way she offered it.
“Seven’s not bad,” he said.
“It’s fine,” she re
