I wake up before my alarm.
For a moment, I lie still, staring at the ceiling, letting the quiet of the house settle around me. The sky outside is still pale, barely morning, but sleep isn't coming back.
Not with everything running through my mind.
Devan.
Last night.
Roderick's message.
I exhale slowly and push myself out of bed.
If I can't sleep, I might as well do something useful.
The kitchen feels different this early. It is calm and untouched. I move quietly, pulling out ingredients, focusing on something simple. Eggs maybe, toast, coffee.
I crave for something normal. Something that doesn't involve overthinking every glance, every word, every almost-touch.
By the time I am done, the counter is set. Two plates, two mugs. Everything ready.
It feels domestic.
But it is the least I can do to appreciate Devan's generosity. If it weren't him, I would be on the streets.
I am wiping down the counter when I hear footsteps on the stairs. My heart betrays me instantly.
