Rain tapped steadily against the wide wall-windows—soft, constant.
Beyond them, the terrace was slick with water, thin streams slipping between the tiles and pattering off the railing. The whole house carried that muted morning weight storms tended to drag in.
Roughly an hour had passed.
Don sat at the dining table, posture relaxed, plate still half-full. Across from him, Samantha remained wrapped in a blanket, the ends pooled around her feet.
Trixie was curled in her lap again, tail rising and falling as Samantha fed her strips of bacon and pieces of scrambled egg.
On the other side of the room, Winter moved quietly between counter and sink, placing used pans into a drying rack, wiping down surfaces in calm, methodical arcs.
The topic of the morning hadn't been food.
It had been Don's height.
The moment he stood up earlier, Samantha's eyes had widened. Amanda's reaction… less subtle. She'd immediately tried to hang off his bicep like it was a tree branch.
