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Rachel set the table with a cheerful clatter, sliding plates of golden toast and fluffy scrambled eggs in front of us like she was serving a fancy brunch instead of what was left over from a power outage.
The eggs were surprisingly perfect—creamy and just the right amount of pepper and the toast came with little pots of homemade jam that tasted like summer in a jar.
We all squeezed around the small kitchen table: Rachel at the head, her mom beside her with a plate cut into bite-sized pieces, and Adrien and I crammed together on the narrow bench, because personal space wasn't really a thing in this house.
The conversation started off light, Rachel asking Adrien about school and if he played any sports (he admitted to basketball with a shy grin that gave me butterflies), and whether he enjoyed the vineyard tours his dad sometimes dragged him on.
