he morning arrived gently, with pale sunlight filtering through the curtains and painting the walls in soft gold. I stirred awake to the muffled sounds of someone clattering around downstairs. For a moment, I let myself linger in bed, savoring the quiet warmth beneath the covers. The house felt alive, even in its early morning chaos—a contrast to the stillness of last night.
When I finally ventured downstairs, the scene was predictably amusing. Rory was sprawled on the couch in nearly the exact same position he'd fallen asleep in, except now he was groaning dramatically about a stiff neck. Caleb, on the other hand, was sitting cross-legged on the floor, sipping coffee with a dazed expression as Béatrice scolded him for drinking it black.
"Do you enjoy pain?" she asked, wrinkling her nose. "At least add some sugar."
Caleb blinked at her, looking entirely too tired to argue. "This is sugar. Black coffee's just… concentrated sugar."
"It's concentrated bitterness, you barbarian." Béatrice rolled her eyes but handed him a teaspoon anyway, clearly determined to save him from himself.
Xander was at the counter, flipping pancakes with surprising finesse.