Page 26 of Crown of the Mist (The Ether Chronicles #1)

The early morning quiet feels different here. It’s not the fragile kind of quiet, the kind that hangs in the air waiting to be broken by raised voices or slammed doors. This quiet feels steady, like it’s meant to be here. Like it belongs.

I shift under the heavy blanket, Rhett’s oversized hoodie still draped over my shoulders.

The faint scent of cedar clings to it, grounding me as I sit up and glance around the guest room.

Light filters through the curtains, soft and golden, casting warm patterns on the walls.

My apartment never looked like this in the morning—never felt like this.

The sound of movement draws me toward the door. A soft clink of a plate, the faint hum of a kettle. My bare feet touch the cool floor as I stand, tugging the hoodie tighter around me. The mist curls lazily at my ankles, a silent companion as I make my way down the hall.

Gray is in the kitchen, moving with quiet efficiency.

He’s already dressed, his shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, revealing forearms that move with practiced ease as he slices something on the cutting board.

The sight of him—focused, steady, so effortlessly capable—does something to my chest, makes it harder to breathe for a moment.

The smell of coffee lingers in the air, mingling with the faint aroma of butter and something warm and earthy.

My stomach growls softly, betraying me before I can even announce my presence.

I take a hesitant step closer, my fingers brushing the edge of the counter as I try to make myself small, unnoticed. But my eyes keep straying to him—his forearms flexing as he works, the way his dark hair catches the morning light. He’s not even trying, and yet he draws me in. They all do.

It’s maddening. It’s infuriating. It’s... terrifying.

Because I can never let them know. Not about the way my heart stumbles every time Rhett meets my eyes, steady and sure.

Or how Wes’s quiet strength feels like a tether I didn’t realize I needed.

Or how Jace’s easy charm makes me feel like the world isn’t such a heavy place.

Or the way Theo’s calm steadiness feels like a balm against all the chaos in my head.

And Gray? God, Gray makes it worse. He’s all sharp edges and protective instincts, his gaze cutting through every wall I’ve ever built like they’re nothing. The way he looks at me—like I’m something worth figuring out—makes it impossible to forget what I’ve lost. What I can’t allow myself to want.

Being here, surrounded by them, makes it so much harder.

I told myself I’d stay for a night, two at most. But every small kindness, every shared look, every moment like this—watching Gray move through the kitchen like it’s the most natural thing in the world—it chips away at my resolve.

Makes me wonder if maybe, just maybe, I could let myself want this.

But I can’t. Not without ruining everything.

He doesn’t look up right away, but I know he heard me. Gray hears everything. “Morning,” he says, his voice low and calm, like he’s speaking into the stillness of the house.

“Morning.” My voice is quieter than I intend, but it doesn’t feel out of place here. I hover near the edge of the room, unsure if I should stay.

“Coffee’s fresh.” He gestures toward the pot without turning, his attention still on whatever he’s chopping. “Mugs are in the cabinet above.”

I nod, stepping into the room and feeling the cool tile under my feet. It feels too... normal, this routine of mornings. Too easy. I grab a mug and pour the coffee, the steam curling upward like the mist that always lingers nearby.

Gray sets down the knife, finally looking over at me. His sharp green eyes soften slightly, but he doesn’t push. “You sleep okay?”

The question catches me off guard, even though it shouldn’t. “Yeah,” I lie. “Better than usual.”

His mouth quirks in something that’s not quite a smile, but close enough to feel like one. “Good.”

We don’t say much else as he plates up whatever he was working on—scrambled eggs and toast, simple but comforting. He sets a plate in front of me at the kitchen island without a word, then takes his own seat across from me. The quiet isn’t awkward. It just... is.

I watch him as he eats, his movements precise but unhurried. It’s a stark contrast to the mornings I’ve known—rushed, chaotic, or filled with too much noise to enjoy anything. This is something else entirely. It feels steady. Safe.

When I finish, I stand to take my plate to the sink, but something catches my eye outside the window. My breath catches.

The seeds.

They’ve sprouted.

I set the plate down carefully, stepping closer to the window.

The little patch of soil where I planted the seeds yesterday is now dotted with delicate green stems, their leaves already stretching toward the sunlight.

A faint shimmer seems to cling to them, like morning dew catching the light just so.

It’s impossible. Seeds don’t sprout overnight. Not like this.

My heart races, but not with fear. There’s something about the sight—about the way they’ve grown, impossibly fast yet undeniably real—that feels... right. Like they belong here. Like I belong here.

“Bree?”

Gray’s voice pulls me back. I turn to find him watching me, his fork paused halfway to his mouth. His gaze flicks from my face to the window, and I know he sees it too.

For a moment, he looks like he’s going to say something. But then he doesn’t. He just nods slightly, his expression calm but knowing, and goes back to eating like nothing’s out of the ordinary.

I glance back at the small buds, the shimmer still faintly visible in the sunlight. The mist curls around my feet, warmer than usual, almost like it’s pleased.

And for the first time in a long time, I let myself smile.