Page 120 of Stolen Harmony

My place. I'll cook.

The words sat on my screen like a smallmiracle. He wanted to cook for me. Wanted me in his space, his kitchen, the intimate geography of his daily life. It felt like more than breakfast, more than a casual invitation between two people who were still figuring out what they meant to each other.

I threw on clothes without thinking too hard about them, grabbed Roxie's carrier because I couldn't leave her alone for too long, and walked through Harbor's End's quiet morning streets. The air was crisp with the promise of autumn, salt-tinged and clean.

The house looked different in the morning light. Warmer somehow, more like a home than a monument to loss. The windows glowed with yellow light, and I could see movement inside, the shadow of someone moving purposefully through rooms that held memories I was only beginning to understand.

Elias answered the door before I could knock, like he'd been watching for me. He was wearing a sweater I'd never seen before, soft gray wool that made his eyes look bluer, and his hair was still damp from a shower. He looked younger somehow, less careful, like the armor he usually wore had been set aside for the morning.

“You brought reinforcements,” he said, nodding at the carrier where Roxie was peering out with suspicious green eyes.

“She gets anxious when I leave her alone too long. Trust issues.”

“Can't imagine where she learned that.”

The comment should have stung, but there was warmth in his voice, understanding instead of judgment. He led me into the kitchen where Max was sprawled across the floor in a patch of sunlight, tail thumping lazily against the tile when he saw me.

“Coffee?” Elias asked, already moving toward the machine on the counter.

“Please.”

I let Roxie out of her carrier and watched her explore the kitchen with careful steps, sniffing at corners and cabinets like she was mapping the territory. Max lifted his head to watch her, curious but not aggressive, and I felt some tension I hadn't realized I was carrying start to ease.

Elias moved around the kitchen with practiced efficiency, pulling eggs from the refrigerator, bread from a drawer, butter from a dish on the counter. His movements were economical, purposeful, the actions of someone who'd learned to take care of himself out of necessity rather than choice.

“How do you like your eggs?” he asked, cracking them into a bowl with one-handed precision.

“However you're making them.”

He glanced at me over his shoulder, something unreadable flickering across his expression. “You sure? I'm not much of a cook.”

“Neither am I. We'll figure it out together.”

The words carried more weight than they should have, implying a togetherness that we hadn't explicitly agreed to, a future that might extend beyond this single morning. But Elias just nodded and went back to whisking eggs, and I let myself imagine what it might be like to have more mornings like this, more shared meals, more quiet domestic moments that felt like home.

The coffee he handed me was perfect: strong and black and exactly what I needed. He'd remembered how I liked it from the single cup we'd shared weeks ago, had filed away that small detail like it mattered. The thoughtfulness of it made my chest feel tight.

“Need help?” I asked, settling onto one of the barstools that lined the kitchen island.

“You can keep me company. That's help enough.”

We talked while he cooked, easy conversation that felt like a luxury after weeks of careful distance and loaded silences. He told me about the music lessons he taught at the elementary school, about the kid who'd decided he wanted to be a professional triangle player, about the way children approached music without the self-consciousness that paralyzed most adults.

“They don't worry about being perfect,” he said, flipping what looked like the world's most uneven pancake. “They just want to make noise and see what happens.”

“Maybe they're onto something.”

“Maybe they are.”

Breakfast was chaos: burnt toast, pancakes that looked like abstract art, eggs that were somehow both overcooked and runny at the same time. But it was the best meal I'd had in months, maybe years, because it was made with care and eaten without pretense, because it was ours in a way that felt both new and inevitable.

Roxie had found a sunny spot by the window and was cleaning herself with the thorough attention of someone who planned to stay. Max had claimed most of the couch in the living room, sprawled across the cushions like he owned the place.

“Looks like they've formed an alliance,” I said, nodding toward the living room where both animals had settled into peaceful coexistence.

“Smart animals. They know a good thing when they see it.”

I caught his eye across the kitchen island, saw something soft and unguarded in his expression that made my pulse quicken.