You wake up with that familiar sensation of having come back too fast, as if the dream hasn’t fully let go and your body still hesitates to move. For a few seconds, you lie still, breathing slowly, listening: the apartment responds not with silence but with life—the muffled steps, a soft knock, the distant hum of a city stretching awake.

The white ceiling above you is smooth, unmarked, and light filters through the window gently. Still, your chest feels heavy, not from now but from everything that came before. You sit up slowly, place your feet on the cold floor, and accept that some pains don’t leave; they simply coexist with life.

You hear the kitchen before seeing it. Maria’s footsteps are firm and measured, her rhythm precise, while other sounds—the drawers, the pan hitting the stovetop—are freer, chaotic yet familiar. This is your home now, with everything that comes with it.

You pull on a shirt, run a hand through your messy hair, and step into the hallway, moving silently out of habit. The light-colored walls pass by slowly, photos on the shelf crooked or straightened, hinting at stories only partially told. There’s comfort in this controlled disorder, in its imperfection.

The kitchen opens before you naturally. Maria leans over the counter, tablet and notebook in front of her, finger tracing schedules and meetings while tightening a backpack strap, fully awake and focused. Natasha moves between pan and toaster with ease, cracking eggs one-handed, stirring the other, humming a tune as if mornings hold no weight for her.

“If we don’t leave in ten minutes, traffic will be a nightmare,” Maria says without looking up, recalculating timelines only she seems able to manage.

“Traffic is always a nightmare,” Natasha replies, turning off the burner just in time.“But look at her—already awake. That’s always a good sign,” she adds, watching you.

Maria finally looks at you, reading you in the quiet way she does, expression softening.

“How did you sleep?” she asks, stepping closer, open but not rushing you.

Before you answer, Natasha sets a plate in front of you—eggs slightly underdone, toast darker than ideal—hand resting on the table, her mix of assessment and care never cold.

“Eat first,” she says quietly, firm but gentle. “Then you can talk.”

You sit and comply, the gesture leaving no room for argument. Maria returns to her backpack, pulling out a sweater you don’t remember asking for, placing it back as if anticipating the day’s unpredictability.

“I’ll take her today,” Maria says, zipping the bag with decisive motion. “I have a meeting nearby and can be back early.”

Natasha leans against the counter, crossing her arms calmly. “You got back late yesterday,” she says, pushing off slightly. “It’s fine if I drive today.”

Maria exhales, rubbing her face. “I don’t want everything rushed. It takes her longer to settle afterward,” she adds, glancing at you.

Natasha tilts her head slightly, watching you finish another bite. “I don’t see her rushed,” she says calmly. “I see her calm.”

The silence that follows is heavy but not uncomfortable. Maria nods, accepting the adjustment.

“Alright,” she says, shoulders relaxing. “But text me when you get there,” reaching for her coffee.

“I always do,” Natasha replies, slipping the keys into her pocket.

Maria turns to you, hand resting on a chair. “Do you have everything for today? Notebook, headphones, badge?”

From your side, Natasha adds quietly, almost under her breath, reaching for her jacket: “And you’re okay to leave now?”