The kitchen smells like butter and sugar and something just a little too ambitious for a Saturday morning.

French toast stacks high on a platter—golden, soft-centered, dusted with powdered sugar you shook on a little too enthusiastically. Bacon sizzles in the pan, popping sharply like it’s got opinions. On the counter, a tray of sun-dried tomato and spinach quiche cups rests neatly lined, still warm, still holding their shape like they’re proud of themselves. Blueberry muffins sit off to the side under a clean cloth, domed tops peeking out like they already know they’re the best thing in the room.

You’re barefoot.

Of course you are.

Kayce’s shirt hangs off you like it’s been borrowed too many times to still feel like his, sleeves pushed up, apron tied over it in a way that suggests you meant to be organized and then got distracted by the smell of browning butter and the satisfaction of doing something nice for once.

The oven hums softly behind you. The whole house feels settled—soft edges, warm light, quiet pride in the food you’ve made.

Which is exactly why it shouldn’t feel so fragile.

You flip the bacon carefully, letting the grease spit without flinching, and glance at the clock.

Still time.

Still—

The front door doesn’t open so much as announce itself.

A hard push. A familiar hesitation. Then boots on wood.

Too many boots.

Your hand pauses mid-motion over the pan.

Voices follow immediately.

“—I’m telling you, he’s avoiding us.”

Beth.

Of course Beth.

Another voice, calmer, steadier. “Or he’s working.”

Rip.

And then, lower than both of them, carrying like it owns the air it moves through—

“He should answer his damn phone.”

John Dutton.

Your stomach tightens.

John Dutton is in the house.

You barely set the spatula down before the kitchen doorway fills.

Beth is first, eyes sharp and already taking inventory—food, you, the shirt, the apron, the obvious domestic tableau she can’t wait to ruin or rename. Her mouth curves slowly.

“Oh,” she says, dragging the word out like it’s something she’s found under a couch cushion. “Well. This is adorable.”

Heat rises instantly to your face.

Rip steps in behind her, slower, taking the scene in with that quiet, practical gaze. Not judging. Just measuring. Like he’s checking whether anything is about to catch fire besides the bacon.

“Smells good,” he says simply.

John doesn’t speak at first. He just looks.

That look is heavier than anything in the kitchen. It doesn’t rush. It doesn’t soften. It just stays.

You wipe your hands on the apron without thinking, suddenly aware of everything at once—the slightly crooked stack of French toast, the bacon that’s a little too close to crisp, the muffins like they’re pretending this is normal.

“I—uh—Kayce isn’t here,” you say, as if that explains the entire situation.

Beth snorts immediately. “No kidding.”

Silence follows, stretching just long enough for the bacon to crackle too loudly, like it’s nervous too.

Then another set of footsteps enters behind them.

Slower. Controlled. Almost reluctant.

“You all always look like you’re about to either start a war or a family meeting,” a voice says dryly.

You turn.

Jaime Dutton stands in the doorway, suit jacket open, tie loosened like he’s already survived too much morning. His gaze sweeps the kitchen once—fast, precise. French toast. Bacon. Muffins. Quiche cups. You. Kayce’s shirt.

His expression tightens, just slightly.

“Well,” he says after a beat. “This explains why no one can get ahold of Kayce.”

Beth turns instantly. “Oh good. The lawyer’s here to narrate breakfast.”

“I’m not narrating anything,” Jaime replies evenly, eyes still moving across the counter like he’s trying not to make assumptions. “I’m observing a situation that didn’t need this many moving parts at 9 a.m.”

Rip huffs something under his breath that almost counts as amusement.

“You got a problem with breakfast?” Beth asks.

“I have a problem with surprises,” Jaime says.

That lands sharper than it should.