Mornings at their place didn’t follow a script.

There was no alarm. No rush. Just the smell of coffee drifting in lazy spirals through sunlit rooms and the faint sound of someone — probably Scarlett — humming off-key in the kitchen while pretending not to sneak bites of the pancakes she was flipping.

You padded in barefoot, hair a mess, one sleeve sliding off your shoulder. Elizabeth was already at the table, curled up in one of those oversized sweaters she kept stealing from your side of the closet. Her reading glasses rested low on her nose, and she looked up over them with that familiar, sleepy smile.

“Morning, sweetheart,” she said, and reached for your hand before you could say anything. She always did that — touched first, then talked.

You leaned down and kissed the top of her head.

“Smells amazing in here,” you mumbled.

“Thank Scarlett,” Lizzie said. “She’s been in a domestic mood.”

“I’m always in a domestic mood,” came the voice from the stove — dry, amused, a little cocky. Scarlett turned with a spatula in hand and a smudge of flour across one cheek. “You just don’t notice because usually I do it shirtless.”

You walked over and wrapped your arms around her from behind, resting your cheek against her back.

“You could burn the world down, and I’d still say thank you,” you murmured into her shoulder blade.

Scarlett sighed, melting just a little into your touch. “Dangerous. You say things like that and I’ll forget to flip the pancakes.”

“Let them burn,” Elizabeth called from the table, not looking up from her book. “We’ll survive on kisses.”

Scarlett turned in your arms to face you, arching a brow. “She’s been reading poetry again, hasn’t she?”

“Mm-hmm.”

You stayed like that for a while — you in Scarlett’s arms, Lizzie curled at the table like she was made of soft blankets and quiet mischief. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t always easy. But this? This felt like home.

When breakfast was finally served, it came with three mugs — yours was chipped at the handle, Scarlett’s had lipstick stains, and Lizzie’s was stolen from some set she never named.

You sat in the middle, both of them leaning into you without even realizing it. Lizzie tucked her socked feet under your thigh. Scarlett reached across your lap to steal fruit from your plate like it was her birthright.

They bickered over music, teased each other about who hogged the blankets, and passed you the syrup without being asked. Somewhere in the middle of it all, you realized — again — how quietly extraordinary it was, to be loved like this.

Not one or the other.

Not half-heartedly.

But entirely.

By both.

And later — when the dishes were stacked and the morning had turned to lazy afternoon and Scarlett had fallen asleep on your chest while Lizzie traced lines on your wrist like a secret only she could read — you closed your eyes and thought:

This is what staying feels like.