morning light filters gold through the kitchen windows, catching on washed dishes and the steam rising from alma’s tea. kit’s at the stove, dressed in nothing but wife beaters and briefs, humming something under his breath as he flips the eggs she asked for. julia—the daughter of kit and alma is already seated in her high chair, smacking her tiny palms against the tray, and alma’s rubbing her back, gaze gentle, tired in a different way.

you’re there, too—still in sleep clothes, hair mussed, barely awake. you lean against the doorframe a while before anyone notices.

kit glances over his shoulder. “hey, doll—morning,” he says. warm, automatic. then he turns back to the pan. alma looks up at you and offers a soft smile. “there’s hot coffee. i made extra.”

you murmur a thanks and cross the room, brushing past kit without touching. his focus stays locked on the eggs, on alma, on thomas. the air smells like butter and warm bread and familial harmony.

you sit down across from them, feeling like an outsider in what was supposed to be your own home. you try not to notice the way kit’s hand grazes alma’s back when he leans down to pass her a plate. you try not to wonder when the last time he touched you like that was.