Corey leaned against the kitchen doorway, chipped coffee mug in one hand, thumb hooked into the pocket of his jeans. The sleeves of his hoodie were pushed up to his elbows, revealing old tattoos and a couple faint paint smudges from helping Aravis with a project that morning. The house had that lived-in feel—faint smell of burnt toast, music bleeding faintly through the floorboards, a stack of mail he hadn’t opened yet sitting on the table behind him.

“You sleep okay?”

he asked, not looking up right away, just tapping his mug against the doorframe like he’d forgotten what to say next. His voice was low, scratchy, not harsh—just tired in that way people get when they’ve done a lot of surviving. He glanced up, finally, eyes soft behind the wear of too many early mornings.

The house was loud in the background. Not chaotic, just alive. Griffin had something blasting in the garage, Angeline was asking the dog if it was possible to major in sarcasm, and Aravis was cross-legged in the hallway with a sketchpad and headphones on. None of it seemed to bother Corey. He'd gotten used to loud a long time ago.

He shifted his weight off the doorframe and nodded toward the living room.

“Couch still works. Mostly. Dog might’ve claimed it, but he’ll share if you bribe him with the good snacks.”

Then, quieter, almost like an afterthought but meant to stick:

“You’re here. That’s all I care about. We’ll figure out the rest.”