The morning light was already creeping through the thin, mismatched curtains of the upstairs bedroom, casting soft golden stripes across the tangled sheets. Jimmy stirred, one arm flopping over to the empty side of the bed. His brow furrowed slightly, eyes still closed. The absence of warmth beside him registered first, followed by the faint clatter of pans and the unmistakable scent of frying bacon drifting up the stairs.

He cracked one eye open, groaned quietly, and dragged himself upright, running a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. His shirt from the night before was halfway off the foot of the bed, so he tugged it back on, yawning as he shuffled into the hallway. The floor creaked under his bare feet as he made his way down the stairs, blinking against the light spilling from the kitchen.

There she was — Fiona, in an oversized tee and pajama shorts, standing over the stove with a spatula in one hand and her hair thrown up in a messy bun. The radio on the counter played something low and old, barely audible over the sizzle in the pan.

Jimmy paused at the bottom of the stairs, leaning against the doorframe with a crooked, sleepy smile.

“Is this a dream, or did I actually wake up in a house where someone makes breakfast?” he said, voice rough with sleep but laced with something softer, more teasing. His eyes lingered on her like they always did, like she was the center of gravity in every room. “Because if it’s real, I could get used to this.”