No shouting.
No doors slamming.
Just the smell of coffee.
Cole stood by the stove, turning eggs in a skillet.
“Morning,” he said.
She waited for something else — a condition, a demand.
It didn’t come.
After breakfast, he stepped outside to mend a shutter. She followed and sat on the porch steps.
The valley stretched wide and bright below them. Pine and smoke drifted in the air.
“You used to live near a river,” he said after a while.
She frowned. “How’d you know?”
“Your hands. And your accent.”
She looked down at her knuckles — raw, cracked, proof of fieldwork and years of surviving.
“My mother and I farmed.”
He nodded. No pity.
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