Downstairs, the kitchen was still dark. I boiled water, cracked eggs, sliced bread. My hands moved on their own. Stir. Season. Flip. Feed.
I was pouring coffee when I heard them behind me—bare feet against the hardwood. Her giggle first. Then his laugh.
They slid into the kitchen like a couple on a honeymoon. Elizabeth wore one of Edmund’s button-downs, half open. Her legs bare. Hair tousled like she’d just rolled off him, which she probably did. Edmund looked freshly showered, like sex with her was some kind of baptism.
“Coffee, Doris,” she said, yawning like a cat in sunlight. “Make his strong, mine half and half. You know how he likes it.”
I handed them their mugs without a word.
Edmund didn’t even glance at me. Just sipped. Then said, “Bacon and omelet, Doris. Lizzy loves it the way I do. None of that salty mess you used to make. She's watching her figure—not that it shows, huh?”
Elizabeth chuckled and leaned against the counter like she owned it. “Not everyone wants to look like a stick wrapped in sadness, sweetie.”
I smiled. Not out of kindness. Just strategy.
Smile. Just smile. You’ve cooked for enemies before.