Moira's POV

The kitchen's quiet, the faint hum of the fridge cutting through the pre-dawn silence.

I start pulling out eggs, bacon, bread—familiar motions, but they hit different now. Back in Phantom Veil, breakfast was a chore, a demand barked by Dominic or Victoria, my hands shaking as I plated food for people who'd hurt me. Burn the toast, get a slap. Forget the coffee, get a fist.

Now? I'm cooking for Logan, for us, because I want to. The ...