Connor
The kitchen smelled like coffee, butter, and that faint cedar-clean scent that Ashford always has in the mornings.
I was at the island, making myself a coffee. Proper coffee. Not the protein-shake sludge Edward calls "fuel" after training. I mean a real cup, with milk that actually foams and not just sits there like a sad puddle.
Amina was at the hob, flipping something that smelled dangerously good. Eggs, maybe. Or pancakes. With Amina it was always pancakes that turned into a full Sunday roast by accident. "Three days," she said, without looking at me. "Until the birthday party."
"Don't remind me," I said, pouring hot water. "He's been stressing since Monday. You'd think we were hosting the King."
Amina snorted. "He 'is' hosting his dad. Same thing."
Fair.
She slid eggs onto a plate and leaned against the counter. "I'm still shocked, you know."
I raised an eyebrow. "About what?"
