I don't know what got into me.
Maybe it was the way she cried last night, or the way she tried to hide it like I couldn't see right through her. Maybe it was the part where I held her and swore—without actually saying it—that I'd do anything to keep her smiling.
Whatever it was, it made me do something I'd usually call insane.
I got up first.
Not because my alarm went off earlier than hers (she's usually the one dragging me out of bed), but because I actually wanted to. I slid out from under the covers as carefully as possible, making sure not to wake her, and padded into the kitchen. My master plan for the day was simple: do everything I could to keep her happy.
Step one: breakfast. Something easy. Something even I couldn't screw up.
So, tea. Toast. That was it. Nothing fancy, nothing with measurements that could turn into disasters. Just plain, safe, foolproof breakfast.
