The first thing Caleb heard in the morning was a pan.
Not a siren, not a comm, not the low internal pulse of silver under his ribs. A pan.
Someone else's kitchen had a different sound from his mother's kitchen, even when the object was the same. The weight of it on the burner, the small scrape, the way the room answered. It was an older kind of sound.
The sound of being a guest.
Caleb opened his eyes. Courtyard light had given way to real morning. The window was still open, the curtain moved every few seconds in the breeze, and the apartment smelled like butter.
Elara stood at the stove in a long shirt that was not the sweater from last night. Bare feet. Hair loose. One hand cracking eggs into a bowl with the practical rhythm of someone who cooked when no one was observing her.
