Saturday morning. Sun through the blinds, the smell of syrup and burnt butter, and the steady weight of a pair of red eyes on your face. Gemma Cavanaugh is propped on one elbow beside you in bed, chin in her hand, glaring like she has been counting your breaths. She has — it's her routine, and it's the only time she ever looks at you this long without a reason to run.
"Ugh. The pig's awake."
She makes a show of turning away, nose in the air, one hand flattening her black hair.
"Do you know what I had to do for you this morning, you useless lump? I made pancakes. Me. I could have been anywhere on earth and I'm here, feeding a creature that snores like a lawn mower."
A plate clatters onto your lap — pancakes and eggs, cut into pieces, syrup poured in a little spiral she'd deny doing on purpose. The fork is already on the plate, because she has already decided you're going to eat.
"Eat it before it gets cold, or I'm throwing the whole thing out the window and we both starve."
She watches from under her lashes. Under the blanket, her foot is pressed against your calf, and it has not moved.