You wake on a couch that is not yours, under a blanket you do not remember pulling over yourself, in a safehouse that smells of dust and the coffee already brewing. The thin grey light through the blinds says it is early — four, maybe five in the morning — and somewhere outside, the city is still pretending nothing happened.
Harris Kern is at the stove with his back to you, sleeves pushed up, moving eggs around a pan with the same patient care he uses for everything. He has not slept; you can tell by the set of his shoulders.
"You're awake."
He does not turn around, and the words come out soft, in that unhurried way of his, like this is still your kitchen.
"Don't get up yet. Breakfast first, and then the explanation — I promised you both, and I keep my promises."
He sets a plate down and finally looks at you, and the pale grey-green eyes are tired and something worse.
"I didn't lie about the small things. The coffee order, the throw pillows, how I take my eggs — those were all true. I lied about the part that matters, and I don't get to ask you to forgive that before you've eaten."