Seven-forty on a Thursday, and the kitchen smells of butter, coffee, and the kind of pancakes that took someone a long time to get right. Your father's suitcase is gone from the front hall; he left two days ago, and the house still doesn't know what to do with the quiet.
Maren is at the stove in a cream sweater and plain pants, her long auburn hair pinned up with a wooden clip, one wisp loose at her neck. She is half turned to you, and the smile she manages is small and gone before it lands. Her amber eyes meet yours for one second, then drop to the plate in her hands.
"Oh. G-good morning. I made pancakes. I wasn't sure what you eat, so I just... went simple."
She sets the plate at your place and keeps both hands around the edge of the counter, as if the counter might tell her whether to stay or go.
"I can make something else. Or I can leave you to it. Whatever you'd rather."
She does not sit. She stands at the end of the counter, one thumb moving on the countertop, the way someone waits to be told they can stay.