Page 86 of Reckless: Collision

My nose twitches again. “Inside. Now.”

She rolls her eyes but follows me down to the kitchen. I park her at the island before my allergies can fully betray me, then rummage through the cabinets. Theo might be our resident artist, but breakfast? That’s my domain.

“You cook?” She sounds so skeptical it actually hurts my feelings a little.

“I cook exactly one thing very well.” I pull out a pan, trying not to feel smug at her surprised expression. “Everything else is a good attempt.”

“Let me guess—toast?”

I crack eggs into a bowl with perhaps more force than necessary. “My omelets are legendary, I’ll have you know. They got me through college.”

“Omelets got you through college?”

“Well, omelets and an unhealthy addiction to energy drinks.” I start chopping vegetables, falling into the familiar rhythm. “Quinn and I practically lived on them. Cheaper than the dining hall, and you can hide a lot of nutrients in eggs if you’re creative enough.”

She props her chin on her hand, watching me work. “Quinn from PCA? You went to college together?”

“MIT.” I slide mushrooms into the pan, letting them sizzle. “Computer Science.”

“Of course you did, you nerds.”

Outside, the first snowflakes start to fall, fat and lazy in the pre-dawn light. Cayenne’s whole demeanor changes as she spots them, something childlike and wondering crossing her face.

“You act like you’ve never seen snow before.” The words slip out before I can stop them.

“I haven’t. Not really.” She presses closer to the window. “Grew up in California. Bay Area.”

California. Well, that throws a wrench in Quinn’s Sterling Labs theory. Unless...

“Just you and your parents?” I try to keep my voice casual as I fold the first omelet.

“Just me and my mom.” Something in her voice makes me look up. “She left my father when I was little. Never talked about him. Never even told me his name.”

The pieces click together with a certainty that makes my stomach drop. “My mom died when I was nineteen,” I say instead of pushing. Sometimes sharing pain is better than seeking answers.

She’s quiet for a long moment. “Cancer got mine. Three years ago.”

I slide the perfect omelet onto a plate, adding a fork before setting it in front of her. Our fingers brush as she takes it, and something passes between us—understanding maybe, or recognition of shared wounds.

“May I ask what type?” I ask softly.

“Pancreatic.” She states, poking at the eggs. “Brain tumor for yours?”

“Car accident.” The familiar ache rises, but it’s dulled by time and acceptance. “Drunk driver.”

“That sucks.” She takes a bite, then her eyes widen. “Holy shit, this is actually good.”

“Try not to sound so surprised.” But I’m already starting another one, oddly pleased by her reaction.

The snow falls harder outside, coating the world in quiet possibility. We eat in comfortable silence, two broken people finding connection in shared loss and breakfast food.

Sometimes the simplest moments mean the most.

“You know,” I check the growing blanket of white outside, “if it lays, we could go sledding later.”

“Sledding?” She perks up like I just offered her unrestricted internet access. “I’ve never been sledding.”

“Never?” The way her eyes light up does something strange to my chest. “Well, we’ll have to fix that. Let me check the forecast?—”

---