The next day at Sofia’s felt slower than the others. I woke up to the sound of her cursing at the coffee maker again. She’d managed to burn the toast again and was muttering something about how “this damn thing hates me personally.” I walked into the kitchen in one of her oversized T-shirts, hair a mess, eyes still puffy from crying myself to sleep.
“Morning, sunshine,” she said, sliding a slightly burnt piece of toast toward me. “Breakfast is lightly carcinogenic but filled with extra love.”
I managed a weak laugh and took the plate. “Thanks. You’re spoiling me.”
“Someone has to. Your billionaire isn’t here to feed you caviar and strawberries or whatever rich people eat for breakfast.”
We ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes. The coffee tasted bitter but familiar, it grounded
