It's okay, Annabel. Don't ask something like that of your Uncle Lukas. Mommy will get it for you right away," Gloria said in her softest, most reassuring tone, ruffling her daughter's messy curls affectionately. The little girl had been pouting over a glass of milk, her tiny face scrunched up in that dramatic way only kids could manage. Gloria straightened her apron, her bare feet padding softly across the sunlit kitchen floor toward the fridge, the morning light filtering through the curtains and casting warm glows on the countertops.
But before she could even grasp the handle, Lukas surged to his feet with that sudden, predatory grace of his. He wrenched the fridge door open, the cool air whooshing out, and retrieved whatever it was Annabel had requested—a colorful sippy cup of juice, p
