We stay locked together after, breaths ragged, bodies slick and spent. I plant a light kiss to her temple before I get up and pull on my boxers.
"I'm going to go make some coffee," I say, heading to the kitchen.
Behind me, I hear her stirring, getting dressed.
"Hungry?" I ask over my shoulder, giving her space to change without looking.
"Always," she says, her voice brighter now, like the morning's already won her over.
Fuck, she's adorable.
"Eggs?"
"Yes, please."
I pour her a mug of hot coffee and hand it over, then grab the creamer from the fridge. "We have sugar too, if you need it."
"This is good." She takes it black and bitter. I smirk to myself. She's sweet enough as it is.
I start on breakfast, cracking eggs into the pan, and feel her eyes on me the whole time.
She starts pacing the trailer, slow steps taking her through the cramped space. I feel myself shrinking under it, waiting for the judgment, the questions, the moment she sees too much.
Thank God the drugs are stashed away or out with Dad. That's a conversation for another day I'm not ready for.
She stops at the cluster of photos of Mom on the wall. Her fingers brush the frame so lightly it almost hurts to watch. My throat tightens.
Dad and I have tried to make this place feel like home, with photos pinned up and Mom's little decorative touches scattered around like she's still here with us.
Then I see which one she's focused on.
"The necklace," she says softly.
It's an old photo: Mom holding me as a kid, Dad making a dumb face in the background. I couldn't have been more than three years old. We were sitting at the dining table at Aunt Val's. She's wearing her cross necklace, the one she never took off.
"Yeah," I mutter, hoping she reads the tone and drops it. I'm not ready.
"Is this your mother?"
I nod, just once, turning back to the eggs. I throw in some shredded cheese to scramble with them.
Next to the photos is Mom's funeral pamphlet, tucked into the frame like a scar we can't erase.
She stands there quiet, piecing it together on her own.
My heart's in my throat. I feel sick.
"She's beautiful," she says finally.
"Thank you." I shrug it off, plating the eggs.
She steps closer, her hand light on my hip.
My guard slams up. I pull away without thinking, grabbing plates and dishing out breakfast like it's a shield.
I'm not hungry anymore, but I set the plates down with forks anyway. To avoid eating, I pour myself fresh coffee.
We sit in silence that stretches on forever. Or maybe it’s just minutes. I can’t tell.