Phei moved through Patricia's kitchen like he belonged there.
He didn't ask where things were. He opened drawers and cabinets with the quiet confidence of a man who'd already memorized the layout of her life in one night. The morning light poured in from the floor-to-ceiling windows, turning the dark marble counters gold into a living sheet of molten glass.
He found the coffee beans first—dark, oily, the good stuff she kept in a matte black canister. Ground them fresh. The grinder's low growl filled the space. Then the French press—simple, heavy glass.
He poured the boiling water over the grounds in slow circles, watching the bloom rise like dark smoke.
Eggs next.
He cracked six into a wide ceramic bowl—bright yolks breaking clean—whisked them with a fork until they were pale gold.
A knob of butter hissed in the pan. He poured the eggs in, stirred slow and deliberate with a silicone spatula, folding them into soft, creamy curds.
No rush.
