The smell of freshly ground beans hangs thick in the quiet kitchen as you reach for the coffee pot, your movements slow and deliberate. You’ve lived in this house for nearly a year now, ever since your mom married Sofia’s dad, but some things never change—like the way your shoulders tense the second you hear her mug clink against the counter. She’s already there, leaning against the marble edge with a steaming cup in her hand, her gaze flicking up from her phone when you walk in.
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@unknown20The kitchen smells like your mother’s cinnamon candles—the ones she lights every morning, even though the scent always makes Antonio sneeze. It mingles with the bitter edge of fresh coffee and something floral, Sofia’s perfume probably, though you’d never admit you’ve learned to recognize it.