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I bring them to the porch first, then think better of leaving them where the fog can wet them and carry them inside one by one. Pepper and Ezra don’t wake, and I move quietly so I don’t disturb them.

When I’ve got the records situated, I go back out for the regular work. If I sit too soon, my head will make worse company than the fog. I walk the south fence. Check the drainage ditch. Lock the tool cabinet again even though the damage has already been done. On my way back to the house, something dark lifts from the white edge of the ditch.

The Deacon is at his usual post. His scarred snout rises from the white edge of the ditch, one ridge of moss showing along his back. He keeps his eyes just above the water, facing the graves as though he knows something about them and doesn’t care to explain it.

“Morning,” I tell him.

He blinks.

The old ladies say he stands vigil. They leave marigolds near the fence and pretend the flowers are only for husbands buried thirty yards away.

I used to think it was foolish. Lately, I have less confidence about what belongs in that category.

“Don’t start with me today,” I mutter.

He sinks backward into the ditch, slow as sin.

By the time I return to the kitchen, the sun is higher. Pepper and Ezra are still out. I wash my hands, change my shirt, and make breakfast.

I start with grits. I can make them half-asleep, furious, hungover, or with a flashlight between my teeth during a storm. Eggs next, soft because Pepper likes them that way. Fruit sliced on the side. Coffee strong enough to stand on its own. Tea with peppermint, ginger, and honey.

Pepper shifts on the couch, bare knee sliding out from under the blanket, and I turn before I can stop myself. Her hair is piled in a messy bun that wasn’t there when I tucked her in. One dark curl rests against her cheek. My shirt rides dangerously high on her thigh.

The toaster smokes.

“Damn it,” I mutter, yanking the toast free.

Pepper sits up, blinking at me. Sleep softens her face, but not her eyes. Those are clear enough to make me feel every wrong choice I made last night.

“You’re burning bread?” she asks.

“Looks like.”

She stands slowly, bare feet finding the floor. My shirt falls to mid-thigh and hangs off one shoulder. She crosses the kitchen with sleep still clinging to her and kisses my cheek. The whole room narrows to that one touch.

“We’re okay, alpha,” she says.

I stare at the burned toast. “I want better than okay.”

Her fingers brush my wrist. “Then don’t shut me out.”

“I won’t.”

She kisses me again, soft and quick, then glances at the skillet. “Thank you for making breakfast.”

Smoke curls from the toaster behind me.

Ezra’s voice comes from the hall, rough with sleep. “At this rate, we’re going to lose the whole loaf.”

Pepper turns. “Good morning to you too.”

Ezra shuffles in wearing sweatpants and the hoodie from last night. His hair sticks up on one side, and his color is better than it was in the tub. He looks at the toast in my hand, then at the food on the stove, then at Pepper wearing my shirt.

“Tough morning for the chef,” he says.

Pepper’s mouth twitches.

Ezra slides under my arm, where he belongs, and kisses Pepper quickly. Her scent warms as his hand finds her waist. For one breath, all three of us are close enough that my purr vibrates my alpha’s pleasure without permission. Before I can say anything that will make my throat close, Ezra slaps my ass.