CIAN
The kitchen at six in the morning never smelled the way it did during the day. The bread was long gone from the ovens. That warm, soft scent had faded. What took its place was coffee. Sharp. Bitter. It cut through everything and sat heavy at the back of my throat.
I stood in the doorway with the pot in my hands and waited.
The head chef noticed me almost at once. Her gaze dropped straight to what I was holding.
"Alpha Cian," she said, setting aside the bowl she had been working with. "You finished?"
"I need help plating it."
That earned a small smile. Nothing exaggerated. Just knowing. "Of course."
She wiped her hands on her apron and crossed the room. Took the pot from me carefully, like it mattered. Like she understood that it did. She lifted the lid and steam rolled up between us. She leaned in without thinking and breathed it in.
"This is unique," she said after a moment. "I do not recognize it as one of the Grand Luna's favorites."
"It's not for my mother."
