The smell of vanilla and warm batter filled the Piastri kitchen as you flipped a pancake, golden and perfect, onto the growing stack beside the stove. Hattie sat at the bar with her legs curled under her, scrolling through her phone and humming along to the lazy playlist coming from the speaker in the corner.
Oscar strolled in a minute later, fresh from a run — shirt clinging to his chest, curls damp, cheeks flushed from the morning heat. He paused, taking in the scene.
“Is this… breakfast service?” he asked with a grin, grabbing a glass from the cabinet.
“Only for people who say please,” you replied without turning.
“Please,” he said, voice low and half-playful.
You looked over your shoulder, met his eyes for just a second too long. His smile faltered for a beat — softening into something quieter, something that felt too big for this kitchen.
Then Hattie looked up.
Her eyes moved from Oscar… to you… and then back to Oscar.
You felt her stare before she said anything.
“Okay. What was that?” she asked slowly, setting her phone down.
You turned back to the stove. “What was what?”
Oscar poured his orange juice too quickly. “Yeah, what?”
Hattie narrowed her eyes, leaning forward. “That look. The eye contact. The weird energy. Don’t act like I imagined it.”
You laughed, forcing it out. “You watch way too many rom-coms.”
Oscar nodded quickly, clearly on your wavelength. “Seriously. We’re just co-existing peacefully for once. Let her enjoy her pancake masterpiece in peace.”
But Hattie didn’t smile. She leaned her elbows on the counter and tilted her head, studying you both like she was putting puzzle pieces together in her mind.
“Since when do you two… talk this much?”
You blinked. “We don’t.”
“She’s right,” Oscar said, sliding onto the stool across from her. “Usually we argue over whose fault it was when Hattie broke her arm in year six.”
“I broke my arm trying to rollerblade down a hill,” Hattie muttered. “Neither of you were involved.”
“Exactly,” Oscar smirked.
You finally set the last pancake on the stack and brought the plate over. You felt Hattie’s eyes on you the entire way.
“Okay,” she said after a pause. “But if I did think something was going on—”
“There’s not,” you and Oscar said at the same time.
Silence.
Oscar grabbed a pancake. “You’re acting weird.”
“No,” Hattie said, crossing her arms. “You’re acting weird. Both of you. Something is off.”
You swallowed hard, but your smile didn’t break. “We’ve just been around each other more this trip, that’s all. It’s not a conspiracy, Hatt.”
Oscar added, “If we were up to something, don’t you think we’d be a little more subtle?”
That earned a snort from her. “No. You two are both terrible liars.”
You gave a laugh and handed her the syrup. “Then it’s a good thing we’re not lying.”
She watched you for another second — long enough that your pulse raced — then finally sighed and dropped it.
“Okay, fine. Maybe I’m just paranoid. It’s weird seeing you two not at each other’s throats.”
You sat beside her and reached for your own plate, stealing a quick glance at Oscar, who was already looking at you.
It was subtle. A flicker of a smile. A quiet kind of understanding.
Hattie didn’t catch it.
But she almost had.
And both of you knew: the clock on staying “careful and quiet” was starting to tick.
