He finishes getting dressed and steps out into the hall. One suspender hangs slightly loose against his side, the white shirt beneath rumpled and only half-buttoned, like he dressed on autopilot and never quite went back to fix it.
His hand finds the stair rail without thought.
By the time he reaches the bottom, the house smells of warm bread and sausage, rich and comforting enough to make his stomach twist. It feels wrong how familiar it is.
He follows the smell into the dining room.
The floor creaks softly beneath his feet as he steps inside. He pauses at the doorway, resting his hand against the frame, taking it all in.
Calder sits at the table, already deep into his meal, eating fast and careless like he's afraid it might disappear if he slows down.
Across from him sits Roran, newspaper folded neatly in one hand, a coffee cup balanced in the other. He's broad through the shoulders, dark hair threaded with gray at the temples, his posture relaxed in the way of someone used to this quiet routine. He looks up and smiles when he sees Quinn.
"Morning, Quinn."
Quinn nods. "Morning, Roran."
The name slips out easily. Too easily. Before the thought settles, someone rushes past him.
A young woman drops into her chair, barely glancing up from the book already open in her hands. Her hair is tied back in a loose, messy knot, sleeves rolled up, grease smudged faintly along one wrist like she's been working before most people woke up.
Roran exhales through his nose, amused. "Elin," he says, tapping the table with one finger, "you could at least wait until you're sitting before you start reading."
"Mmh," Elin hums, already stuffing food into her mouth, eyes never leaving the page.
Then an older woman approaches from the stove, moving with calm certainty. Her hair is gray and neatly pinned back, her apron worn soft with use. She smiles the moment she sees Quinn, the kind of smile that carries warmth without question.
"Here you go," she says, placing a plate in his hands and guiding him toward his seat. She presses him gently down into the chair, kisses the top of his head, and smooths his hair without asking. "Eat up. You've got a busy day ahead, remember? You said you'd help at the mill."
Quinn's thoughts scramble, trying to keep up.
"Yes, mother," he manages, the words coming out before he can stop them. "Thank you for the food."
She looks pleased, as if that's exactly the answer she expected, and turns back toward the stove.
Quinn stares down at the plate in front of him—bread torn fresh, sausage still steaming, eggs cooked the way someone remembers he likes. His stomach tightens with sudden hunger.
Calder finally looks up at him. "You really going to the mill today?"
Quinn hesitates, then nods. "That's the plan."
Roran folds his paper and takes a sip of coffee. "Don't stay out too late," he says. "Sky looks like rain."
Elin snorts softly, flipping a page. "He always says that." Quinn picks up his fork.
Everything around him moves like it always has.
And somehow, impossibly, he knows exactly how to fit into it.