In the morning, I wake up alone in my bed. Which is exactly how I’m used to waking up, of course. But after a few groggy seconds, I remember that Travis slept here with me last night, and I try not to be annoyed at him for leaving without saying goodbye. Maybe I’m expecting too much from him, but if Elise and Grant didn’t get to see him this morning, then what was the point of him staying the night? Other than to get me all confused and flustered and mildly horny.

Aw, crap on toast.

It suddenly dawns on me that maybe he left because I pushed it too far by kissing him last night. I probably freaked him out. (Even more than I freaked myself out with how much I liked kissing him.) He agreed to it, but I’m beginning to wonder if Travis would agree to anything I ask of him. That doesn’t mean he was comfortable with it.

As I head downstairs, mentally planning my apology and assurances that he’ll never have to suffer through kissing me again, I hear the familiar music of a Skyler James song. May must be playing it somewhere. Following the music, I find myself in the kitchen and then stop dead, taking in an entirely unfamiliar sight.

May is standing at the counter, lavender hair thrown up in a messy bun, swaying her hips and bopping her shoulders along to the upbeat song. This wouldn’t be strange, were it not for the fact that while she’s bopping, she’s also using a wooden spoon to stir something inside a large mixing bowl. My daughter takes after me in that she doesn’t cook, so I have no idea what she’s doing.

But that’s not even the strangest part.

Nope.

The strangest part is the sight of Travis Reed in my kitchen standing right beside May, chopping up vegetables on a cutting board. I could be mistaken, but I think I catch his shoulders getting in on the bopping action for a couple seconds too.

Does. Not. Compute.

May uses her free hand to reach for the mug of coffee next to her and takes a large gulp from it, which is pretty much the only thing that makes sense to me about this picture. As she sets the mug down, she notices me and smiles brightly. “Hey, Dad! Wanna help?”

“Help?”

“We’re making breakfast.”

“You don’t know how to cook.”

She rolls her eyes in a spectacularly dramatic fashion. “Well, okay, I’m just stirring the pancake batter like Travis told me to.”

“Which is more than I’d trust you to do,” Travis says to me, turning around. And I feel suddenly unsteady on my feet, because he’s smiling. Smiling.