“The coffee is hot today, Claire,” Greg said, his voice low and clear under the hum of the refrigerator.

“I brewed it five minutes later than usual so it would stay warm while you finished dressing,” I said, setting a plate of toasted rye bread between us.

Greg looked down at the ceramic salt shaker on the yellow tablecloth, then raised his eyes to meet mine.

“The chili you made last night,” he said, the faint tremor in his jaw easing into a quiet smile.

“You put two full teaspoons of cinnamon in the pot.”