SUNKISSED - Jeremiah Fisher

- 7 -

- Sarah -

I step into the kitchen, the warmth of the morning sun pouring through the windows, casting a golden light over the space. The familiar hum of activity fills the room—Jeremiah is stationed at the stove, his usual place when breakfast is in progress. Steven, of course, is right there beside him, leaning over his shoulder like a kid in a candy shop as Jeremiah pours the yolk into the pan.

"Do we really have to physically sit for our portraits?" Steven grumbles, his voice full of that typical mix of complaint and curiosity. "Can't she just, like, look at a picture on her phone or something?" He looks over at Jeremiah, who's clearly had enough of his hovering.

"Okay, get out," Jeremiah replies, his tone calm but firm as he nudges Steven away with his spatula, the epitome of a man on a mission. He's focused, almost obsessively so, and I can't help but laugh at how quickly he shifts from laid-back to his full-on kitchen perfectionist mode.

"Good morning, everyone," I call out, my voice light as I step further into the room.

"Good morning, Goldie," Jeremiah grins, flashing me a smile.

I walk over to Laurel, who's seated at the kitchen table with a mug of coffee, her usual calm presence grounding the room. She looks up, smiling softly as I wrap my arms around her in a quick hug.

"Good morning, Sarah," she says, her voice warm and familiar. She releases me with a gentle pat on the back and turns her attention back to the conversation unfolding with the boys. I linger for a moment, feeling the comforting ease of being in this house, in this kitchen, with these people.

"She needs to see you in the flesh," Laurel continues, looking at Steven, who has now perched himself on the edge of the counter, still sulking about the whole portrait situation. "In order to capture your essence. While you're still young and full of hope."

That line brings the entire kitchen to a halt. We all turn to look at Laurel, surprised by her words, which sound oddly poetic—definitely not something she'd say on her own. Steven and Jeremiah exchange a glance before snickering under their breath.

"Her words," Laurel clarifies with an exasperated smile, shaking her head.

"Well," Jeremiah says, turning back to the stove, "Conrad doesn't have hope, actually. He's hopeless." He gestures toward the couch where Conrad is sprawled out, his face buried in a pillow, clearly nursing a killer hangover. "But my hangover smoothie? It cures all." Jeremiah points proudly to the blender, which is filled with some unappealing green concoction that I'm sure will work miracles, as always.

I nod in agreement, grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl. "That's true. You should get a patent on that thing."

Conrad groans from the couch, barely lifting his head. "Can you please just hurry up?" His voice is muffled by the pillow.

Jeremiah rolls his eyes as he starts the blender, the loud whirring sound filling the room and making Conrad wince in pain. "Just go back to bed," Jeremiah calls over his shoulder, not missing a beat.

I glance over at Laurel, still curious. "Susannah wants to paint us?" I ask, taking a bite of my apple. It feels like ages since she last painted anything of us. I have this vague memory of being young, fidgeting in a chair while she tried to capture us on canvas, but that was so long ago.

Laurel nods. "She hasn't painted you since you were little," she says. "I think it'd be nice to have these portraits for when you're older. Something to look back on."

"Old? No way." Steven interjects, sounding genuinely concerned by the thought. "When I'm older, I'm sure there'll be, like, holograms or something. I'll be able to watch myself in 3D. Portraits are a thing of the past, man." His serious expression makes me laugh, even though he's probably half-serious about the whole hologram thing.