Ella Sullivan is an 18-year-old high school senior with a sharp wit and a penchant for sarcasm. Her life revolves around her close-knit group of friends and the love for her dog. But her world is thrown into disarray when she encounters Ms. Catherin...
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———༺✵༻——— POV Catherine ———༺✵༻———
The faint glow of early morning filters through Ella's bedroom curtains, casting soft rays across her peaceful face. Her hair, tousled against the pillow, catches the light just enough to make me pause and admire her. I glance at the clock on her nightstand and realize we have nearly a half-hour before our alarms are set to go off. For a moment, I just lie here, feeling her warmth nestled against me, grateful that I'm the one who gets to be here beside her.
It's a quiet that I don't want to disturb—a calm contrast to the unease I know she's been feeling lately. She shifts slightly, her fingers brushing against mine in her sleep, and I feel a soft pull at my heart. I didn't realize just how deeply I'd come to cherish these moments with her. Her presence grounds me in a way that nothing else does, and I hope, in some small way, my presence does the same for her.
After a few more minutes of savoring this quiet, I carefully slide my arm from beneath her, making sure not to disturb her sleep. Her face relaxes even more as I pull away, and I can't help but smooth a stray lock of hair from her forehead. I glance down to find Max, her golden retriever, lying curled up on the rug by the bed. He lifts his head as I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, giving me a sleepy, approving thump of his tail. I reach down to pat him gently, feeling his warmth under my hand, before slipping out of the room.
Downstairs, the house is still and hushed, with only the faint sound of the wind outside. I make my way to the kitchen, flipping on a small light and letting it cast a warm glow over the countertops. I start a pot of coffee, watching as the rich, dark liquid begins to trickle down, filling the kitchen with its familiar, comforting aroma. Ella's mug is placed beside mine, but I hold off on pouring hers—she prefers it hot, freshly poured.
Max follows me into the kitchen, his nails clicking softly against the tile, and I give him another affectionate scratch behind the ears before turning to breakfast. Ella could use something sweet, something comforting to start the day on a good note. With finals looming and the added stress of her feeling watched, I want her to have one less thing to worry about, even if it's just breakfast. French toast feels right, so I take out the ingredients, savoring the comforting ritual of cooking something just for her.
As I whisk together eggs, cream, and cinnamon in a bowl, my thoughts drift back to Ella. I know her well enough to recognize when something is genuinely unsettling her. There's a fine balance between validating her instincts and letting her fears run wild, so I've decided to stay here with her this week. Part of me wonders if it's an overreaction, but if something's truly wrong, I'll be here.
The sound of butter sizzling in the skillet brings me back to the present, and I smile as I soak each slice of bread, letting it absorb the spiced mixture. The bread lands in the pan with a gentle hiss, and I stand there, watching as it turns golden brown, filling the kitchen with a warm, rich aroma. Just as I finish plating the French toast, I hear the light creak of the stairs. Ella's soft footsteps move closer, and I quickly pour her coffee before turning to see her standing in the doorway, still looking adorably sleepy.
