Morning sunlight filtered through Logan's apartment windows, painting golden stripes across the hardwood floor. The smell of coffee brewing mixed with the sound of someone rummaging through the kitchen cabinets with increasing desperation.
"Where does Logan keep his decent pans?" Mireille muttered, opening yet another cabinet to find only protein powder and multivitamins. "How does this man survive?"
"Takeout, mostly," came Logan's sleepy voice from the hallway. He shuffled into the kitchen in sweatpants and a t-shirt, his hair sticking up at odd angles. "What are you doing up so early?"
"It's nine AM, that's not early," Mireille replied, finally locating a suitable pan. "And someone needs to make sure Ophelia eats actual food before tonight. She's going to be too nervous to remember."
As if summoned by her name, Ophelia appeared in the kitchen doorway, already showered and dressed in casual clothes, her hair wrapped in a towel. Her expression was that of someone who'd slept fitfully, if at all.
"Morning," she said, her voice slightly hoarse. "Is Kalina still asleep?"
"Dead to the world," Logan confirmed, starting the coffee maker. "I checked on her twenty minutes ago. She was snoring into the couch cushions."
"Let her sleep," Mireille decided, pulling eggs and vegetables from the refrigerator. "She had those brutal meetings yesterday. Logan, help me with breakfast. Ophelia, sit down before you vibrate through the floor."
"I'm not vibrating," Ophelia protested, even as she bounced nervously from foot to foot. "I'm just... energized."
"You're panicking," Logan said kindly, guiding her to a barstool. "It's okay. It's normal to be nervous."
"What if I mess up?" Ophelia blurted out, all her anxiety spilling over. "What if I say something stupid, or trip, or my mind goes blank during my speech, or—"
"Or," Mireille interrupted firmly, cracking eggs into a bowl with practiced efficiency, "you'll be brilliant like you were born to do this, because you were. Logan, chop those peppers."
"On it," he said, pulling out a cutting board.
The next thirty minutes passed in comfortable kitchen choreography. Logan diced vegetables with precise, even cuts. Mireille whisked eggs and managed multiple pans simultaneously, her movements fluid and confident. They worked together like they'd done this a thousand times before—which, given their years of friendship, they probably had.
"Someone should wake Kalina," Ophelia said, watching them work. "She'll be upset if she misses breakfast."
"I'll do it," Logan offered, wiping his hands on a towel. "Be right back."
He found Kalina exactly where he'd left her, face-down on the couch, one arm dangling off the edge, her hair a wild mess. She looked like she'd been dropped from a great height and decided to just stay where she landed.
"Kal," he said softly, shaking her shoulder. "Breakfast is almost ready."
She made a noise that might have been words in some language, but certainly not in any Logan recognized.
"Come on, sleeping beauty. Your sister needs you today."
At the mention of Ophelia, Kalina's eyes cracked open slightly. "Time's it?"
"Nine thirty. Mireille's making omelets."
"Mireille's omelets," Kalina mumbled, pushing herself up to sitting with visible effort. Her eyes were still half-closed, her movements slow and uncoordinated. "Worth consciousness."
"That's the spirit," Logan said with a grin, offering her a hand up.
By the time they returned to the kitchen, Mireille was plating perfect omelets—fluffy, golden, filled with sautéed vegetables and cheese. The smell alone was enough to make Kalina's stomach growl audibly.
"Morning, zombie sister," Ophelia greeted with a small smile.
"Morning, anxious sister," Kalina replied, accepting the coffee Logan pressed into her hands like it was liquid salvation. She took a long sip, then another, and slowly something resembling consciousness began to return to her features. "Okay. Status report. What's the panic level this morning?"
"Seven," Ophelia admitted. "Out of ten."
"Could be worse," Kalina said, settling onto a barstool and pulling her plate closer. "By tonight you'll be at a two, I guarantee it."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Because," Kalina said, taking a bite of omelet and closing her eyes in appreciation, "you're going to spend today preparing, practicing, and getting yourself into the right headspace. By the time guests start arriving, you'll be so ready that the anxiety will just... evaporate. You'll be in your element."
"She's right," Mireille agreed, serving herself. "I've seen you give gallery tours, Lia. You're a completely different person when you're talking about art. Confident, knowledgeable, passionate. That person is going to show up tonight."
"And if that person forgets to show up?" Ophelia asked quietly.
"Then we'll be there to remind you she exists," Logan said simply. "You're not doing this alone."
They ate breakfast together, the conversation gradually shifting from Ophelia's nerves to logistics. Julia had texted earlier—the catering was confirmed, the string quartet would arrive at five PM for sound check, the lighting crew would be doing final adjustments at noon.
"We should get to the gallery by ten-thirty," Mireille said, checking her phone. "That gives us time to review everything with Julia and make any last-minute decisions."
"And then outfit selection," Kalina added, finally looking more awake. "Which we're doing at LOMIKA headquarters, obviously."
Ophelia blinked. "Wait, we're not shopping?"
"Why would we shop when we literally design and produce high-end fashion?" Mireille asked, looking at Ophelia like she'd suggested they make clothes out of garbage bags. "We have an entire upcoming collection sitting in our showroom. You're going to look like you stepped off a runway, because technically, you will have."
"Plus," Logan added with a grin, "it's great marketing. When people ask what you're wearing tonight, you can say 'LOMIKA, from their new evening collection.' Free advertising."
"You're all too smart for your own good," Ophelia said, but she was smiling now, some of her anxiety easing in the face of their casual confidence.
After breakfast, they cleaned up together—another coordinated dance of clearing plates, loading the dishwasher, wiping counters. Kalina moved slower than the others, still not quite at full functionality, but she contributed what she could.
"Alright," Mireille announced once the kitchen was spotless. "Everyone go get ready. We leave in twenty minutes."