I wake slowly, sunlight filtering through the curtains, the warmth of Eliot's body beside me a comforting weight. For a moment, everything feels perfect - the domesticity we've fought so hard to build tangible in this quiet morning moment. Then I notice the empty space on Eliot's other side where Parker should be.

Again.

Eliot stirs beside me, his eyes opening with that immediate alertness that never really fades, even in sleep. He notices it too, his jaw tightening slightly.

"She's not there," he says, his voice still rough with sleep.

"She's probably somewhere in the house," I say, though the knot in my stomach betrays my attempt at casualness. "Maybe she couldn't sleep again."

Eliot pushes himself up, running a hand through his hair. "Last week it was the bathtub. The week before, the kitchen counter."

"You know she has her own bed too," I remind him, though I'm already swinging my legs over the side of the mattress. "Maybe she just wanted space."

"At 6 AM?"

His skepticism is justified. We've talked about this - about Parker's difficulty sleeping near us, about her need for space, about her fears we're still unpacking. But this feels different. Last night wasn't just any night.

Last night, for the first time, she said it back.

Not the three words themselves, but something close enough that I'd counted it as a victory. As we lay tangled together in the aftermath, her body still warm against mine, she'd whispered, "You're not as annoying as most people," which might not sound like much to anyone else, but for Parker? That was practically a love poem.

And now she's disappeared again.

"I'll check the attic," I say, pulling on a shirt. "You check the roof?"

Eliot nods, already heading for the window. "Don't start hacking her location on your phone," he warns, though there's no real heat in it.

"I wasn't going to," I lie.