Burnt Toast and Battle Lines

The next morning, Lucy woke up to the smell of burnt toast.

Not metaphorical. Actual, charred toast.

The acrid scent drifted through the apartment like a warning signal, seeping under her bedroom door, curling through her sheets. She groaned, flopped onto her stomach, and considered pretending to be asleep until the smoke alarm forced her out of bed. Maybe it was a dream. A particularly pungent one.

Then came the unmistakable hiss of steam hitting ceramic. Followed by a muttered curse.

Nope. Real.

She dragged herself up and padded barefoot toward the kitchen, tugging the hem of Cole's old hoodie down over her thighs. Her eyes were still half-closed when she saw him.

Cole stood in her kitchen, shirtless, armed with a butter knife and what looked like a war-torn piece of bread. His hair stuck up in five directions and his expression was somewhere between proud and confused.