Burnt Toast and Bruises
The scent of smoke was the first betrayal.
It rose in curling ribbons from the sleek black toaster, trailing upward like a warning flare. Against the cold quiet of the marble kitchen, the smoke felt dramatic, like it knew she was trying too hard. Aria coughed and flapped a towel toward the alarm sensor, her pulse skipping.
“Stupid,” she muttered. “So stupid.”
With a sharp pop, the toast sprang up—blackened on one side, nearly raw on the other. It wobbled on the edge before landing on the counter with a thud. Aria stared at it like it had insulted her.
The kitchen said nothing.
Of course it didn’t.
The estate was too big in the mornings. Not peaceful, quiet—just empty. Even the fridge hummed like it was whispering about her. Outside, dawn sat low on the cliffs, mist rolling over treetops like smoke.
She hadn’t meant to be up this early. Or to try cooking.
But something inside her had needed to offer something. Anything. Even if it was burned. Even if it was barely food. Even if it was just a symbol.
A way to say: I’m trying. I matter. Please, see me.
Even if he hadn’t spoken to her since the night before.
Even if he’d lain next to her like a shadow, silent and cold.
She set the ruined toast aside and reached for the skillet. Eggs. Easy. Familiar. The pan was already hot when she reached for the handle.
The sizzle came first.
Then the pain.
“Ahh!” Her hand jerked back, the burn sharp and immediate. The skillet clattered. Her hip hit the sink. Her palm throbbed as she cradled it to her chest.
Cold water. Now.
She twisted the faucet on and shoved her hand under it, hissing.
“Damn it…”
She didn’t hear him enter.
But his voice found her.
“What happened?”
Aria froze. His voice was deeper in the morning, like gravel and velvet.
She didn’t turn. “It’s nothing. Just a burn.”
His footsteps were soft. Closer. Steady.
He stood behind her now. She could feel his warmth, even through the cotton of her sleep shirt. Her hair was in a loose braid. Her legs were bare. And suddenly, she felt seen in a way that wasn’t comforting.
“Let me see.”
Her voice wavered. “I said it’s fine.”
But he reached for her hand anyway, gently pulling it into the light.
The red welt stood out against her skin. His jaw tightened.
“You should’ve called me.”
She almost laughed. “Didn’t think you’d hear me.”
His face didn’t change much, but she saw the flinch in his eyes.
He didn’t argue.
He turned to the cabinet and pulled out the first aid kit. Neatly, methodically, he laid out gauze, ointment, and wrap.
Then, without a word, he knelt in front of her.
“This might sting,” he said.
“I know.”
The balm was cold against her skin. The sting followed, duller under his careful touch. His thumb brushed her wrist twice. She felt each one.
“There,” he said, voice soft. “Keep it elevated. And… please don’t touch the stove again.”
Not quite teasing.
But not cruel.
She tried to pull her hand back.
He didn’t let go—at least not right away.
When he did, her fingers felt colder.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
He looked at her. Looked. Like he saw everything she was holding back.
“You don’t have to prove anything, Aria.”
She blinked. “What?”
“This… the toast. The burn. You’re not here to earn your place.”
Her throat closed.
“I’m not trying to be seen,” she said. A lie.
“I see you anyway.”
The words were quiet. But they landed like a weight.
Then he turned away.
Washed his hands.
And left the kitchen.
No goodbye. No glance back.
Just that same retreat that always felt like he was afraid to stay.
Aria stood there, hand to her chest, surrounded by smoke and silence.
She picked up the ruined toast and dropped it in the trash. Then she tried again.
This time, the slices came out golden.
She smiled. Not with joy.
But with quiet bitterness.
It wasn’t much. But it was hers.
—
In her final year of school, she’d imagined mornings like this.
Waking beside someone she loved. Laughing over burnt eggs. His arms were around her waist while she poured coffee.
But this?
This was burned.
Distance.
The kitchen is too quiet.
—
Despite the pain, Aria showed up for work.
Marla glanced at the bandage. “Clumsy?”
“Cooking.”
A few chuckles followed. Not cruel. But not kind.
Same old whispers.
But Aria didn’t shrink this time.
Because he had seen her. Even if just for a moment.
That counted.
Didn’t it?
—
She passed him near the sparring ring later.
He was speaking to Cole, voice low, posture tight with tension. His hands moved as he explained something, brows drawn.
As she walked by, their eyes met.
Just a second.
But it lingered.
It bruised.
It healed.
—
That night, the bed creaked as she slid beneath the covers. He was already there, turned toward the window.
She stared at the ceiling.
Then, softly: “Thank you.”
No response.
But under the blankets, his hand found hers.
Barely a touch.
She didn’t let go.
And this time, neither did he.
—
The sun had yet to rise.
But something in the silence had shifted.
Less hollow.
More waiting.
And Aria, her fingers wrapped in his, let herself believe—
Sometimes, even burnt toast could taste like hope.
