Ava woke to the smell of something burning.

Her eyes opened halfway, her brain still fogged with sleep and the faint ache of too many deadlines.

The clock on the wall blinked 7:42 a.m., and for a second she had no idea how she ended up on the couch.

Then she remembered last night—Evan dropping by with takeout, her finishing the pitch deck, him refusing to leave when she dozed off mid-sentence.

He must still be here.

A crash from the kitchen confirmed it.

"Morning, Sleeping Beauty!"

"Please tell me that’s not fire," she croaked.

"It’s called breakfast!"

"It smells like regret."

He laughed, that careless, sunny laugh that made everything sound less like disaster and more like comedy.

She pushed the blanket away and sat up, her hair a mess, her blazer from yesterday wrinkled beyond salvation.

The kitchen looked like a war zone.

Eggshells, open flour, a suspicious puddle of something that might have been milk in a previous life.

Evan stood at the stove wearing her apron—the one that said *Meal Planner, Not Chef.*

He flipped a pancake, which landed half on the pan, half on the counter.

"Progress!" he announced.

"That’s a crime scene," Ava said.

"You’re welcome."

"You’re impossible."

"And yet still here," he replied.

She stepped closer, crossing her arms.

"What are you even making?"

"Pancakes. Classic, simple, universally loved."

"Charred, universally rejected."

"They’re artisanal. Rustic aesthetic."

"They’re burnt, Evan."

"Art is subjective."

"So is taste," she muttered.

He grinned. "Exactly why you should try one."

She opened the fridge, ignoring him.

"I’ll just make my smoothie."

"You’re not serious."

"Kale, spinach, avocado, protein powder. Perfect start to the day."

"Sounds like lawn clippings."

"Sounds like nutrients."

He moved to block her from the blender, spatula raised like a weapon.

"You’re not ruining breakfast with liquefied sadness."

"It’s green vitality."

"It’s a cry for help."

"Evan."

"Ava."

They stared at each other for three seconds, neither backing down.

"Fine," she said finally. "We each make our own."

"Deal," he said, flashing that grin again.

They worked side by side in competitive silence.

Ava measured her ingredients precisely; Evan threw his together like he was auditioning for chaos.

She wiped the counter as she went; he left a trail of flour that could have guided lost hikers.

Every so often, he hummed off-key.

"Stop that," she said.

"Stop what?"

"The noise."

"It’s music. I’m setting the vibe."

"You’re setting off my anxiety."

"Same thing."

The blender roared to life.

When she turned it off, she caught him watching her, leaning against the counter, that infuriating mix of curiosity and amusement in his eyes.

"What?" she asked.

"Just wondering if that drink ever smiles back at you."

"It doesn’t need to. It functions."

"That’s depressing."

"It’s efficient."

He chuckled. "Do you ever do anything just because it feels good?"

"Yes. Planning. Finishing work on time. Organizing my files."

"Wow. Wild side unlocked."

"Not everyone finds joy in chaos."

He looked around the kitchen. "You should try it sometime."

He held up a fork with a piece of pancake, the edges dark but steaming.

"Come on. One bite."

"I’m fine."

"You’re lying."

"You’re delusional."

"Same thing."

She rolled her eyes. "You don’t give up, do you?"

"Not when I’m right."

"Questionable assumption."

"Prove me wrong."

He took a step closer.

She could smell butter and coffee and him.

That was unfair.

Her pulse betrayed her first.

He waited, fork extended.

"One bite," he said softly.

"If I die, you’re paying for the funeral."

"Deal."

She took the fork.

The pancake was both chewy and suspicious, but he was watching her so intently she pretended it was edible.

"Well?" he asked.

"It’s… unique."

"Not bad, right?"

"‘Unique’ isn’t synonymous with ‘good.’"

He grinned. "But you didn’t spit it out."

"Only because I’m polite."

"Liar."

"Optimist."

They both smiled then, small but real.

He leaned on the counter beside her.

"You know, this is almost domestic."

"Don’t say that word."

"Scary?"

"Alarming."

"Romantic?"

"Delusional."

He laughed, but there was a flicker of something else—something quieter.

"You didn’t kick me out last night," he said.

"You fell asleep mid-sentence."

"So did you."

"You stayed."

"Yeah."

"Why?"

He shrugged. "Didn’t feel right leaving you alone like that."

"You think I can’t handle being alone?"

"I think you shouldn’t have to all the time."

Ava froze, unsure what to do with that sentence.

Then, mercifully, the smoke alarm shrieked.

Evan jumped. "Not again!"

He waved a towel wildly, fanning the ceiling.

Ava burst out laughing, a sharp, unguarded laugh that echoed through the apartment.

Her stomach hurt from it.

When was the last time she laughed like that?

"You’re a menace," she said, still breathless.

"Breakfast hero."

"Breakfast hazard."

"Semantics."

The alarm finally stopped.

They stood in the lingering haze, both smiling like idiots.

"So," he said, "who won? Pancake or smoothie?"

"Depends on the metric."

"Joy per calorie."

"Then definitely me."

"Emotion per bite."

"You’re not even measuring that right."

"Still me."

She shook her head, sipping her green drink. "Keep telling yourself that."

He leaned closer. "You should smile more, you know."

"Don’t start."

"I’m serious. It looks good on you."

"Don’t romanticize facial muscles."

"Too late."

Their eyes met again.

Time slowed, absurdly cinematic.

She looked away first, pretending to focus on cleaning the counter.

Her heart didn’t get the memo.

He exhaled, a quiet laugh escaping. "Lunch war next?"

"Don’t push it."

He grinned. "Oh, I’m definitely pushing it."