The world didn't end in fire.
It ended in coffee. Burnt toast. And silence.
Avery stood barefoot in the kitchen, sleeves pushed to his elbows, a single beam of sun catching on the curve of his cheekbone. The air still smelled like rain. Outside, the city yawned back to life, unaware of what had nearly come undone within these walls.
Sloane sat at the counter, hands wrapped around a steaming mug. He hadn't shaved. His collar was open. He looked more human than he had in weeks.
Neither of them had spoken much since waking. It wasn't awkward. It was something gentler. Like the silence that follows a funeral. Or a confession. Something sacred.
Avery flipped the burner off. Two pieces of toast landed on a plate beside eggs he hadn't touched.
> "You never eat," Sloane murmured, voice raspy.
Avery shrugged. "You never stay."
The words fell soft—but they landed hard.
