The kitchen smelled like coffee, toast, and the faint lingering hint of apocalypse-era canned peaches.
Sasha considered that a victory.
She stood at the counter, calmly pouring hot water into a French press, her posture relaxed in the way only someone who had already survived the end of the world could manage. Beside her, Alex sat at the small kitchen table, glasses perched low on his nose, scrolling through a salvaged tablet with an expression of deep skepticism.
"According to this," Alex said, tapping the screen, "someone tried to trade three bullets for a waffle iron."
Sasha hummed. "Was it at least a good waffle iron?"
"Burnt. Non-stick coating peeling."
"Then that's just insulting."
Alex snorted into his coffee.
