The sun crept into the sky lazily, casting long amber rays across the towering skyline. Golden light spilled into the penthouse, softening the sharp edges of its cold, modern decor. Inside, the silence was heavy. Rose was still sprawled on her bed, one leg hanging off the edge, tangled in sheets she never bothered to fix. Her curls were a fiery halo around her head, lips parted slightly as she breathed softly.
In the next room, Nikolai was already awake, teeth gritted and brows furrowed in pain. He sat shirtless on the edge of his bed, one hand attempting to unwind the bloodstained bandage on his bullet wound. The bullet had torn into his dominant arm—just below the shoulder—and every small movement made his body scream in protest.
"Fuck," he muttered under his breath, sweat beading on his temple as he struggled. His fingers trembled with the effort, the makeshift medical kit beside him laid open like a butcher's tray. The cotton pads were soaked with disinfectant, and the stinging pain made his jaw clench until it ached.
After what felt like hours, he managed to clean the wound and place a sterile gauze pad over it. But when it came to rolling the fresh bandage over his shoulder and securing it, his hand betrayed him. He tried twice, fingers fumbling, but he couldn't reach around properly. The pain was too sharp, too loud.
He gave up with a grunt, his muscles taut and twitching with frustration.
Meanwhile, Rose stirred. Her eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the soft light pouring through the windows. She blinked, sat up slowly, and ran a hand through her wild curls.
She glanced at her unmade bed and scoffed. "Nope. Not today."
Yawning, she got to her feet, stretched her arms up until her spine popped, and padded barefoot across the hardwood floors. She tugged on a loose T-shirt and cotton shorts, letting her curls fall freely. She headed into the hallway just as Nikolai stepped out of his room, bandage half-done and hanging loosely over the angry wound.
She raised a brow. "You just woke up?"
He didn't respond. His expression was unreadable as he brushed past her and walked into the kitchen.
She narrowed her eyes, curious and annoyed at the same time. Rolling her eyes, she followed.
Nikolai moved like a man haunted. He opened one cabinet and took out a mug, then another and retrieved a frying pan. But when he reached out with his injured arm, his face contorted. He winced sharply, pulling back like he'd touched fire.
Rose saw it. All of it.
She folded her arms. "Okay. Spill. What is up with you?"
"It's none of your concern," he said, placing some eggs on the counter.
"You clearly won't be making breakfast. You look hurt. And yet, you said it was just a scratch, but you keep wincing every time you move."
"You're thinking too much."
Rose marched up to him without warning and shoved his arm—hard.
"Ow! What the fuck is wrong with you?" he seethed, stumbling back slightly as pain ricocheted through his shoulder.
She raised a brow, arms still folded. "Still think it's a scratch? Sit your ass down. I'm making breakfast today."
His eyes widened. "Hell no. You can't cook. You can't even fry an egg."
"You can talk, can't you? So guide me."
"Absolutely not. I'm not letting you destroy my kitchen."
She planted her hands on her hips. "Look, you can't keep me out of the kitchen just because you think I'm a slob. Maybe I could be... a little bit of that. But still. You're here. You'll tell me what to do, how to do it, and I will make a good breakfast."
He scowled. He hated this—hated being weak. Vulnerable. Dependent. It made him feel like a shadow of himself. But the truth was unavoidable: he couldn't lift the damn frying pan properly with one hand.
"So?" she asked again.
He sighed like a man sentenced. "Fine."
She clapped her hands once, excited, then immediately turned to the cabinet. "Okay, okay. So where are the... um... frying pans?"
"You just watched me take it out two minutes ago."
"Right. Right. Okay. Eggs. We have eggs. Where's the butter?"
"Fridge. Second shelf. Not the top one, that's for sauces."
She opened the fridge and scanned it. "This fridge is organized like a military operation."
"Exactly. So don't ruin it."
She found the butter, then grabbed a few eggs. As she turned around, one slipped from her hand.
It hit the tile floor with a dramatic splat.
Nikolai tensed. He looked like he might explode.
"Relax!" Rose said, holding up her hands. "I'll clean it up. It's just one egg."
"That's a $7 organic, hormone-free, farm-raised..."
"Oh my god, it's an egg! Not your first-born!"
He muttered something in Russian under his breath. She grabbed a paper towel and cleaned up the mess with exaggerated motions, mumbling, "Seven-dollar egg my ass."
She washed her hands, then dropped some butter in the pan and turned on the stove.
The butter hissed.
"Okay, now what?"
"Crack two eggs into the pan."
She cracked one with both hands, awkwardly. It landed half-in the pan, half-on the stove. She cursed and tried again, more gently this time. This one landed clean.
"There. Nailed it."
The pan hissed again as the egg started frying violently.
Rose blinked. "Why does it look like it's fighting? It's frying too much."
"You put in too much butter. And the heat's too high. Turn it down."
She quickly lowered the flame. "Okay, okay. It's calming down now."
She reached for a spatula. "Now what? Flip it?"
"Carefully. Don't break the yolk."
She stared at it like it was a live bomb.
She tried. The spatula slipped. The egg folded in half like a taco.
"Oops."
Nikolai groaned. "You folded it. Why would you fold it?"
"It flipped on its own! The spatula has a mind of its own."
"That was a perfectly good over-easy egg."
"Now it's... an overfolded egg."
He ran a hand down his face. "You are going to ruin breakfast."
"Hey! I'm trying!"
Despite himself, a chuckle escaped him.
She looked over, surprised. "Was that a laugh? Did the ice king just laugh?"
He shook his head. "Make toast. Let's not risk bacon today."
She popped two slices of bread in the toaster. They waited. The room filled with the scent of butter, eggs, and slightly burnt toast.
She plated her folded eggs, added toast, and poured orange juice into two glasses. With a proud grin, she slid a plate toward him.
"Voilà. Breakfast à la Rose."
He looked down at the folded egg. The toast was slightly crooked. The orange juice had a pulp island floating in it.
He took a bite.
Silence.
She watched him anxiously.
He swallowed. "... Not terrible."
She beamed. "High praise from Mr. Stoic."
He looked up, eyes locking with hers. For a moment, something softened between them. It was fleeting, but real.
She sat across from him, taking her own bite, then grinned. "See? Told you I could cook."
He raised a brow. "Let's not go that far."
And just like that, the morning sunlight warmed their quiet meal—two broken people, one bruised by bullets, the other by memories, slowly learning how to make peace in eggs and laughter.