The kitchen still holds the warmth of what almost was—the ghost of garlic and herbs lingering in the air, the memory of sizzling oil now faded into silence. Beneath it, sharper and more insistent, lingers the smell of something burned. Something ruined.
I lean against the counter. The front of my shirt is still damp, cool against my skin where the spilled water soaked through.
My gaze drifts to the stove.
The evidence is impossible to miss.
The meat has blackened to a crisp, fused to the pan in a permanent, smoking embrace. Soup has spilled across the stovetop in shades of amber and gold, creeping toward the edge in slow, defeated rivulets.
All of it destroyed.
Because we kissed until the kitchen started burning.
A strange thought—one that should bother me but doesn't. Not really.
My fingers drift to my lips. I trace them slowly, absently. The memory of his mouth against mine still lingers there.
The way he trembled. The way his breath caught. The way he looked at me.
