Chapter 5: Burnt Toast and Bruises
1233 Words
The scent of smoke was the first betrayal.
It rose in curling ribbons from the sleek black toaster, graceful in its warning as it drifted toward the ceiling. Against the cold stillness of the marble kitchen, it felt almost theatrical. Aria coughed once and flapped a dish towel toward the alarm sensor, her breath catching in panic.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid, ”
With a sharp clunk, the toast lever popped up, launching two misshapen rectangles into the air, blackened on one side, half-raw on the other. She stared at them, forehead furrowed, like they were mocking her.
Behind her, the kitchen stayed silent.
The estate was always too big in the morning. The kind of silence that didn’t feel peaceful, it felt hollow. The refrigerator buzzed in the background like it was whispering secrets. Outside, the sky was still lavender with dawn, the cliffs swallowed in mist, the trees below blurred and blue-gray.
She hadn’t meant to wake early. Hadn’t meant to try cooking.
But some part of her, a stubborn, soft part, had needed to give something. Even if it was just toast. Even if it was barely edible. Even if it was nothing more than a symbol, burnt at both ends.
Something to prove she belonged.
Something to say: I’m here. I matter. This isn’t a mistake.
Even if Xander hadn’t said a word to her since lying beside her in bed the night before.
Even if he hadn’t touched her. Not once.
Aria set the ruined toast aside and reached for the skillet. Eggs. Simple. Safe. The pan was already heating on the stove, and she reached for the handle without thinking, without slowing.
The sizzle came first.
Then the pain.
“Ahh!” she yelped, the metal biting into her skin like a vengeful spirit. She jerked back hard, the pan clattering to the counter. Her hip slammed into the sink. Her right hand curled to her chest, already throbbing with heat.
She stumbled toward the faucet, twisted it on, and shoved her hand under the stream of cold water, jaw clenched tight.
“Damn it…”
She didn’t hear him enter.
But suddenly, his voice was there.
“What happened?”
Aria froze.
His voice was always deeper in the mornings. Rougher. It scraped against her like velvet and stone.
She didn’t turn.
“It’s nothing,” she said, fast and brittle. “Just a little burn.”
He didn’t respond.
She felt, more than heard, his footsteps. Quiet. Measured. Close enough that she could sense the heat of him behind her. She was still in her oversized sleep shirt, her legs bare, hair pulled into a loose braid down her spine.
And he was still too much.
Too close. Too quiet. Too everything.
His hand, warm and steady, closed around hers. Gently. Carefully. He pulled it from under the stream, tilting it toward the light.
“Let me see.”
She hesitated.
He didn’t wait.
His fingers moved over hers with surprising tenderness, turning her palm so the red welt caught the pale morning light. His jaw clenched. A muscle ticked in his cheek.
“You should’ve called me.”
She almost laughed. “Didn’t think you’d hear me.”
His reaction was subtle.
But she saw it, the twitch at the corner of his eye. The way his mouth pressed into a line. Like her words had cut deeper than she meant them to.
He didn’t argue.
Instead, he walked to the cabinet and pulled out the burn kit. Efficient. Controlled. But not cold.
She watched him in silence as he set everything out: the gel, the gauze, the sterile wrap. His movements were practiced, Alpha by rank, but healer by instinct.
He returned, knelt in front of her, and took her injured hand in both of his.
“This might sting,” he murmured.
“I know.”
The gel was icy against her skin, but the sting that followed was dulled by the weight of his hands. He worked with quiet concentration, each motion gentle. Intentional. His thumb brushed her wrist once, twice, not entirely by accident.
Her chest ached with it.
“There,” he said softly, finishing the wrap. “Keep it elevated. And please, don’t touch the stove again.”
His tone was light.
But it wasn’t a joke.
Aria tried to pull her hand back.
He didn’t let go.
Not immediately.
When he did, her hand felt colder than before.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Xander looked at her then.
Really looked.
Not like a healer. Not like a mistake.
Like a woman burning for something unspoken.
“You don’t have to prove anything, Aria.”
She blinked. “What?”
“This… the toast. The stove. The burn. You’re not here to earn your place.”
Her throat tightened.
“I’m not trying to be seen,” she lied.
“I see you anyway,” he said.
The words left him like confession.
And for a moment, the silence between them trembled.
Then, he stepped back.
Turned toward the sink.
Washed his hands.
Walked away.
No goodbye.
No look.
Just that quiet retreat she was starting to recognize as fear.
Aria stood in the center of the kitchen, bandaged hand cradled to her chest. The scent of burnt toast lingered like a ghost. So did the shape of his hand on hers.
She picked up the blackened slices, dropped them in the bin, and reached for the loaf again.
This time, she used a wooden spoon to press the lever.
When the toast came out golden-brown, she smiled.
Not triumphantly.
But bitterly.
A win.
Small. Hollow.
But hers.
,
In her final year of school, she’d imagined mornings like this.
Waking beside someone like Xander. Laughing over burnt eggs. Fixing toast while he kissed her shoulder, arms loose around her waist.
Instead?
Burns.
Distance.
A kitchen too quiet.
A silence too loud.
,
Despite the pain, Aria showed up for her shift. Marla eyed the bandage.
“Clumsy?”
“Cooking.”
Marla snorted. The nurses behind her chuckled, not unkindly, but not kindly either.
Same whispers. Same jabs.
But Aria didn’t flinch this time.
Because for a moment, just a moment, Xander had seen her.
Really seen her.
It still counted.
Didn’t it?
,
She passed him near the sparring rings later that day.
He stood in conversation with Beta Cole, all strength and control and tension. His voice was calm, but his shoulders bore the weight of something unsaid.
As she walked past, their eyes met.
Just for a second.
He didn’t speak.
Neither did she.
But the glance lingered.
A bruise and a balm, all at once.
,
The bed creaked softly that night as she slid beneath the sheets. He was already there, facing the window, as usual. The silence stretched, comfortable as a wound.
She lay still, staring at the ceiling.
Then, slowly, she turned toward him.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
He didn’t respond.
Not with words.
But after a moment, she felt it.
His hand brushed hers under the covers.
Barely a touch.
But she didn’t let go.
And this time, neither did he.
,
The sun hadn’t yet risen.
But the silence between them had changed.
Less hollow.
More waiting.
And Aria, her fingers wrapped in his, let herself believe,
Sometimes even burnt toast could taste like hope.
- Writer
