The air in the kitchen had turned warmer as the morning light deepened, filtering through the large glass panes and spreading across the table where Andrea and Michael sat. The smell of toast and coffee lingered, faintly mixed with the ocean breeze that slipped through the half-open patio doors.
Andrea leaned back in her chair, watching Michael attempt to scrape burnt crumbs off the skillet with a spoon. His hair was a little mussed, his shirt half-buttoned, sleeves rolled to his elbows. There was something ridiculously endearing about seeing him like this: out of place in a kitchen he clearly didn’t belong in, but trying anyway.
“You know,” she said, sipping her coffee, “you’re supposed to soak that first.”
Michael looked up, feigning offense. “I was going for rustic charm.”
“Rustic c
