Page 76 of Iron Roses

Elaria eyes the table like it’s too far. I pull a chair out for her and she sinks into it with an exhale, hand flattening over her stomach.

I move to the counter.

Pancakes.

I reach for the cast iron pan, lifting it with one hand as my other grabs the bananas—three, ripe, dark-flecked. Butter hisses the second it hits the heat. I slice the fruit thin, fingers moving from memory.

Flour. One cup.

Eggs. Two

Milk. Not too much—just enough to keep it thick.

Baking powder. Salt. A touch of vanilla.

I mash the banana in a bowl, mix it with the egg, and whip in the dry. The pan smokes. I swirl butter and pour. The batter spreads in a perfect circle. The sizzle is sharp. Familiar. Like the sound of guns too close but harmless if they’re yours.

The second pancake hits the skillet. Then the third.

Behind me, she sighs softly. I don’t look.

Juice. I pour orange into a glass, cold enough that the frost clings to the sides. Set it beside her. She blinks, then sips. Like her throat isn’t quite hers.

I plate the first stack. Three pancakes, golden-edged, layered with banana slices and a drizzle of honey from the jar on the top shelf.

I turn just in time to see her watching me.

The fork clinks.

She takes a bite.

Then another.

Then—A body enters like it owns space.

Lorenzo.

Shirtless. Joggers slung low. Hair damp. A smear of shaving cream still clinging to his jaw.

He stops halfway in.

Eyes widen.

One brow lifts. Then the smirk follows.

“Well,” he drawls. “Am I dreaming, or is Custode delle the second making breakfast?” He crosses his arms. “Did I miss an apocalypse?”

I reach behind me, plate in hand.

Slide it toward him.

Three pancakes. No honey.

He blinks once. Then takes it.

Shuts up.

I walk to the table.

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