Page 64 of Burn

The far-off sound of clinking in the kitchen stirs me awake. The room is bright with the morning sun, and the first thing I see is a glass of water on the nightstand. Next to it is a small white pill with a handwritten note that says, “Take me.” I recognize the Plan-B and pop it into my mouth, swallowing it down.

From the kitchen, I smell bacon, eggs, and fresh coffee. Glancing at the alarm clock beside the bed, I see it’s 7:30 A.M. I groan and stand up, stretching my arms over my head. My body is sore and exhausted.

Does this man never sleep in?

When I open the bedroom door, music fills my ears. Adrian stands before the stove, moving his hips and quietly singing under his breath. I’m struck by the desire to sneak up behind him and wrap my arms around his waist. The voice in my head chastises me, but I push it down and tiptoe across the room. I hesitate for only a moment before I slide my hands around him and press my face into his broad back.

He lays a hand over mine, and his voice is low and gravelly when he says, “Morning, baby.” His words are a bolt of electricity to the butterflies in my stomach.

“Good morning, Adrian,” I whisper into his skin.

He spins, wrapping me in a warm embrace, and dropping his face into the curve of my neck, trailing soft kisses over the tender bite mark he left the night before. I feel his smile before he speaks, chuckling, “That’s gonna turn some heads.”

I groan in response, “You’re the worst.”

The whole exchange feels so… normal. Like, we’re not two people forced into a weird situation after a traumatic fire that cost me nearly everything. As if he hasn’t tormented me repeatedly for months on end. He releases me, and our eyes meet. There’s a lightness to him that I’ve never seen, and he urges me toward the table, saying, “Go sit. I made breakfast.”

He follows, placing a plate filled with pancakes, eggs, bacon, and toast before me. I decide it’s not worth spoiling the moment to let him know that I don’t eat bacon, so I push it to the side and dig into the pancakes. He steps to the counter, returning with two cups of coffee, and sits across from me.

“You’re not eating?” I ask when I notice there’s no plate in front of him.

He smiles from behind his mug, “Nah. We’re running low on groceries. I’ll grab something on our way to the arena.”

Warmth floods my body, and I wonder how long this can last — this peace between us. He glances at his watch, stands, and starts toward the bedroom, pausing to reach over my shoulder and snag a piece of bacon.

“We gotta leave here in twenty. Eat up.”

I push the food around my plate, taking small bites — anxiety creeps in and claws at my mind, crushing my appetite.It’s too easy, this morning routine, and it feels like the calm before the storm.

I’m pulled back into a violent memory. My mother dancing in the kitchen, flipping pancakes high in the air, her hair a tousled mess, her eyes wild.

“Good morning, my sweet girl,” she cooed, catching me off guard.

“Good morning, Mom,” I cautiously replied.

She bounced on her feet, hopping and spinning with a spatula in hand. Then she darted toward me, and I flinched instinctively, covering my head with my hands, bracing for the strike. Her laughter rang out — manic and sharp — cutting through the sound of sizzling butter in the pan.

“What’s wrong with you?” she asked, her voice high and bordering on hysterical.

I forced myself to sit up straight and lower my arms. “Sorry. I’m still waking up,” I had said, laughing nervously, trying not to antagonize her. She twirled back to the stove, singing along to the music.

She flipped a pancake high, and it missed the pan and landed on the floor. She stooped down to pick it up, set it on a plate, and said, “See? This is nice. Just us girls.”

When I didn’t respond, she spun, pointed the spatula at me like a weapon, and said, “You’re not gonna cry, are you? No. No. No.” The volume of her voice increased with each punctuated word. “We are happy. Happy. Happy!”

Two weeks later, I hid in my bedroom closet, pleading with 911 to help me.

A drawer slamming closed in the bedroom pulls me back to the present. Music continues, a male voice croons about the city of the lakes, and I strain my ears to hear Adrian, but he’s silent in the bedroom, so I push back from the table.

He’s pulling on jeans when I enter the room, and he glances at me and grins. “Done already? Damn, girl.” He sounds too fucking playful. It’s stressing me out.

“I’m not much of a breakfast person. I can’t eat that much. There’s lots left for you.” I say quietly.

He walks toward me, pulling a t-shirt over his head as he does. I watch how his muscles move and ripple, and my mouth waters. He made me the wrong damn breakfast.

Nope.

Stop that.

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