truly.

It was the kind of Saturday morning that couldn’t have been better if you’d tried. The sun was shining and the weather was just warm enough to warrant no gloves; there was nowhere to be, and your phones weren’t lighting up with notifications.

Jack had strolled in the night before after a last-minute shift swap that put him on days. He’d dumped his duffel by your front hall closet and all but collapsed on your sofa. You’d fed him takeout—dumplings—bullied him into a hot shower, then shoved him under your duvet and told him the universe didn’t need either of you for at least twenty-four hours.

It was something short of a miracle really. Especially considering how rare it was for you both to have the same day off together.

Jack worked nights; you didn’t. There had been weeks where you saw more of each other through FaceTime and hospital parking lots than in each other’s apartments. But somehow, you’d made it work—scheduling dates around shifts, court dates, exhaustion and learning how to fall asleep in unfamiliar beds. You’d spent nights at his place, he at yours, both of you working together to find a flow that suited the two of you.

You’d slipped out of bed quietly, a careful slide out from under the sheets, a kiss to his shoulder before sneaking off to the kitchen. Even though Jack was a light sleeper at the best of times—he’d stirred slightly, maybe murmured something into the pillow. Which was a testament to how tired he truly was.

The plan had been a simple one: coffee, eggs, maybe toast. You weren’t much of a cook, but you could handle a simple breakfast.

Mostly.

You padded back to the bedroom with two mugs and a plate balanced in one hand. You placed them carefully on the nightstand, smiling at the sight before you. The tangled sheets, one arm thrown over his eyes, but a sleepy smile on his face.

“Smells good,” he mumbled, voice gravelly from sleep. He pushed himself upright against the headboard, comforter riding low on his hips, curls sticking out from about four different directions.

“Hopefully it tastes good,” you said as you climbed over him to your side of the bed.

“Did you burn anything?” he asked around a bite of toast.

You narrowed your eyes at him as you paused with your knees on either side of him, “It was once.”

He swallowed, “It was more than once.”

You rolled your eyes, “You’re never going to let me live it down, are you?”

He snagged your wrist and reeled you in for a kiss, a slow, unhurried thing that spiralled quickly when his hand slid beneath the hem of your t-shirt. The plate of food nearly met its end right there and then when your elbow struck the side table.

He rolled you both so you were on your back, his lips slow but firm, his hand moving higher, dragging heat across your ribs. You sighed into it, the morning laziness and the morning sun’s warmth seeping into the room created a sweet, golden haze.

“Jack,” you said softly.

“Hm?” he replied, his nose at the crook of your neck.

You didn’t say anything at first—couldn’t say anything. Just let yourself sink into the moment and feel it—the weight of his leg hooked over your hip, the warmth of his skin on yours, the quiet of the room. You felt the warmth of the moment fill you and soak into your bones. You thought—for just a second—that this could just be your favourite kind of morning.

Your noses bumped as he kissed you again. You laughed; it was a small one caught between his mouth and yours. His hand was under the waistband of your pyjamas now, warm and confident, fingertips grazing—

He froze.

“Jack,” you moaned, arching into him to encourage him to continue.

“Wait,” he turned his head, sniffed the air. “Do you smell smoke?”

You pulled back, somewhat confused, “What?”

You blinked. Then you smelled it, the acrid, smoky scent of burnt food.

“Shit,” you bolted, springing off the mattress, sock-clad feet sliding across the hardwood while Jack watched you go.

The kitchen was a haze of smoke, and now the pulse of a shrieking fire alarm. The pan on the stove had blackened, and the remaining eggs no longer resembled eggs. Tendrils of smoke curled up from the offending pan, and you grabbed the handle with a flimsy potholder, yelping as you flung it into the sink and turned on the faucet. The sudden hiss of water on scorched metal just added steam to the already choking atmosphere.

You looked for something to wave the smoke from the screaming fire alarm. The first thing you saw was the cutting board you’d used to cut the bread on. Pulling it from the counter sent a shower of crumbs to the floor that stuck to the bottom of your feet as you stood waving the cutting board under the fire alarm to try and silence the thing by moving the smoke away from the sensor.

“Jesus,” came Jack’s voice behind you. You turned to see him in the doorway, rubbing one eye, his gait off—he’d clearly thrown his prosthetic on in a hurry. He braced a hand against the doorframe, adjusting it with a practiced motion and a wince. “What the hell happened?”

He moved to the window that you had overlooked, and threw it open with a snap and propped it open wide. Then he opened the doors to your tiny balcony. Cool air rushed in, dragging the worst of the smoke out in the process.

You were still attempting to wave the chopping board when Jack stepped beside you and gently took it from your hands, fighting a roll of his eyes as he placed it down and resumed chasing the smoke with a dish towel instead.

“I’ve got this,” he said.

You both were silent while the fire alarm raged on.

Then, the alarm finally stopped.

With the smoke dispersed, Jack threw the dish towel over his shoulder and turned to look at you—eyes narrowed, his expression unreadable.

“Someone should really supervise you.”

You screwed up your nose, you knew it would be a hard fight of denial considering the state of your kitchen… and the events of the last several months.

“In my defence—”

“Counsellor, I would think twice about pitching a defence here.”

You opened your mouth.

He gave you a knowing look with a raised brow, as if daring you to continue.

You stared back.

Jack turned slowly and looked around the smoke-filled kitchen.

Then, after a pause, “How you have made it this far in life without taking yourself out is astounding.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, but a smirk played at your lips as you stepped in closer.

“What?” he asked, eyeing you cautiously.

“I’m thinking,” you replied with a casual shrug.

He let out a bark of laughter as he shook his head, “That’s never ended well.”

You lifted an eyebrow. “Well, I was going to suggest something that had both of us horizontal, but if you want to be like that…”

Your words trailed off with a nonchalant smirk. He pulled you to him by the back of your shirt and buried his face in the crook of your neck.

“Hmm…” he kissed just below your jaw, “well, I am afraid to leave you unsupervised at this point.”

You rolled your eyes, “I’m fully capable.”

“I beg to differ.”

You kissed him.

He didn’t resist.

Your hands slipped around his waist, fingers cold from the window’s chilly draft, sliding just beneath the hem of his shirt. Jack groaned faintly against your mouth, then pulled back just enough to murmur, “You’re not using this as a distraction technique.”

“It’s working though, isn’t it?”

He sighed, long-suffering, even as his arms tightened around your waist.

The kitchen still smelled like burnt eggs, the whole plan for breakfast in bed was a disaster, and you were pretty sure what was irritating the soles of your feet was toast crumbs—but Jack was here, warm and solid in your arms, and for now, everything else could wait.

“Come back to bed,” you said, stealing one more kiss before you took his hands in yours.