Two: What Are You Thinking About?

SUSAN 

The pan sizzled. Eggs. His favorite — scrambled, not too dry, with cheese folded in at the last second. I'd learned that about him three months into dating. Little things. The way he took his coffee. The side of the bed he slept on. The way he said my name when he wanted something.

Stupid. I was standing over a stove thinking about how he said my name while a completely different name burned a hole in my brain.

Joana.

I flipped the eggs harder than I needed to.

Why is that witch still calling him? I thought he said he deleted her number.

He had said that. I remembered it clearly. Six months ago, sitting on his couch, his arm around me, his voice flat and final. "I blocked her. Deleted everything. She's not part of my life anymore, Susan."

So either he lied.

Or she found a new way in.

I stabbed at the eggs with the spatula. "Should've blocked her on my phone too," I muttered. "Should've blocked her from existing—"

Two arms wrapped around my waist from behind.

I screamed.

The spatula flew. Eggs went everywhere. I spun around and smacked him square in the chest with both hands.

"Noah!"

He was laughing. Actually laughing. Bent over, hands on his knees, laughing so hard he couldn't breathe.

"You—" I shoved him again. "You scared me!"

"I know." He straightened up, still grinning, still laughing. "Your face— Susan, your face—"

"It's not funny!"

"It's a little funny."

"It's not—"

He pulled me into his chest. Just like that. One arm around my waist, one hand cradling the back of my head, and suddenly my heart was pounding for a completely different reason.

"I'm sorry," he murmured into my hair. "I couldn't resist."

I stayed stiff for exactly three seconds. Then I melted, because I always did.

"You're an idiot."

"I'm your idiot."

"Unfortunately."

He kissed the top of my head. Then my temple. Then he pulled back just enough to look at me — sleep-soft eyes, hair still messy, wearing nothing but gray sweatpants.

God, he was unfair.

"So," he said, thumb brushing my cheek. "What are you thinking about?"

The name sat on the tip of my tongue.

Joana.

I looked up at him. At that face. At the man who'd held me all night like I was something precious.

"Nothing," I said. "Just breakfast."

He smiled. "Liar."

My stomach dropped.

"What?"

"You've got that look." He tilted his head, studying me. "The one you get when something's eating at you."

"I don't have a look."

"You have four. This is number two."

I laughed — too fast, too loud. "You're insane."

"And you're deflecting." His hand slid down to my hip. Squeezed. "Susan. Talk to me."

The eggs were burning. I could smell them. Neither of us moved.

Behind him, on the counter, his phone lit up.

Face-down.

Buzzing.

Again.

---

SUSAN 

He reached for the phone.

I didn't breathe.

His fingers closed around it, flipped it over, and I watched his face — watched for the flicker, the tightening, the lie.

It didn't come.

Instead, his whole face softened. He shook his head, smiling, and answered.

"Hey, Mom."

The air left my lungs all at once.

Mom.

I exhaled so hard my shoulders dropped. My heart was still pounding, but the tightness in my chest just — dissolved. Just like that.

Stupid, I told myself. So stupid.

He turned away, phone to his ear, laughing at something she said. "Yeah, yeah, we're up. No, we didn't—" He glanced back at me, grinning. "Okay, maybe we did."

I rolled my eyes at him. He winked.

And then I smelled it.

The eggs.

Black. Smoking. Sticking to the pan like glue, and the smoke was thickening — a gray curl rising toward the ceiling, spreading fast.

"Oh no—"

I lunged for the stove. Grabbed the knob, twisted it hard. The flame died.

The smoke didn't.

It kept coming — pouring off the pan, off the burner, and then I heard it. A low hiss. Steady. Coming from somewhere underneath.

The gas.

I hadn't turned it off. I'd turned it up when I spun around. It had been pouring into the kitchen for a full minute while we stood there laughing.

My hands went cold.

"Water—" I gasped, already moving. "I need water—"

The sink was right there. Three steps. Maybe four. I grabbed the pan, yanked it off the burner, spun toward the sink—

Noah was still on the phone. Still smiling. "Hold on, Mom, Susan's making breakfast, she's—"

I made it three steps.

The hiss hit a pitch I'd never heard before.

The air behind me went white.

And the kitchen exploded.

---

To be continued…