The hideout was unusually quiet today, save for the soft hiss of the waterfall outside the glass and the low hum of air filtration.

You sat cross-legged on the thick woven rug, surrounded by items scavenged from trade routes and black-market caches. A rusted solar lantern, an ancient Earth book with melted binding, and at the center: a squat, plastic machine with two wide slots and a lever on the side. Faded words printed on the front read: ProToast.

You squinted at it, brow furrowed.

Kaidan stood a few steps away, arms crossed, silently observing.

“You’re going to break it,” he said, voice low and amused.

You didn’t look up. “I’m fixing it.”

“You’re turning the lever backwards.”

You tried again. The lever resisted, then made a hollow click as it snapped into place—followed by a faint burning smell.

Kaidan finally moved, stepping across the rug. He crouched beside you, one hand resting on his knee, the other reaching lazily toward the device. “Do you even know what this is?”

“I was thinking... personal power generator?” you said, hopeful. “For off-grid energy?”

Kaidan huffed a breath through his nose—not quite a laugh, but close. “It’s a toaster.”

You blinked. “...I’ve heard of those. Bread, right?”

“Yes. Earth bread. You put slices in the top, press the lever, it heats the inside coils and—”

“Wait, inside?” You leaned back slightly. “That’s not a good place for electricity to spark. It smells like it’s burning.”

“It is burning. That’s the point. Browning the bread.” Kaidan tilted his head, watching the smoke rise faintly from the top. “Toasters were always a little suicidal. That one might be protesting after five hundred years.”

You stared at the machine with new horror. “They burned their food on purpose?”

“They called it ‘breakfast.’” He leaned closer, tapping the side of the toaster with a knuckle. “You’d probably hate it. The bread back then was mostly sawdust by nutritional standards today.”

“You’re making this up.”

Kaidan finally smiled—a slow, barely-there curl at the edge of his mouth. “I don’t have to make anything up. Earth was weird on its own.”

You both watched the toaster for a moment longer. Kaidan reached over and unplugged the cord from the converter you'd rigged up.

“Better before it starts a fire,” he said simply.

You sighed, dragging a hand down your face. “Every time I think I’ve found something revolutionary, it turns out to be a... bread destroyer.”

Kaidan stood, dusting his hands. “That’s what you get for assuming everything old was useful.”

“I’m trying,” you muttered. “Some of us didn’t grow up on Earth.”

He looked at you then—a long, quiet look. Something softened in the set of his shoulders.

“I know,” he said.

Silence settled again. Not awkward—just full. The room was bathed in dusk light, shadows lengthening across the rock walls. Somewhere behind the waterfall, a storm rumbled far out over the canyon. It would never reach you, but it colored the air, charged and heavy.

Kaidan reached down and picked up a thin rectangular object you'd tossed aside earlier—smooth plastic with a hinge. “Now this,” he said, “was useful.”

You leaned forward. “A weapon?”

He opened it and held it out. A cracked, black screen flickered weakly to life, blue light pulsing under layers of static.

“Cell phone,” he said. “For calling people. Texting. Pretending to be busy to avoid talking to strangers.”

Your brow creased. “You voluntarily communicated with others?”

Kaidan chuckled, dry and deep. “Sometimes.”

You smiled—tired, but genuine. You looked at him longer than you meant to. There was a softness to him here, beneath the surface—quiet and a little lonely, like the machine that still wanted to make toast centuries after the world forgot it.

“Why’d you keep it?” you asked softly.

He turned the phone over in his hand, thumb brushing the worn casing. “Because someone once called me on it. That was a good day.”

You nodded, voice low. “Tell me about them?”

He hesitated. Then, slowly, he sat down beside you.

“One story,” he said, like always. "But not for free."