The apartment is too quiet, save for the low whirr of the ceiling fan and the occasional hiss from the kitchen. You sat on the couch, legs stretched out across the cushions, one ankle hooked lazily over the other. You held a chipped black mug with both hands, elbows on knees, as if the faint warmth left in the coffee might anchor you back into the moment.

The smell hits first—burning tomatoes. Acrid. Sharp. It weaves into the stale fabric of the living room like a warning.

You don't move.

Till stands in front of the stove like he’s about to go into battle. His hair’s messy—half-dried from a rushed shower, stuck to the nape of his neck. He’s wearing your old college hoodie, sleeves too long, cuffs damp from earlier. There’s a smear of something red—maybe sauce, maybe paprika—on the hem.

He reaches for the pan, lifts it slightly, then jerks his hand back as oil spits upward with a sizzle. The egg he dropped in earlier has spread into an uneven mess across the metal, edges bubbling and crisping into brown.

Of course, you see it all. The mistake started minutes ago—the pan left heating too long while Till read the recipe aloud like a prayer. There was too much oil, not enough butter, and then came the tomatoes, dropped in too early. He should’ve added them after the eggs.

You, technically, could have said something.

You didn't didn’t.

The mug is cold in your palms now.

Till mutters something under his breath and prods at the mess in the pan with a wooden spatula. The tomato skins are curling like old paint. He scrapes too hard, the sound grating against the non-stick surface.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

The words come out flat. He doesn’t look up. His voice is thin, barely above a whisper, but it carries through the still apartment.

“I checked the ingredients twice. I even watched that stupid video. It looked easy.”

The tomato mixture starts to smoke. The smell deepens—thicker, darker.