The scent hit her before she opened her eyes—something warm, rich, and slightly smoky. Not the sterile hospital smell or the faint scent of lavender detergent she'd grown used to in her new room. This was different.
Something was cooking.
Alice blinked her eyes open. Morning sunlight pooled across her blanket. The soft bunny she always clung to had been tucked under her arm. The house was strangely… alive. She could hear clinks, murmurs, and… was that humming?
She slid out of bed and tiptoed toward the kitchen, her oversized nightshirt trailing behind her like a cape.
What she saw made her freeze in the doorway.
Elvin. Shirt sleeves rolled up. Hair a tousled mess. A military commander, battle-hardened and stoic, currently scowling at a frying pan like it had personally offended him.
Beside him, Chris leaned against the counter with arms crossed, an amused smirk on his face.
"Are you… cooking?" Alice asked, her voice still hoarse with sleep.
Elvin looked up, startled. Then, awkwardly, he cleared his throat and straightened.
"I was attempting breakfast," he said, shifting to block her view of the slightly charred pancake on the plate.
Chris chuckled. "Keyword: attempting."
"I can hear you, Chris."
"I know."
Alice blinked at both of them, a mix of confusion and warmth welling in her chest. The corners of her lips tugged up. "You cook?"
"Not usually," Elvin muttered, returning to the stove. "But someone cried herself to sleep last night. I thought pancakes might help."
The words struck her like a hug.
She padded softly across the kitchen and tugged gently on the hem of his shirt. "Thank you…"
He glanced down at her, his expression softening. "Sit. Breakfast will be ready in five minutes."
Chris winked at her and whispered, "More like fifteen."
She giggled for the first time in days.
The table was already set—mismatched plates, silverware, and a tiny glass of warm milk just for her. A vase with one awkwardly positioned daisy sat in the middle. Alice touched the petals, eyes wide. "Did you… pick this?"
Elvin kept his back turned. "Chris did."
"I watched him struggle with it for ten minutes," Chris said proudly. "Almost got attacked by a bee."
"I'll attack you in a minute."
Alice burst into a small, delighted laugh.
When Elvin finally placed the plate in front of her, the pancake was slightly uneven, and a little too brown around the edges, but it was shaped like a bear's face—two small circular ears added with care.
Her heart melted.
"You made this?" she asked, amazed.
Elvin looked away, pretending to be busy with a napkin. "It's edible. Don't expect gourmet."
She took a bite. It was slightly crunchy on the edges but warm and sweet. "It's perfect."
He looked at her then, really looked—and saw the softness in her eyes, the faint glow returning to her cheeks. "Good."
As they ate together, something shifted between them—gentle and quiet. A new rhythm forming, one born not from obligation, but care.
Chris chattered about his school and gaming adventures, while Alice listened intently. Every so often, Elvin would correct his younger brother's exaggerations, and Alice would giggle. The kitchen filled with laughter, light teasing, and the clink of spoons.
After breakfast, Alice shyly offered to help with dishes.
Elvin raised an eyebrow. "You've never done dishes before."
"I want to learn," she said seriously.
Chris grinned. "Commander Alice reporting for sink duty?"
She puffed out her cheeks. "I'm serious!"
Elvin passed her a dish towel. "Then start with drying."
And just like that, Alice stood beside him, wiping plates as he washed them, her little hands careful and determined. He caught her glancing at him every so often, like she still couldn't believe the man who commanded soldiers also knew how to flip pancakes and wash forks.
He didn't say much, but when she accidentally dropped a spoon into the sink and gasped, he simply smiled and handed her another. "You'll get better."
Alice beamed.
That morning stayed with her. Not because of the burnt pancakes or the crooked flower. But because it was the first time in a long time she felt… home.
Not the kind with walls and furniture.
But the kind where love lingered in tiny acts.
In a bear-shaped pancake.
A daisy on a plate.
And the silent strength of a man who was learning, slowly, how to fill the silence of her grief with small, steady comforts.