The smell of something burning drags Jo out of bed.

Not the pleasant, "toast is ready" smell. The other kind. The kind that makes the smoke alarm hiccup twice before deciding if it's worth the effort.

He groans, scrubbing his face as he shuffles down the hall. His hoodie's far too big — Yuma's, actually, which he stole last night without asking — and the sleeves drag along the floor. He nearly trips over one of Yuma's sneakers in the hallway, muttering under his breath before reaching the kitchen.

What greets him is... not surprising, but it still makes him stop in the doorway.

Yuma is standing at the stove, flipping what might be pancakes. One is the color of asphalt. Another is half an omelet, half a disaster. There's flour on his cheek, batter on his forearm, and — Jo narrows his eyes — definitely some in his hair.

"Good morning," Yuma says brightly, as if the air isn't faintly hazy. "I'm making breakfast."

"You're making arson," Jo replies, moving forward and reaching for the pan. "Give me that."

Yuma clutches the spatula like a sword. "No. I promised I'd cook for you today. You always do it."

"That's because I don't charcoal the eggs."

"They're not eggs. They're... experimental pancakes."

Jo stares at him. "...You can't call something experimental just because it's burnt."

Yuma squints back, refusing to give in. "You're just mad because I'm going to make better pancakes than you one day."

Jo sighs and leans against the counter, crossing his arms. "If this ends with the fire department in our living room, you're explaining why they had to come for pancakes."

Twenty minutes later, Jo is forced to admit the pancakes look... edible. Maybe even good. The smoke smell has mostly faded, replaced by cinnamon and something sweet.

They eat at the little dining table by the window. The winter sun is spilling in, catching the steam from their coffee cups. Yuma proudly explains how he "perfected" the batter by accidentally doubling the milk and adding "just a touch" of vanilla.

"That wasn't a touch," Jo says, chewing. "That was half the bottle."

"That's flavor," Yuma insists.

Jo rolls his eyes but keeps eating.

Halfway through, Yuma notices Jo's plate. "You're not eating the last one?"

Jo pushes it toward him. "You made them. You eat it."

Yuma grins, splits the pancake in half, and shoves one piece onto Jo's plate again. "We share."

Jo stares at him, something warm curling in his chest. "...Fine. But next time, I'm cooking."

Yuma's grin widens. "Next time, we cook together."

Later that afternoon, Jo wanders into the kitchen again and notices things he missed in the morning rush: flour handprints on the fridge door, a small dusting of sugar trailing across the floor, and — inexplicably — a pancake in the freezer.

He decides not to ask.

The house smells faintly of smoke, but also of cinnamon and coffee and something else he doesn't quite have a word for — except maybe home.

Evening.
They're curled up on the couch, Yuma's head on Jo's shoulder, a blanket thrown over them both. The TV is playing something neither of them is really watching.

"Hey," Yuma says quietly. "Thanks for not kicking me out of the kitchen."

"You're welcome," Jo says, smiling faintly. "Next time, we'll see if you survive baking."

Yuma lifts his head just enough to smirk. "You'll survive too. Probably."

"Not if you try to set the oven on fire."

"No promises," Yuma murmurs, settling back against him.

Jo just shakes his head, but he doesn't move him away.

The morning might have been chaos, but the day feels... steady. And for Jo, that's more than enough.