Omlette

The muses’ kitchen was not built for him. The ceiling felt too low, the cabinets too narrow, the wooden chairs too fragile for his weight. Yet he stood there in the predawn quiet, his massive shoulders hunched as he rummaged through drawers, determined to prove that this room of pots and pans could not defeat the God of War.

Bread. Eggs. A pan. Simple enough. Mortals did it every day.

The first egg broke too easily in his hand, too much strength against something so fragile, shell and yolk splattering across the counter. He grunted in frustration, wiped his hand on a towel, and tried again. Too soft this time. The yolk dribbled down his palm and wrist before it ever reached the pan. He cursed low, eyes narrowing the fury inside him began to simmer.

Next he grabbed the flour, guessing it belonged in the mix even if he wasn’t sure exactly why. He scooped it with too much force, a small white cloud rising to coat his dark tunic and dust the counters. His magic, restless and warm, stirred with his frustration, little pulses of ember-heat slipping through the room until the butter in the pan began to smoke. He grabbed the handle, too late, hissing when it seared his palm. He dropped it back onto the stove with a clang, jaw tight, refusing to admit the sting.

“By the fates,” came a voice behind him. “Are you losing a war to breakfast?”

He spun. Lily leaned in the doorway, her auburn curls spilling over one shoulder, blue eyes wide with both surprise and amusement. The sight of her made his chest tighten, but he covered it with a scowl.

“You shouldn’t be awake,” he muttered.

“Clearly, I should,” she said, stepping into the kitchen. Her gaze swept the chaos. The cracked egg shells littering the counter and floor, the flour drifting like snow, the smoking pan. Her lips curved. “The God of War. Defeated by eggs.”

He bristled. “I’ve fought wars....” He gestured broadly at the stove with the spatula he’d claimed as a weapon. “But this cursed mortal contraption...”

“...has outmaneuvered you,” she finished, laughter in her voice.

Heat rose in his ears. He set the spatula down with too much force, making the utensils rattle. “I was trying to make something.”

“Why?” she asked lightly, though her heart already knew.

He didn’t answer. He only looked at her, his grey eyes holding hers. The silence was thick enough to feel. His magic hummed low, mixing with the scent of scorched butter and flour. She felt it prickle against her skin. 

Lily crossed the small room, brushing past him to take the pan. He went very still as her hand grazed his arm softly as she moved to the stove. She moved with quiet efficiency, turning down the flame, setting out a clean skillet. “If you wanted breakfast, you only had to ask.”

“I don’t need help,” he said gruffly, though his eyes still followed every motion of her hands. “I can handle it.”

She arched a brow. “This is what handling it looks like?”

His lips twitched, almost a smile. “A work in progress.”

Together, they started again. He fetched the eggs more carefully this time, watching as she cracked one with practiced ease. He copied her grip, his large hands seemed clumsy beside hers, but this time the yolk slid neatly into the pan. She glanced up, the corner of her mouth lifting. He pretended not to notice the pride that stirred in his chest.

She led him through each step, showing him how to move, how to stir, how to pass the utensils. He followed her lead, shoulders brushing hers in the cramped space. Her fingers grazed his when she handed him the whisk; his palm lingered a second too long when he passed the plate back. The jokes faded, and silence settled between them, heavier and harder to ignore than their laughter had been.

By the time the omelet was done, it was golden and fluffy, the edges just browned, the scent warm and inviting. She slid it onto a plate, and they carried it to the table.

They sat across from one another, steam rising between them. She cut a piece, tasted it, and let out a surprised laugh. “It’s good,” she admitted softly.

He tried his own bite, chewing with exaggerated seriousness before breaking into a low laugh that filled the small kitchen. The sound startled her, rich and unguarded. “It's wonderful.” he said with a crooked grin. “If you hadn’t stepped in, I would’ve wasted every egg in the kitchen.”

She leaned back, watching him with a smile as his face eased in a way she’d never seen before.

For a moment, sitting in the small kitchen with the omelet between them, he didn’t look like the God of War. He looked like a man who wanted to belong.

Lily set her fork down, her smile fading into something softer. She wondered, fiercely, what it would be like if this were their life. Just mornings and kitchens, flour on the counters, laughter over meals and broken eggs. No councils. No vows. No gods watching. Just this.

The thought ached sweetly as the first light of dawn slipped through the curtains, gilding the edges of the world they might never have.