Chapter 4: Breakfast Interrupted
Sunlight was a weapon.
It sliced through the half-drawn blinds in hot, golden stripes, cutting across Leo's face and forcing him to squint. His phone was buzzing somewhere—a low, insistent vibration that drilled into his skull like a dentist's tool.
He groaned. Rolled over. The sheets beside him were warm but empty.
His eyes opened.
The buzzing continued.
He grabbed the phone off the nightstand without looking at the screen. "Maddox."
"Where the hell are you?"
Captain Reyes. Squadron commander. Voice like gravel and bad news.
"Sir." Leo sat up. The room spun slightly. "I'm—"
"Briefing was at 0700. It's 0738. You're not here. You're never late. What the fuck is going on?"
Leo swung his legs over the side of the bed. His head throbbed. The smell hit him then—something burning. Acrid. Coming from the kitchen.
"I'm on my way, sir. Had a—"
"A what? A crisis? A flat tire? You're a pilot, Maddox. You don't get flat tires."
"No, sir. I just—"
"Just get here. We're pushing the training window to 0900. If you're not in the briefing room in twenty minutes, I'm grounding you for a week."
The line went dead.
Leo stared at the phone. Then he was moving—pulling on the first pair of sweatpants he could find, not bothering with a shirt, stumbling toward the kitchen.
Smoke. Definitely smoke.
He rounded the corner and found Luna standing at the stove, a spatula in one hand and a look of pure, unadulterated panic on her face.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I was trying to—the eggs—I don't know what happened—"
The pan was full of blackened, smoking remains. Something that might have been eggs in a previous life. The smoke alarm above the stove was blinking but not yet screaming, like it was deciding whether this was worth the effort.
"Shit." Leo grabbed the pan, shoved it under the sink, and turned on the water. Steam billowed up. The sizzling stopped.
He turned back to Luna.
She was wearing his hoodie—the navy one from last night, the one she'd grabbed off the floor when she woke up. It hung past her thighs, swallowing her whole. Her pink hair was a disaster. Sleep still crusted the corners of her eyes.
She looked like she was about to cry.
"I ruined your breakfast," she said.
"You made me breakfast?"
"I tried to." She gestured at the sink. "It didn't go well."
Leo laughed.
He couldn't help it. The sound came out of him—rough and surprised and real—and Luna's panicked expression shifted into something confused. Then something annoyed.
"It's not funny."
"It's a little funny."
"I was trying to do something nice."
"I know." He crossed the kitchen and took the spatula from her hand. "And I appreciate it. But you didn't have to—"
"I wanted to." She looked up at him. "You let me stay. You held me while I cried. You—" She stopped. Her cheeks flushed. "I wanted to do something nice."
Leo's chest did something complicated.
"Okay," he said. "New plan."
He opened the cabinet above the sink. Pulled out two bowls. Then the fridge, where he grabbed a carton of milk and a box of Cheerios that had maybe three servings left.
"Cereal," he said. "It's the breakfast of champions."
"I thought that was wheaties."
"I thought you were a nerd."
Luna snorted. "Shut up."
They ate standing at the counter because everything else was ruined. The eggs were dead. The toast was charcoal. The coffee—miraculously—had survived, and Leo poured them both mugs, black, no sugar.
Luna took a sip and made a face.
"That's terrible."
"It's coffee."
"It's burnt bean water."
"You're burnt bean water."
She laughed. A real laugh—bright and surprised—and Leo felt something loosen in his chest. This was different. This was easy. This wasn't the careful, measured dance of a one-night stand. This was a Tuesday morning with someone he actually wanted to keep talking to.
His phone buzzed again. He ignored it.
"So," he said, crunching a mouthful of cereal. "What's your deal?"
"My deal?"
"Your deal. What do you do? Besides ruining breakfast and waking up screaming."
Luna's expression flickered. He caught the shadow that crossed her face—the memory of last night, the tears, the confession. But she didn't shut down. She just took another bite of cereal.
"I'm in my final year," she said. "Graphic design major. But that's not really—"
"Not really what?"
She hesitated. Then: "I have a channel. Online."
"Like YouTube?"
"Like Twitch. Sort of. I stream."
Leo raised an eyebrow. "Stream what?"
"Games. Art. Sometimes just—talking." She shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. "I do cosplay too. Digital art. Stuff like that."
"How many followers?"
Another hesitation. "Two hundred thousand."
Leo choked on his coffee.
"Two hundred thousand?"
"On Twitch. More on Instagram. It's not—it's not that many, not compared to the really big streamers—"
"That's—" He set down his mug. "That's kind of insane."
"It pays the bills." She smiled, small and proud. "My parents don't get it. My mom thinks I'm wasting my degree. My dad just nods and pretends he understands. But it's mine. I built it. No one helped me."
There was something in her voice. Something fierce and quiet.
"I want to see it," Leo said.
"What?"
"Your channel. Show me."
Luna stared at him. "You want to watch me play video games?"
"I want to see you do your thing."
She bit her lip. He could see the war playing out on her face—the instinct to hide, the fear of judgment, the old scars from someone who probably mocked everything she loved.
Then she reached for her phone.
"Okay," she said. "Okay."
She pulled up a stream. Last week's. She was playing something—a horror game, from the look of it—and the camera was in the corner. Leo watched her on screen: pink hair pulled back in a messy bun, headphones on, face bright with concentration. She was talking to her chat, laughing, rolling her eyes at a jump scare.
She was confident. Playful. Fully herself.
And then he looked at her in person—in his hoodie, hair a disaster, no makeup, sleep still in her eyes—and he got it.
He got it.
"You're the same person," he said.
Luna blinked. "What?"
"On stream. Off stream. You're the same person." He gestured at the phone. "Most people are different online. They put on a face. But you—" He shook his head. "You're just you. In different outfits."
Luna stared at him.
Her eyes went bright. Wet. Not tears—not quite—but something close. Something raw.
"No one's ever said that to me before," she whispered.
"What do you mean?"
"Everyone thinks—" She stopped. Swallowed. "Everyone thinks the me on stream is fake. That I'm pretending to be happy. That the real me is—" She gestured vaguely at herself. "This. The mess. The anxiety. My mom says I'm 'performing.' My friends say I'm 'more fun' online. Even Ethan—"
She stopped again.
Leo didn't push. Just waited.
"Ethan said I was fake," she said quietly. "He said the me online was a character. That no one would like the real me. That I should just—be grateful he saw the real me and stayed."
Leo's jaw tightened.
"That's bullshit."
"I know."
"No, listen to me." He set down his cereal bowl. Took her face in his hands. "That's bullshit. You're not two people. You're one person with different moods. That's called being human. He was just trying to make you smaller because he was small."
Luna's lower lip trembled.
Then she kissed him.
It started soft. Tender. A thank-you.
But it didn't stay that way.
Her hands slid up his chest. Fisted in his hair. She pulled him closer, and he felt her body press against his—warm and soft and eager. She tasted like coffee and cereal and something sweet underneath.
"Luna—"
"Don't overthink it," she said against his mouth. "I'm not fragile. I won't break."
He pulled back just enough to look at her. Her eyes were dark. Her cheeks flushed.
"You sure?"
"I'm sure."
He lifted her onto the counter.
The cereal bowls rattled. A spoon clattered to the floor. He didn't care. His hands were on her thighs, pushing up the hoodie, finding warm skin underneath. She wasn't wearing anything else—just the hoodie and a pair of underwear that he pulled down her legs and dropped on the floor.
"You're sure," he said again. Not a question this time.
She nodded.
He dropped to his knees.
Luna gasped.
He didn't tease her. Didn't take his time. He'd spent all night wanting to taste her, and now he had the chance. His mouth found her cunt—wet, already hot—and he licked her from entrance to clit in one long, slow stroke.
She cried out. Her hands flew to his hair, grabbing handfuls, pulling him closer.
"Fuck—Leo—"
He worked her with his tongue. Circles. Flutters. Long, flat licks that made her hips jerk against his face. He pushed two fingers inside her while he sucked her clit, curling them up, finding that spot that made her breath catch.
"Don't stop," she begged. "Please don't stop."
He didn't.
She came with a choked cry, her thighs clamping around his head, her cunt pulsing around his fingers. He licked her through it—slow, gentle now—until she was shivering and oversensitive and pushing him away.
He stood up. Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Can you take me?" he asked.
"Fuck yes."
He pulled his sweatpants down. His cock was already hard—aching—and when he pushed against her entrance, she was so wet he slid in with one stroke.
They both groaned.
The counter was the perfect height. He grabbed her hips and fucked her—fast, hard, the way she'd asked for last night. The cereal bowls rattled with every thrust. Milk sloshed. The whole kitchen smelled like sex and burnt toast and morning coffee.
"Harder," she gasped.
He gave her harder.
His hips slapped against her ass. The sound was obscene. She was gripping the edge of the counter, knuckles white, head thrown back, tits bouncing under the hoodie with every thrust.
"You feel so good," he gritted out. "Fuck, Luna—"
She bit down.
He felt her teeth on his forearm—sharp and sudden—and the pain mixed with the pleasure and made everything sharper, brighter, more.
"Fuck," he hissed.
She didn't let go. Just bit harder as he fucked her through it.
He came with a groan—deep and guttural—spilling inside her, pulse after pulse. She shuddered around him, another orgasm rolling through her, and they rode it out together.
The kitchen went quiet.
The smoke alarm finally decided to beep.
Leo laughed. Bright and full. He pulled out of her and grabbed the dish towel off the counter.
"You bit me," he said.
"You told me not to overthink it."
"I didn't say you could bite me."
She grinned. Sleepy and satisfied. "You liked it."
He looked down at his forearm. There was a red mark. Almost a bruise. Definitely teeth.
"I did," he admitted.
They cleaned up. Leo dealt with the still-smoldering pan, cracked a window, and convinced the smoke alarm that the crisis had passed. Luna pulled her underwear back on and found her jeans somewhere in the living room.
His phone buzzed again.
"Shit." He looked at the screen. "I have to go. Reyes is going to kill me."
"Who's Reyes?"
"My commander. I was supposed to be at the base an hour ago."
Luna winced. "Because of me?"
"Because I didn't set my alarm." He pulled on a t-shirt and found his keys. "Worth it."
They walked out together.
His truck was an old Ford—big and black and smelling faintly of the gym bag in the back seat. Luna climbed in, and he started the engine.
The drive was quiet.
Not awkward. Just—quiet. The kind of quiet that didn't need to be filled. The city rolled past—coffee shops and parking lots and houses with overgrown lawns—and Luna watched out the window.
"You okay?" he asked.
"Yeah." She turned to him. "I'm just—this is weird. Good weird."
"I get it."
"Do you?"
He glanced at her. "I don't do this."
"Doesn't what?"
"This." He gestured between them. "The breakfast. The talking. The—" He stopped. "I don't usually wake up with someone and want to stay."
Luna was quiet.
Then: "Me neither."
They pulled up to her parents' house.
It was a big house. Colonial. Green lawn. American flag on the porch. The kind of house that screamed "military family" without trying.
Leo put the truck in park.
They sat there.
Neither reached for the door.
"So," he said.
"So," she echoed.
"I need to see you again."
She laughed. "That's usually implied."
"I'm serious." He turned to face her. "I don't know what this is. I don't know if it's anything. But I want to find out."
Luna looked at him. Really looked. At the sharp jaw and the green eyes and the face that was trying so hard to be casual and failing.
"I want that too," she said.
He leaned over. Kissed her. Soft and slow and promising.
"I'll call you," he said.
"You better."
She got out of the truck.
He watched her walk up the driveway. Watched her pause at the front door. Watched her turn back and wave.
He waved back.
Then he put the truck in drive and headed for the base, already late, already in trouble, and not caring at all.
Luna stood on her porch for a long time.
The door opened behind her.
"Where the hell have you been?"
Her mom. Dark circles under her eyes. Worry written all over her face.
Luna turned. Smiled. Small but real.
"I was out," she said.
"All night?"
"All night."
Her mom's eyes narrowed. Took in the hoodie—not Luna's—and the messy hair and the smell of coffee that probably wasn't just coffee.
"Do I want to know?"
"Probably not."
Her mom sighed.
"I'm not a teenager," Luna said. "I'm okay. I promise."
A long pause.
"Breakfast is on the table," her mom said finally. "Your father's already at the base."
Luna stepped inside. The door closed behind her.
And for the first time in eighteen months, the house didn't feel like a cage.
It felt like a place she could leave.