Her expression cycles through surprise, confusion, and something that might be panic before settling on cautious curiosity. She sets down her cloth and walks to the front door, unlocking it but not opening it fully. Just a crack, her face visible in the gap.
"Lanek?"
"Quinn." My voice comes out rougher than I intended. "I came to ask if you would accompany me to dinner."
She blinks. "Dinner?"
"A proper human date." I hold out the flowers. "I've been informed that my previous courtship methods were... culturally inappropriate. I'm attempting to adapt."
Her mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. "You're asking me on a date?"
"Yes."
"Right now?"
"If you're available."
She stares at the bouquet like it might explode. "Lanek, I?—"
That's when the oven alarm starts shrieking.
Quinn's head whips around, and through the door I can see smoke beginning to pour from the back kitchen. Her face goes pale.
"Oh no. No, no, no—" She abandons the door, sprinting toward the kitchen.
I don't think. I shove through the entrance, dropping the flowers on the nearest table, and follow her. The smoke is thicker now, acrid and wrong, pouring from the ancient industrial oven against the far wall. Quinn is frozen in front of it, hands pressed to her mouth, looking absolutely stricken.
"The thermostat's been broken for weeks," she's saying, voice rising with panic. "I couldn't afford to fix it yet, I was just being careful, I thought I could manage?—"
Through the oven's window, I can see flames licking up around a metal baking tray, the fire spreading to the built-up grease along the heating elements. It's not catastrophic yet, but it will be if the flames reach the gas line.
"Get back," I order, already moving forward.
"Lanek, don't—it's too hot?—"
I ignore her, yanking open the oven door. Heat blasts out in a wave that would make most people stagger back. I've spent years working in temperature extremes, subzero freezers, open flame searing stations, the violent heat of rendering fat. This is manageable.
The tray is engulfed, flames spreading across whatever she'd been baking. I reach in bare-handed, gripping the metal edges. The heat sears into my palms immediately, but I've handled worse. I yank the tray free in one violent motion and pivot toward the industrial sink, shoving the burning metal under the faucet and cranking the water to full blast.
Steam explodes upward as water hits fire. The flames die with a hiss and angry sizzle, leaving behind charred, smoking remnants and a tray warped from the heat. I keep the water running, dousing every ember until I'm certain nothing will reignite.
Only then do I turn off the faucet and step back.
Quinn is still frozen where I left her, staring at me with an expression I can't quite read. Her eyes drop to my hands.
"Lanek. Your hands."
I glance down. The palms are bright red, already blistering in places where I gripped the metal longest. It hurts, but it's superficial. Nothing that won't heal.
"It's fine."
"It's not fine!" She rushes forward, grabbing my wrists with surprisingly strong fingers. "You just grabbed a burning tray with your bare hands, you absolute—why didn't you use an oven mitt?"
"No time. The fire was spreading."
"So you just—" She makes a frustrated noise. "Sit. Now. Before you go into shock or something."
"I'm not going into shock from minor burns."
