“I’m a lightweight,” he says. “Is it a crime? Is it an offense against humanity?”

“Wow,” Yuki says, and they turn. She looks unimpressed. “Is this what it’s like having a sibling?”

Grace collapses on top of Raj, ignoring his long, pained groan. “No judging,” she says. “I’m weak and hungover. Can’t take it.”

Yuki rolls her eyes and makes her way to the kitchen. She’s changed into a long T-shirt that says Some Girls Eat Girls. Grace feels unstoppered adoration flow through her.

“Do you two hungover people want breakfast?” she asks. “We have—” She peers into the fridge. “Rice and leftover pizza, but I’d put my money on the rice. I can make toast, too.”

“Riiiice,” Raj moans. He holds one hand over the top of the couch. “High five for the staple dish of the Asian diaspora.”

Yuki snorts, but she gives him a corny, terrible air high five, and Grace watches in wonder as her ears and neck flush pink, before she turns back around. “I always burn toast,” Yuki says. “So, look forward to that.”

“Let me do it,” Grace says. She shoves Raj again and gets up. “I grew up in a ‘no burnt toast allowed’ household. I got this.” She hip-checks Yuki out of the way and pauses. “Hey,” she says softly, and waits until Yuki turns to face her. “I’m going to kiss you, okay?”

Yuki makes a face. “You don’t have to announce it, Honey Girl.”

Grace crosses her arms. “Why not? Consent is sexy!”

“Um, yes,” Yuki says, “but if you make this a habit, I’m going to scream and probably, like, implode? So, I feel like maybe we can just assume unless I say otherwise.”

“That’s fair,” Grace says. She puts careful hands around Yuki’s waist and just—kisses her. Good morning, hi, I want to keep you.

Yuki curls her fingers around Grace’s neck, or rather, around Grace’s hoodie. She probably looks terrible right now: exhausted and bleary and a little sick, but Yuki keeps kissing her anyway. She pushes her hood back so she can see more of Grace, can see the bags under her eyes and her chapped lips and limp hair, free from its myriad of products.

“Rice,” Raj calls as they pull away. “Toast. I have a flight to catch, and I can’t show up to the airport like this. It’ll really ruin my whole vibe for the trip, which is already not great.”

At the reminder of last night’s drunken confessions, Grace feels herself tense. It’s ridiculous because they were both drunk and mean and bitter, but she still feels the words burn like the tequila did, right at the center of her chest.

“I’ll do the toast,” she says quietly, and slips out of Yuki’s hold. She hears a sigh behind her, before the microwave opens and starts to hum with warming rice. She turns to the toaster. This one simple thing, she can do.

She remembers making toast after Colonel’s surgery. He was aching and ill-tempered and snappy. He couldn’t move and with his meds couldn’t really eat, so Grace got up every morning before work and made toast with jam. The meds made his stomach upset, and the pain made him upset, and she remembers, too many times, the bread and plates that went flying.

Jesus, Porter, it’s burnt, while Grace got on her knees and picked up slices and crumbs and wiped at stains. I got one goddamn leg and a daughter burning my toast. Get off the damn floor, Porter. Just leave it, I said. I’ll have Sharone order something.

So, Grace knows how to make toast. Perfect toast.

She stands guard at the toaster because you can’t leave it too quick or too long, or the whole thing will be ruined.

“You’re watching it like it’s going to eat you,” Yuki says. “Or like it’s going to up and disappear.”

Grace leans on her elbows. “Habit,” she says.

The microwave dings, and Yuki pulls plates down out of the cabinets. Raj drags himself in and settles on the floor. “We’re eating here,” he decides. “This is where I deserve to eat right now.”

So, they eat rice and toast on the floor. Yuki can only find one clean fork. She and Grace share it, passing it back and forth between bites, and Raj digs in with his hands.

“Just like home,” he mumbles through a mouthful. “Meera says it’s ‘uncouth’ now, but that’s only because the white kids at her college told her it was weird.”

“Fuck white people,” Grace and Yuki say together.

“True that.”

Soon enough, he has to leave. Grace follows Raj down the steps, and they stand in the warm summer breeze waiting for his Uber.

“So,” he says, arms crossed. “Wild night, huh?”

Grace hmms. “Threw up twice this morning, but sure. Wild. Not disgusting at all.”

“Ha, I’m at three, probably more after airplane turbulence.” He raises his eyebrows at her. “I win.”

She crosses her arms, too. The little moving car on his screen says four minutes until his ride arrives. “What do you win?”

He doesn’t look at her. He’s held Grace up more times than she can count. Figures eventually he’d knock her down at least once, too.

“Maybe forgiveness?” he says. “For being a total and complete ass last night? Tequila really doesn’t agree with me.”