The sky burned red for weeks, not like sunset but like a wound that would not close. Ash drifted down like snow. The city moaned with collapsing steel, the thrum of helicopters, the crack of gunfire echoing in the distance.

Inside, behind a wall of locks that would keep nothing out if it wanted to come in, Carolyn boiled water on the last of the gas. The kettle screamed, shrill against the silence, and Beth laughed - a short, broken sound, but it was laughter all the same.

They sat on the couch beneath a single blanket, their shoulders pressed close, bare feet tucked beneath them. The mug was chipped, the coffee thin and bitter, but it steamed.

Carolyn poured, as careful as she could be, while Beth cupped the mug in both her soft hands and her eyes reflected the light of the flames outside.

“It’s the last of it.” Beth’s voice was reverent.

“I know.” Carolyn pressed her knee against Beth’s, moving closer. “All the more reason to savor it.”

They shared the mug between them and drank slowly, the warmth sliding down into their chests, masking for a moment the smoke in the air. Outside, glass shattered. Somewhere nearby, a siren rose, then choked into silence. The sky flickered with fire and the silhouette of a high-rise collapsing somewhere too far away to shake their walls.

Beth leaned her head against Carolyn’s shoulder. “When this is over, I want to wake up slow. Open the window. Make pancakes.”

Carolyn closed her eyes. She could smell Beth’s hair, smoke and sweetness, the faint ghost of shampoo long used up. “When this is over, I’ll still be here,” she murmured.

Beth’s hand found hers under the blanket. Fingers laced together, skin dry and warm.

Outside, the world tore itself apart - flames, sirens, gunfire. Inside, they sat close, sharing the last cup.