Gray's already there—leaning against the counter, mug in hand.
His eyes lift at the sound of my footsteps... and then lower.
They linger, just for a second, on my bare legs.
Then flick up too fast, like he's ashamed to have looked at all. Like he caught himself breaking a rule.
Something flickers in my chest. Not anger exactly. Not shame. Just... something sharp.
He looked, and then he looked away. And somehow that hurts more than if he hadn’t looked at all.
I don’t know what I expected. Maybe nothing. Maybe just... not that.
“Morning,” he says, suddenly fascinated by the inside of his coffee mug.
I don’t answer. Not right away.
Something folds tight in my chest, and I don’t know how to name it.
So I breathe in. Look around. Anchor myself to what’s real.
Sunlight pours through tall windows wrapped in flowering vines. The counters are smooth gray stone, warm to the touch. An old hearth glows with gentle flame that doesn't seem to need fuel. A large island sits in the center—familiar in its proportions, like the sanctuary remembered how we used to gather around the kitchen table back home. Everything is beautiful in that way that feels both ancient and perfectly maintained.
And the pantry is full.
Baskets of fruit that look like they were picked this morning. Loaves of bread that smell like they just came from an oven I can't see. Fresh eggs in a bowl, milk in glass bottles, herbs hanging in bundles that fill the air with green scent.
I should question where it all came from. Should worry about magic I don't understand providing things I didn't ask for.
Instead, I just feel grateful.
I decide to make breakfast. Something simple—toast and eggs for whoever wakes up hungry. It's the least I can do after... everything. After they followed me here, after they saw the bed the Ether built and didn't run away.
But the toaster, when I find it, doesn't look like any toaster I've ever seen. It's made of the same warm stone as the counters, with symbols carved into its surface that glow faintly when I touch them.
I put bread in anyway. Press what looks like it might be the right symbol.
The bread disappears in a flash of silver light.
"Okay," I say to myself. "Not that one."
I try again with new bread, a different symbol. This time the bread comes back... black. Smoking. Definitely not edible.
The eggs don't go much better. The magical stove seems to have opinions about temperature that don't match mine. What should be a simple scramble turns into something that might generously be called abstract art.
I’m standing there with a smoking pan and the distinct smell of culinary failure when I realize Gray hasn’t moved.
He’s still leaning against the counter, mug in hand—but he’s watching me now.
Eyes tracking the mess I’ve made like he’s trying to decide whether to intervene or let me work it out myself.
Then his gaze drops again.
Not by accident this time.
It lingers—not long, not leering, just... held.
Like he’s not fighting it as hard this time. Like some part of him is tired of pretending not to look.
