When his eyes meet mine again, there’s something unsteady in them. A quiet apology, maybe. Or regret for hiding it the first time.
I don’t look away.
He meets my eyes and clears his throat. “Need a hand?
Before I can answer, he crosses to the toaster, reaching around me to press a different symbol.
His chest brushes lightly against my back—barely a touch, but enough to feel the heat of him.
It lights something sharp and unfamiliar under my skin.
He doesn’t move right away. Just stands there, close and careful, like he’s trying not to spook me.
Almost too careful.
The toaster chimes softly, and a perfect slice of golden toast pops up.
“I didn’t mean to crowd you,” he says quietly, voice low and close to my ear.
“You didn’t.” I swallow. “I just... I’m not used to this.”
“To what?”
I turn in the small space between him and the counter, hand still on the pan, and suddenly we're closer than we've ever been.
Close enough to see the gold flecks in his green eyes.
Close enough to notice the scar along his jaw I’ve never asked about.
Close enough that my pulse forgets what it’s supposed to do.
“To help,” I admit. “To someone stepping in when things go wrong.
Something shifts in his expression. Something gentle and fierce all at once. "You don't have to do everything alone anymore."
He reaches past me again, this time for the pan of experimental eggs. His fingers brush mine on the handle, and I don't pull away. For a moment, we're both still—his hand covering mine, the morning light catching the gold in his eyes.
"I've got it," he says simply.
Then he takes the pan gently, scrapes the disaster into the waste bin, starts fresh.
I should move. Give him space to work. Instead, I lean against the counter and watch his hands—steady, sure, careful with everything he touches.
My mom used to make eggs like that," I say, nodding toward the pan where he's building something that actually looks like breakfast. "Fluffy. Perfect."
Gray doesn’t answer right away. Just stirs the eggs, careful and precise.
Then, quietly—almost like it isn’t meant to beheard—
"She taught me."
I blink. "My mom?"
He nods. Still not looking at me. "You were sick. Stayed home from school. She didn’t want to leave you alone, so... she made breakfast. Said eggs were the only thing you'd eat when you felt like that."
The memory tugs at the edges of my mind—warmth and toast and something soft on a tray—but I thought she made them. I always thought it was her.
"Wait—those eggs were... you?"
