“Mm.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Feels like a drumline in there.”
“Water first.” I set a glass in front of him. He drinks like it’s holy. The column of his throat works, and he exhales with his eyes closed, lashes damp from sleep. When he opens them again, he finally registers the spread—the bacon resting on paper towels, the eggs in the pan, the orange slices fanned on a plate, toast catching the light in glossy sheets of butter.
“Did you rob a brunch place?” he asks, trying for a grin. It comes out crooked but brave.
“I bought groceries,” I say, plating food. “Your fridge had protein shakes and beer. That’s a cry for help.”
“That’s called efficiency,” he protests weakly.
“That’s called malnutrition.” I set a plate in front of him and pour coffee. “Eat.”
He looks—actually looks—like no one has set food down in front of him in a long time. He picks up the fork, scoops a bite of eggs, and pauses. “You cooked.”
“Yes,” I deadpan. “Billionaire families sometimes let their children touch stoves.”
He smirks and the expression lights him from inside. He finally eats. The sound he makes is embarrassing for both of us. “Holy—” He catches himself, glances up at me as if to make sure he’s allowed. “This is… really good.”
“It’s eggs and heat,” I say, unable to stop the small, pleased curl at my mouth. “I didn’t reinvent the wheel.”
“Don’t ruin my moment.” He eats again, faster. Watches me over the rim of his mug when he drinks. There’s color in his face now. His breathing evens. His shoulders drop a fraction.
“You didn’t have to do this,” he says, halfway through the plate.
“I know. I wanted to.”
“To be clear,” he adds, gesturing with his fork, “I am thrilled you did. I just… you know.” He flicks his eyes to the near-empty sink, the bottle from last night turned on its side. The living room. The not-nice parts. “I’m not exactly familiar with… this.”
“Breakfast?” I ask.
“Being taken care of,” he says, like the admission might break a tooth on the way out.
The fork clinks soft against porcelain. He looks at the table, then at me. The bravado he lives in slips an inch, and beneath it is something timid and bare.
“I’m not used to people staying,” he says quietly.
“I noticed.” I take the chair beside him, close enough that our knees bump. “I’m not used to staying.”
He huffs a laugh that’s mostly breath. “So we’re both amateurs.”
“We can practice,” I say.
He sets the fork down and drags a hand through his hair. His fingers snag in a curl; his mouth pulls to one side as he frees it. And something in me drops anchor. He is objectively a mess: hoodie inside out, boxers riding low, a bruise darkening at the hip where the fabric doesn’t quite hide it. And it hits me with the clarity of a clean line change how absurdly, painfully cute he is like this. Not the on-ice weapon, not the locker room legend. Just a man blinking at morning in borrowed kindness.
“You’re staring,” he says, wary.
“I’m admiring,” I correct, and lean over to kiss him.
It’s not the kind of kiss that makes the walls tilt. It’s soft, tasting of coffee and salt and relief. He inhales against my mouth like he’s been holding his breath since the door opened last night. His hand finds my jaw, thumb resting at the hinge like hememorized the spot. When I pull back, his eyes are warmer, less scared animal, more person.
“Alaric,” he murmurs. Like a question. Like a thank you.
“Just let me take care of you,” I say. The words surprise us both with how easy they come.
He blinks hard. Looks down. His voice drops. “I don’t know how to—” He swallows. “I mean, I’m good at getting hit, and hitting back. I’m good at skating until everything else shuts up. But I don’t… I don’t know what to do when someone’s… kind.”
“You don’t have to do anything,” I say. “Eat. Shower again if you want. We’ll nap. You’ll stretch. I’ll bully you into electrolytes like a tyrant.”
He smiles into his mug. “Hot.”
