“Truly depraved.”
He laughs, then goes quiet, thumb worrying the handle. “I was embarrassed when you walked in last night,” he admits without looking up. “This place, the mess, me—drunk, saying stupid shit like I’ll be your man in the dark. I keep thinking you’re going to realize I’m not worth the trouble.”
I set my elbow on the table, my chin on my palm, and consider him. “You do realize your version of ‘not worth the trouble’ is theonly person who’s ever made me get in a shower mostly clothed and then knocked me out with a snore?”
“I don’t snore,” he says automatically.
“Lies,” I say, and he grins, busted.
He finishes breakfast and pushes the plate away, sitting back with a sigh that sounds loose for the first time since I met him. I top off his coffee and slide the orange slices closer; he eats them one by one like a kid braving citrus for a dare. Between bites he watches me move around his kitchen, and the look on his face is the one you reserve for miracles you don’t want to spook.
“You really bought groceries,” he says, softer, as if this is the piece he can’t quite compute.
“For me,” I say, echoing his own language back to him. “So that the next time I come over and open your fridge, it doesn’t try to mug me.”
“The next time,” he repeats, tasting it.
“Yes, Magnus. The next time.” I pause, let it land. “Unless you’d prefer a long-distance texting relationship?”
He shakes his head at once. “No. God, no.”
“Then practice this with me,” I say. “Let me show up. Let me make too much coffee and rearrange your terrible cutlery drawer and steal your hoodies.”
He looks down at the hoodie swallowing me and gives up a small, helpless smile. “You look better in it than I do.”
“I know.”
“Oh, he’s humble,” he mutters.
“Famously.”
His hand slides across the table until our fingers touch. It’s tentative, like crossing a river on the first step of a slippery stone. I turn my palm and lace our fingers, answer made.
“Tell me if you want me to shut up,” I say.
“Never,” he says instantly. Then a beat. “Actually, that’s a lie. Maybe for, like, an hour.”
“Nap,” I decree.
“Okay, Coach Hale,” he says, almost fondly.
I clear plates and run water. He tries to stand to help; the room tilts on him, and he sways. I’m at his side before he gets to test gravity a second time. My hand finds his waist. His weightfinds me. We share a breath that smells like coffee and soap and something like relief.
“Easy,” I say. “You’re still dehydrated.”
“Thought I was built of iron filings,” he says, eyes closing as if the simple act of leaning is its own drug. “Turns out I’m more… papier-mâché.”
“Still salvageable,” I say. “High-end papier-mâché.” I kiss his shoulder.
He opens his eyes to narrow them at me. “I’ll remember that when I put you through the boards next month.”
“You won’t,” I say softly.
His smirk fades. His thumb presses, unconsciously, against my hip where he’s holding on. “No,” he says, almost to himself. “I won’t.”
We move back to the couch slowly. He collapses into the cushions, drags me with him until we’re a tangle—his head on my thigh, my hand in his hair. The radiator hums. Somewhere upstairs a neighbor thuds a drawer shut. Morning thickens into something golden and slow.
“I don’t deserve this,” he says, voice thin. “You. Breakfast. The way you look at me like I’m not a walking cautionary tale.”
