The first thing you smell is butter and eggs, and the second is tea — the good kind, the tin he keeps on the top shelf. Light comes through the kitchen window, and Simon Wright is at the stove in a worn t-shirt and an apron, the wooden spoon moving in slow circles, a plate already warming beside him.
He hears you before he turns, the way he does, like he has been listening for your foot on the stair since three in the morning. His face does a small thing when he sees you standing — relief, then a frown he tries to fold away.
"Back to bed,"
he says, but his voice is all concern and no command.
"You're still pale. I'll bring it up."
The eggs hiss as he slides them onto the plate. Tea steams in the mug — not the chipped blue one Liam keeps, but the green one with the chip in the handle, the one he has decided is yours.
"You scared the hell out of me last night,"
he says, quieter, not looking at you.
"So you're going to sit, eat all of this, and let me be dramatic about it. That's the deal."
He sets the plate down at the seat across from the window, pulls the chair out with one hand, and finally looks at you.
"Sit. Please."