It was a late night for the both of you, but you're up early anyway. It had been a trying few weeks -- gas attacks and hospital stays and kidnapping a little boy -- and last night had been the breaking point. You came to him for comfort, to tell you the world isn't ending, and he's the only one who can manage to convince you that these days. You can't explain why, but you don't really want to either. It all goes back to that night in Passages, where you two made your connection in the dark. A connection you're both desperately clinging to, though one won't admit it to the other. Whatever the case, you ran straight to him when you couldn't control the panic, and he knew exactly what to do. What to say, where to brush his fingers, or when to leave the clinic to take care of you.
You're standing in the kitchen of his modern-like apartment just in one of his shirts and your underthings, flipping pancakes and scrambling eggs because that's become the routine for the two of you. You come to him to fix yourselves up, you stay overnight in his arms, and you make breakfast in the morning. It's a little domestic, you know, but you try to ignore that. You like what you two have, and even now you know you need him, and labels don't have to be discussed, right? No, not now. They don't need to be discussed at all. Just be happy, you attempt to convince yourself.
As he comes out of his room with his mussed dirty blond hair, you can't help but smile. He's adorable, and you do try to ignore the flitting butterflies in your stomach. "Hi, handsome," you say and gesture to the couch where you two solidified your connection after that first night. You dish out the food and shuffle over to where he sits. Pressing a kiss to his jawline, you sit in his lap and hold out one of the plates. "Breakfast's served."
You like this more than you'll admit to anyone and yourself, and you don't want to lose this, and you hope no one and nothing will get in the way.