He opened his eyes; the light of the Sun was already filtering through the not-so-tightly-closed curtain, casting several mottled streaks of light on the dusty floor.
Jessica Jones was still sleeping soundly, completely oblivious.
Her posture was unrestrained,
one arm hanging over the edge of the sofa, the other resting casually on her forehead.
Her brow was furrowed, as if she was still wrestling with someone in her dreams.
Several dark strands of hair clung messily to her pale cheek, and from time to time, she let out an unintelligible grunt or two.
William watched silently, his mind racing.
This lady had an astonishing tolerance for alcohol, but her drinking manners... were debatable. At least she hadn't thrown up on him, which was a blessing.
The 20 points of compensation from last night's "Anxiang Duxingzhe (Dark Alley Walker)" order were his only confidence at the moment.
But this thing was practically useless in front of a super-powered individual who could tear down his door at any moment due to morning grumpiness.
"The customer is God... a potential customer is too, especially the kind that can punch through walls."
William took a deep breath. If she turned her hunger into destructive urges, his small, dilapidated house would need "post-disaster reconstruction" ahead of schedule.
Moreover, her "free trial policy" hadn't triggered any claims yet—this was potential business!
For the sake of business, and for his life, William made a difficult decision: to prepare breakfast for this uninvited guest.
People who were full would always be a little bit nicer, right?
At the very least, the strength of their punches might be slightly less.
He tiptoed to the coat rack beside the sofa, took down his jacket, held his breath to open the door, and then closed it softly, afraid of waking the "humanoid self-propelled demolition crew" on the sofa.
The street outside the apartment building was as usual, filled with the unique hustle and bustle of a New York morning and... a certain indescribable smell.
William, familiar with the area, turned into the corner grocery store, which was still reasonably priced.
"Good morning, Rajesh."
"Oh, William, you look good today, struck it rich?"
The Indian uncle, wearing reading glasses, squinted at him.
William gave a dry laugh: "Soon, soon, I'm on the broad road to wealth." He walked to the refrigerated cabinet and picked out half a dozen eggs and a bag of the cheapest toast.
After thinking for a moment, he gritted his teeth and grabbed a small carton of milk and a banana that looked relatively fresh.
"It's hard to predict Ms. Jones's temper after she wakes up from a hangover. More carbs and protein should make her a little 'gentler'."
He comforted his bleeding wallet in this way.
Back in the apartment, Jessica Jones remained in her original position, sleeping like a log.
William walked into the pitifully small kitchen area—which was actually just a counter with a sink in the corner of the living room.
He found his only non-stick pan and clumsily cracked the eggs.
"Sizzle—"
The sound of eggs hitting the pan was particularly clear in the quiet apartment.
Soon, the aroma of food began to spread.
William fumbled with frying the eggs while also distracted by toasting the bread, his mind still calculating his upcoming "business expansion plan."
Just then, a rustling sound of fabric rubbing came from the sofa, followed by a slight sound of bones moving.
William's heart tightened, and the hand holding the spatula stiffened by half, but on the surface, he continued to pretend to focus intently on the eggs in the pan.
Jessica Jones slowly sat up, her movements as stiff as an unearthed artifact.
She raised a hand to her temples; the headache from the hangover furrowed her beautiful brows into a "river" shape, and her face was etched with "Who am I, where am I, I want to die."
Her sharp eyes scanned the unfamiliar surroundings blankly, pausing when her gaze caught a barely visible crack in the corner of the ceiling.
Then her gaze fell on the man in the kitchen corner, dressed in an old suit, clumsily flipping eggs with a spatula, and the confusion in her eyes receded slightly.
William felt the substantial gaze on his back, and his scalp tingled a bit.
He served the barely golden-fried eggs onto a plate.
He then placed the toasted bread on it, and only then did he turn around, holding the plate, forcing out what he believed was his most kind and harmless smile, comparable to a standard insurance salesman's template:
"Good morning, Ms. Jones. Or... good afternoon?"
He glanced out the window; the Sun was already high in the sky.
"A simple breakfast, I hope it suits your taste."
He placed the plate on the shabby wooden box that served as a coffee table in front of the sofa, then took the carton of milk and the banana from the refrigerator.
Jessica Jones did not respond immediately, merely scrutinizing him with her bloodshot eyes, her gaze extremely penetrating, as if trying to find out if he had poisoned the breakfast on his face.
William felt as if he had been scanned by an X-ray multiple times, and even the private money he had hidden under the bed last night was almost exposed.
After a while, she finally spoke with difficulty, her voice hoarse like sandpaper rubbing wood, her tone still unfriendly: "How did I get here?"
William spread his hands, saying casually: "Last night, you seemed to be performing a unique 'performance art' at the entrance of my apartment.
The theme was probably 'On the Profound Connection Between Alcohol and Gravity'.
I saw you sleeping soundly and couldn't bear to disturb you, so I had no choice but to 'invite' you in to make do for the night."
He deliberately emphasized the word "invite" and stretched his still somewhat sore back.
Jessica rubbed her temples, seemingly trying to recall what happened last night, but clearly, the alcohol had formatted most of her memories.
She glanced at the breakfast on the table, then at William, the wariness in her eyes slightly diminished, but suspicion remained strong.
"You made this for me?"
She pointed to the plate, her tone carrying a hint of incredulity.
"Absolutely."
William nodded, trying to maintain his smile, "Limited ingredients, and my cooking isn't great, please bear with me."
Jessica was silent for a few seconds; perhaps the hunger from the hangover had overcome her wariness.
She picked up a slice of toast, took a bite, chewing somewhat slowly, then picked up a fork and speared a piece of fried egg into her mouth.
William watched her eat unhurriedly (or perhaps slowly due to her headache), and his heart relaxed slightly.
It seemed that food was indeed an effective way to bridge the gap between all living beings, even if the other party was a super-powered individual who could kill a bull with one punch.
After she had eaten half of the breakfast and drunk a few sips of milk, her complexion seemed to improve; at least she wasn't as pale, and her eyes were clearer.
William felt the time was right, cleared his throat, and cautiously asked: "Um... Ms. Jones, forgive my impertinence, but how did you... find your way here last night?"
He was indeed very curious.
He considered himself to be low-key, and he lived in this kind of mixed, inconspicuous dilapidated apartment. Logically, a private detective of Jessica Jones's caliber shouldn't have found him for no reason, let alone passed out at his doorstep.
This was unscientific, and it didn't fit her character!