Laura wakes up before her alarm.
The apartment is still.
Too still.
The furniture is arranged precisely the way it always is.
Neutral.
Symmetrical.
Chosen — but not by her.
An outfit waits on the chair by her wardrobe.
Tailored.
Pressed.
Delivered yesterday by her family's private tailor.
She sits up.
Usually she dresses immediately.
Structure first.
Then function.
Today she doesn't move.
Instead, she looks toward the kitchen.
There are groceries there.
Her groceries.
Not delivered meals.
Not staff-prepared containers.
She went shopping with the others two days ago.
Sunny insisted on strawberries.
Amelia added something "for aesthetic."
Zane threw random items into the cart "for chaos."
Axel quietly added eggs and flour.
Laura had stood there in the aisle longer than necessary.
Choosing.
It had felt… unfamiliar.
Now those ingredients are in her kitchen.
Waiting.
She reaches for her phone.
Axel answers on the second ring.
"You're up early."
"Yes."
A pause.
"I would like to attempt breakfast."
He doesn't dramatize it.
"Okay."
"I have ingredients."
"That's helpful."
"I am unsure what to do with them."
There's the faintest smile in his voice.
"Do you want me to talk you through it?"
She hesitates.
"…Could you stay on call?"
He doesn't miss what that costs her to ask.
"Of course."
She walks into the kitchen.
Opens the fridge.
Stares.
Eggs.
Milk.
Strawberries.
Bread.
Butter.
"So," he says gently, "what sounds manageable?"
She freezes slightly.
That word again.
Choice.
"I don't know what I like," she says.
"That's fine," he answers. "What feels least intimidating?"
She studies the counter.
"Eggs," she decides finally. "They seem direct."
"That's accurate."
She places the phone on speaker.
Cracks the first egg too hard.
It splatters.
She stares at it.
"…It broke aggressively."
"It does that sometimes," he says calmly.
She tries again.
Better.
She turns the stove on too high.
Axel catches it from the sound alone.
"Lower it a little."
She adjusts.
There's a long silence as she stirs.
"I am uncertain if this resembles food."
"Does it look like scrambled eggs?"
"…Loosely."
"That's promising."
She stops stirring.
"I feel… hesitant."
"That makes sense."
A pause.
"I can come over," he adds. "If you want."
She didn't plan to say yes.
"Yes," she replies.
He doesn't tease her.
"I'm on my way. Stay on call."
She nods, even though he can't see it.
By the time he arrives, she has turned the stove off entirely.
The eggs sit in the pan.
Half-scrambled.
Half-confused.
He knocks once before entering.
She's still in her pajamas.
The tailored outfit remains untouched in the other room.
He notices.
Doesn't comment.
"You haven't decided yet," he says gently.
"No."
"That's okay."
He washes his hands automatically.
"Have you eaten?" she asks.
"I usually don't."
She frowns faintly.
"That seems… inconsistent."
He shrugs.
"I can make an exception."
She studies him.
"Together?"
"Together."
He steps beside her.
Not taking over.
Just present.
They adjust the heat.
Add a little butter.
Stir slower.
Laura watches the texture change with intense focus.
"It's becoming more cohesive," she notes.
"That's generally the goal."
She plates them carefully.
As if presentation might determine outcome.
They sit at her dining table.
Two plates.
Two forks.
She stares at it like it's a final exam.
"Ready?" he asks.
"No."
He waits anyway.
She takes a bite.
Chews slowly.
Analyzing.
He doesn't interrupt the process.
After a moment she says:
"It is not offensive."
He smiles.
"That's progress."
She takes another bite.
Then looks at him.
"You should try it."
He does.
"It's edible," he confirms.
She exhales.
A small, real exhale.
"I made this."
"You did."
She looks at the kitchen again.
The apartment still doesn't feel like hers.
The furniture still isn't chosen.
The outfit still waits.
But the eggs?
She made those.
It's small.
Almost unimpressive.
But it's hers.
And that matters.
He reaches for his fork again.
"So," he says casually, "tomorrow we try toast?"
She considers.
"…That seems ambitious."
He laughs softly.
And for once—
her apartment feels slightly less staged.