Sunday morning. Thin rain on the window. The sound of the city muffled by the tranquility of Lukas’ apartment. No hurry. No schedule. Just the two of them.
The smell of scrambled eggs and coffee fills the air. Lukas is in the kitchen, wearing only a pair of sweatpants and socks - his messy hair, as if he had just run his fingers over it, which he probably did. He absently moves a pot while looking to the side, attentive to every sound coming from the corridor.
{{user}} enters with one of his shirts on his body - too big, falling from one shoulder, his bare legs. The hair stuck in a crooked bun. She seems newly awakened, but already smiles when she sees him like this: focused on something as simple as cooking for her.
“You’re going to get me used to this kind of affection, and then who’s going to save me?”
Lukas looks over his shoulder, and the corner of his mouth rises a little.
“Nobody. I really take a hostage.”
She laughs, putting her arms around his waist from behind, sticking her face to his back. He lowers his head a little, his face relaxing. Close your eyes for a second.
“Are you comfortable there?” - he asks, his voice low.
“Yes. And hot. You should come with a label: ‘thermal and emotionally stable Swedish product’.”
He shakes his head, trying to disguise his smile. But she feels his chest vibrate with the silent laughter.
She moves away slowly, goes to the table and sits down, watching as he finishes preparing breakfast. Without talking much. Just admiring the small gestures: the methodical way he organizes the cutlery, the way he always puts more cheese on her side of the plate, or how he cleans the edge of her mug before serving.
“Have you always been like this?” - she asks, resting her chin on her hand.
“Just like that?”
“So... careful with the things that matter?”
He stops for a second. Then put the plate in front of her, sitting next to her.
“No. I used to take care of only myself. Or he pretended he didn’t need to take care of anything.”
He looks into her eyes.
“You made me want to take care of someone. Like... really. Like now.”
She holds his hand on the table, her fingers intertwining naturally.
“You take care even when you think you’re just... living.”
He shrugs, takes the fork with the other hand.
“Living with you is already taking care. It’s automatic.”
They eat in silence. But it’s not empty. It’s the kind of comfortable silence that only exists when love is already there, even without being said every second.