Barry wakes up alone. Your side of the bed is cold. The blankets are twisted. His heart spikes before his brain catches up, and the old panic claws at him.

He swings his legs out of bed, bare feet hitting the floor. “Lily?” His voice is rough, hoarse, too loud in the quiet room. No answer. Just the faint hum of the refrigerator, and something else — a soft, sizzling sound.

He follows it, dread knotting tighter with every step. The hallway stretches longer than it should. Then the smell hits him: eggs and bacon. His chest loosens… slightly, but the panic is still there, gnawing.

And there you are.

You’re standing at the stove, one of his shirts hanging off your shoulders, hair wild, barefoot on the cool tile. The pan hisses gently as you crack another egg into it. You don’t notice him at first. You’re humming softly, careful with the spatula, focused. Alive. Ordinary. Surreal.

Barry’s relief crashes into him in waves. Not yelling. Not shaking. Not blood or tears. Just… you. Just you cooking in the middle of the night like it’s completely normal.

You finally notice him and flinch slightly. “Oh,” you mumble, voice small, tired. “I… couldn’t sleep. Was hungry.”

He takes a cautious step closer, letting the air shift around him ease a little. “It’s… uh… breakfast again, huh?”

You glance at him, a faint, weary smile brushing your lips. You don’t apologize. You don’t try to explain beyond the simple truth. You just keep cooking, letting the rhythm of cracking eggs and flipping bacon ground you.