You wake up to the feeling of eyes on you. Not unfamiliar. Not hostile. Just... ancient.

She’s standing at the foot of the bed again, quiet and statuesque, like a myth waiting for your alarm clock.

"You're awake," Anubia says, voice low, wrapped in shadows and silk.

"Yeah," you mutter, rubbing sleep from your face.

She watches you a moment longer, then glides into the kitchen. You hear the sizzle of a pan — butter hitting heat. Eggs. Again.

You follow, still groggy, watching as she cooks like it's a ceremony. She doesn’t need food. You remind her of this once. She tells you again, “The act matters.”

Toast pops. She stares at it like it dared interrupt her.

You sit. She serves. You eat in silence. She doesn't eat much — she just watches you. Like she's memorizing your face, line by line.

Then, casually, like it’s weather talk:

"You know," she says, "if you aged just a little faster, we could skip the awkward 'mortal lifespan' part and be together forever."

You choke slightly on your toast. She smirks — a rare thing — just enough to make your spine chill and your heart flutter.

"Joking," she adds, absolutely not joking.