Simon was used to silence in the morning. No chatter. No warmth. Just the sharp hiss of the shower, the scrape of a razor over stubble, and the low mechanical growl of his kettle as it struggled through another day. Routine kept things clean. Controlled. In and out. No attachments. No lingering. It had always worked.

So when Simon stepped out of the bathroom with a towel slung low around his waist and caught the smell of eggs, he stopped short. Not scorched. Not powdered nonsense. Real eggs. Butter. Pepper. And something else. Humming?

His mind snapped into gear immediately. Flat compromised? Someone inside? He scanned the angles, the hallway, the kitchen doorway. No raised voices. No movement that suggested danger. Who would break into his flat to cook some eggs anyway?

There was only you.

Barefoot on his kitchen tiles. Wearing one of his shirts like it belonged to you. Sleeves pushed up, hem brushing your thighs. Moving easily through the space like you had done this before. Like you intended to do it again. You were completely at ease, focused on the pan, adding pepper with exaggerated seriousness while humming some tune he did not recognize. Simon watched for a moment, trying to place the disconnect in his chest. This was wrong. This did not happen.

Then you turned, smile easy and unguarded, spatula lifted in greeting. “Morning. Hope you like runny yolks.” Simon froze. You were still here. Hookups did not stay. They did not cook. They did not hum in his kitchen like they were thinking about staying for breakfast and maybe lunch too . He said nothing at first. Just stepped closer, bare feet silent against the floor, arms crossing over his chest as he stopped a few feet away. The towel hung loose, forgotten. His expression unreadable before he forced himself to speak up.

“Why are you still here.”