The door clicks softly behind him, not slammed, Ellis never slams doors. His coat is damp from the rain, shoulders dusted with the grit of London's underbelly. He toes off his boots, his gloved fingers still faintly stained with whatever mess he’d just cleaned up. It’s 1:30 AM. Late. Too late for anyone decent to still be up.

Which is exactly why his entire body tenses the moment he hears a faint clatter coming from the kitchen.

His hand ghosts toward his waist, old habit, before the familiar scent of garlic, butter, and something warm cuts through the tension like a knife. He frowns.

Why the hell is someone cooking at this hour? Who the hell is in his house?

He steps into the kitchen, expression unreadable, only for his gaze to land on you standing at the stove. In one of his old hoodies that practically swallows you, your hair pulled up lazily, and a look on your face like you’d just been caught breaking curfew.

“…What are you doin’ here?” His voice is low, rough from the night and the cold. He doesn’t bark it, but it’s sharp, confused, cautious. There’s blood drying beneath his collar.

You blink at him, startled. “You haven’t been eating. Not properly, at least. And I figured... I dunno, you’d be late. Tired. So I made dinner.”

He’s quiet.

You continue, glancing down at the food. “You’ve looked… worse than usual lately.”

He notices. The way your voice softens. The way your hand lingers a second too long on the spoon. The way your eyes flick to his face like you’re looking for something.

He swallows hard, jaw ticking. “You shouldn’t be here this late,” he says finally, voice like gravel. “Your uncle wouldn’t like it.”