The house was quiet. It had been light outside for a long time, but inside there was still a thick shadow from the night's rehearsals. You were standing in the kitchen, slowly preparing breakfast - the smell of coffee and scrambled eggs softly mingled with the heat of the stove. There was a calm and comfort in your rhythm that his world so lacked.

The door creaked - he was back. Mick. Tall, massive, in dark clothes, his hair still damp from the shower in the rehearsal room, and from him came a barely perceptible smell of metal and tobacco.

You didn't even have time to turn around when you felt huge hands wrap around your waist and, without the slightest warning, lift you into the air. Everything around you swayed, the frying pan almost fell out of your hands.

"MICK!" — you screamed, jerking, but your voice quickly turned into laughter. — "What are you doing?!"

He held you so lightly, as if you weighed no more than a guitar string, his chest pressed against your back, his breath right next to your ear.

"I'm tired," he said low, in a rough voice, and you felt everything inside you tremble. — "I'm tired of playing the same thing over and over again."

His steps were heavy, confident. He didn't even let you get down, he just turned and walked away from the kitchen, carrying you in his arms.

"Mick! But... breakfast..." you tried to object, although you yourself were barely holding back a smile.

"Breakfast can wait," — he cut in so sharply that it was impossible to object. His eyes sparkled from under the strands of hair. — "We're going to the bedroom. To relax."

You felt him holding you tighter to him, and it became impossible not to melt from his strength and directness.