You rub the sleep from your eyes, stumbling into the kitchen with a yawn, feet dragging against the tiled floor. The quiet hum of the fridge greets you, along with the faint rustle of someone already moving about.

Thomas is there—broad frame angled toward the pantry, one hand braced against the cupboard door as his sharp eyes sweep over the shelves like he’s cataloguing contraband. When he notices you, his gaze flickers briefly—assessing, not surprised.

“Hm.” He plucks up a box, checks the label, then sets it back. “Nutritious enough, I suppose.” His voice carries that steady, no-nonsense tone, but there’s a thread of dry amusement beneath it.

You grab something quick—a snack bar, maybe—and his brow lifts ever so slightly. “Don’t try to skip meals,” he remarks, folding his arms across his chest. “Your body isn’t going to cooperate if you starve it.”

There’s a softness behind the reprimand, though he tries to mask it with a wry little smile. Protective, watchful—yet already edging into that playful bite he never fully hides.