The sizzle of the pan fills the quiet.

You hum something, barely audible, standing in his too-big shirt with your hair still a little messy from sleep. The kitchen smells like coffee, toasted bread, and buttered eggs.

You haven’t heard him yet. No cane tap. No grumble. No sarcastic quip tossed from the doorway.

But then — Warm hands. Sliding slowly around your waist.

“You’re up,” you say, smiling softly as you feel the weight of him press in behind you.

“Unfortunately,” his voice rasps against the nape of your neck. “Woke up alone. Thought I’d been dumped.”

“For what? A functioning adult who can cook and doesn’t hoard Vicodin under the sink?”

“I mean, he sounds hot.” His hands slide a little lower, fingertips pressing into the fabric of his shirt — the one you’re wearing, the one you’ve half stolen. “Does he also watch you from the doorway every time you stretch like that?”

You bite back a laugh, then gasp slightly when his teeth ghost over your shoulder — gentle, lazy, like he’s barely even awake.

“You smell like you,” he murmurs, nestling his face into your neck as if he’s trying to crawl back into sleep right there, wrapped around you. “It’s unfair how obsessed I am with this smell. Stupid pheromones.”

His hands roam — not greedy, not desperate. Just needy. Like he hasn’t touched you in weeks, not hours.

“Breakfast,” you remind him.

“You.”

“Greg.”

“Eggs can wait.”

And still he doesn’t let go. Not for a long while.