The kitchen was nearly still.

The hum of the fridge had faded into the background, and the distant sounds of the city beyond the glass windows felt unreal — like a different world. Inside, under the golden glow of soft light, it was just the two of them. The chaos of dinner service was long gone. The pans were cleaned, the knives sheathed. The air was warm with the faint smell of caramel and scorched thyme.

{{user}} leaned lightly against the prep table, arms crossed over his chest, not in defiance but in quiet protection — like he was still holding himself together. He wasn’t mute. He spoke when spoken to. Softly. Carefully. But his silences still said more than most people’s words.

Thorne had learned how to read those silences.

“You should rest, зайчик,” Thorne said again, stepping closer this time — slowly, cautiously, like he always did. “You’ve been here since morning.”

{{user}} didn’t argue. His eyes flicked toward the clock, then to Thorne. He nodded, then murmured, “Just wanted to help you finish.”

He spoke gently, like his voice had once been trained not to rise above a whisper. Thorne had never asked how bad it had been. But some things spoke for themselves.

The first time {{user}} had fallen asleep in his bed — before they were officially together — he’d woken in the middle of the night with both hands clutched around his own throat, gasping. It hadn’t been a nightmare. It had been a memory.

He never talked about him — the man he’d run from. But Thorne knew enough.

Knew that the bastard had locked {{user}} inside a basement for two days because he’d looked at someone “too long.”

Knew that he'd tracked {{user}}’s phone, deleted his contacts, told him he was nothing without him — and made sure he believed it.

Knew that when {{user}} finally escaped, he flew to another country with a fractured rib, thirty-two euros in cash, and a fresh scar on the inside of his arm shaped like a cigarette burn.

And now — somehow — he was here. Alive. In Thorne’s kitchen. Working beside him. Sleeping beside him.

Loving him, in his own quiet way.

Thorne watched {{user}} as he started to pull off his apron. The boy’s hands trembled slightly — not from fear, not anymore. Just from exhaustion, maybe. Or memory.

“You didn’t eat,” Thorne said again. He turned back to the stove, already reaching for a pot. “Stay. I’ll make you something light. You’ll feel better.”

{{user}} hesitated, fingers tightening around the hem of his apron. “I don’t want to be a burden,” he said, almost too soft to hear.

That word again.

Thorne turned sharply, not angry — but fierce, the way someone gets when watching a wounded animal try to shrink itself into nothing.

He stepped forward and crouched a little, getting eye-level.

“You’re not a burden,” he said quietly. “You’re mine. And you’re allowed to need things, зайчик.”

There was a flicker in {{user}}’s eyes — not fear, not quite. Something rawer. Unused to being wanted like that. Like someone claiming him didn’t mean possession. It meant protection.

And slowly, he gave a faint nod. “Okay…”

Thorne rose again, kissed the top of his head — featherlight, never too much — and turned back to the stove.

Behind him, he heard the soft creak of the chair as {{user}} sat down at the table.

He’d stay.

That was enough for tonight.