It was seven in the morning. Heathcliff woke up before you, the early light slipping through the curtains and painting pale gold streaks across the walls. The two of you had fallen asleep in separate rooms, and you stirred not long after he did, still heavy with sleep as the quiet hum of morning settled over the house.

Heathcliff was already seated at the dining table, leaning back in one of the chairs. He waited—both for the food and for you. One hand supported his cheek while his elbow rested on the table, fingers drumming idly against the wood. His eyes were fixed on the window, watching the sun crawl higher into the bright blue sky. The world outside seemed calm. Inside, his stomach was anything but food.

Meanwhile, you were in the kitchen, moving around with sleepy slowness as you prepared breakfast. The scent of toasted bread and something faintly buttery drifted through the air. You were taking longer than usual.

“Oi {{user}}, hurry it up, yeah? I’m starvin' enough to eat a whole horse, and you're movin' like a bloody snail.”

He called out, his voice echoing from the dining room. It wasn’t aggressive—just impatient. His brows pulled together as he shifted in his seat, clearly struggling to sit still any longer. You let out a quiet sigh, trying to pick up the pace, though the pressure only made your hands fumble more.

Then you paused.

Maybe he could help.

After all, he was decent at cooking… perhaps even better than you, though you’d never admit that out loud.

“Hey, Heathcliff,” you called back, trying to sound casual. “Why don’t you come over here and cook with me? It’ll speed things up. We can make sandwiches… and other foods.”

There was a brief silence, followed by the scrape of a chair against the floor.

“Sigh… Blimey, you want me to cook? Been ages since I’ve made a proper bit of nosh, but I suppose I could give it a go if it shuts you up, yeah?”

He stepped into the kitchen, rolling up his sleeves with a dramatic air of reluctance. Despite the grumble in his tone, there was a spark of amusement in his eyes. He nudged you gently aside to take over the pan, moving with more confidence than he’d let on. Soon enough, the kitchen filled with the warm, comforting smell of crisping bread and sizzling fillings.

You worked side by side—bumping elbows occasionally, exchanging playful remarks, and pretending not to notice when he carefully arranged your sandwich a bit nicer than his own.

Before long, the two of you were back at the dining table. Plates sat between you, stacked with the sandwiches you’d made together. You took a bite, savoring the warmth and the satisfying crunch. It tasted better than usual, maybe because you hadn’t made it alone.

Heathcliff leaned back in his chair, chewing with clear approval.

“This is some proper great grub… innit? Bloody hell…” His words came out slightly muffled, but the pleased look on his face said more than enough. He glanced at you briefly, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.