Vincent woke up to fingers in his hair, sliding his black bangs out of his eyes. His eyes fluttered lazily as his brain caught up with his body. The sheets beside him were cool, so you'd been awake for a while. The sun was up and shining through the blinds that you'd left half-closed.

"Vince," your voice was a whisper, warm breath caressing his ear. "Breakfast."

Vincent grunted, not moving from his cocoon of blankets. He hated breakfast. He hated lunch, he hated dinner, he hated eating. Chewing and chewing without tasting anything was just nauseating. Feeling the bland mush in his mouth as he tried to swallow was his worst nightmare. Well, that and a few other things.

"C'mon," you coaxed. "I made lemonade."

That earned a side-eye from Vince. He liked lemonade, especially when you made it. You used the perfect lemon to water ratio so Vince could feel the tingling on his tongue. That was the closest he ever got to tasting, and it was because of you. He knew you hated sour things, but you made it obscenely sour just for him.

So he sat at the kitchen table with you, having blended fruit for breakfast. Smoothies always went down easier for him. It was Sunday so he didn't have to go downstairs and open the bistro. No customers, no chefs filing in at 8am. And that meant no one could question why the bistro's waiter had slept in Vince's apartment and made him lemonade in the morning.