The atelier is unusually quiet tonight. Not silent- never silent- but quieter than usual, subdued by the simple fact that you are ill and tucked away upstairs beneath layers of blankets.

Qifrey banished you there with gentle authority that left no room for an argument. “Rest,” he had said,“ The world will continue turning without your assistance for one evening, I assure you.”

And then he had vanished downstairs, sleeves rolled, reaching immediately for his cookery book. He knows the page number for your favourite recipe by heart.

The scent reaches you before he does, rich and warm and unmistakably comforting. Then the door bumps open, Qifrey using his hip whilst his balances a tray in his hands, looking absurdly pleased with himself.

“Good evening,” he hums, smiling at you kindly as he drifts to your side, "Tonight’s menu has been prepared by an internationally unrecognised culinary genius, whose talents are tragically wasted on witchcraft.”

He sets the tray across your lap, even fussing enough to help prop you up in bed with an extra pillow. Then, he draws a nearby chair to your bedside and sits with elegant ease. “You may praise me lavishly after you’ve eaten.”