I don't realize I've fallen asleep until the scent of something warm and creamy pulls me gently back to consciousness. Cream soup.
My stomach tightens at the smell, hollow with hunger. Brunch it is, I think groggily, blinking against the pale light filtering through the curtains. I shift under the soft blanket draped over me, stretching slightly on the couch. It must've been around noon—quiet, lazy, tender like the inside of a song.
From the kitchenette, I hear the soft clatter of bowls and the sound of Rainbow meowing—not quite a demand, but certainly an opinion. Theo stands near the stove, sleeves rolled up, hair a bit tousled, stirring something in a pot. He looks so domestic I could sketch him with three strokes. Light, lean, real.
"Smells good," I murmur, sitting up slowly.
He turns a little, flashing me a relaxed smile. "It's the lazy kind. Chicken cream soup. I had leftover broth. You hungry?"
