They went downstairs, the whole house wrapped in silence, only the guards on night duty awake in the halls. The kitchen lights flickered on, soft and warm.
Bella opened the fridge, peered in, and sighed. "Nothing."
"See?" He leaned against the counter, crossing his arms, his voice low. "I told you, I'm not hungry."
"Hush." She gave him a look that was both sleepy and bossy, and he almost—almost—smiled.
"I'll cook for you," she said finally, her lips curving in a small, determined smile.
He watched her move around the kitchen in her fluffy pink pajamas, yawning every so often as she gathered ingredients. He sat on one of the stools by the counter, a massive man in a dark shirt looking completely out of place in the soft kitchen glow. Yet his eyes never left her.
His chest stirred, strange and unfamiliar. She looked so fragile, half-asleep, yet still she wanted to feed him, to take care of him.
