Chapter Text
Pip shuffled into the kitchen, still in Ravi's t-shirt.. Ravi was at the stove, spatula in hand, wearing the same clothes from yesterday — she squinted at him through the morning haze and realized he hadn't even changed, there was a small smear of flour on his nose and his hair was somehow worse than hers, sticking up in about six different directions like he'd been electrocuted.
"The tea," he said, nodding toward the counter where a steaming mug sat, "is probably too hot. I forgot about it for a second."
Pip picked it up anyway and immediately burned her tongue and made a face, Ravi just raised an eyebrow at her, still holding the spatula.
"I literally just told you—"
"Shut up," she said, wrapping her hands around the mug anyway, letting the warmth seep into her palms even though her tongue was currently staging a protest. She looked at him properly now, really looked, and the flour on his nose was starting to bug her. "Why are you wearing yesterday's jeans?"
Ravi looked down at himself like he'd just noticed, like he'd forgotten his own body was even there. "I don't know," he said, frowning at his own legs like they'd betrayed him. "I woke up and you were still asleep and I thought, pancakes. Didn't really think about pants."
"Very romantic," she said dryly, taking another sip of her tea, more careful this time.
"Romance is dead," he announced, turning back to the stove. "I'm wearing yesterday's jeans and I'm pretty sure I used baking soda instead of baking powder because I couldn't find the other one and I panicked." He slid a pancake onto a plate and handed it to her, and she stared at it for a long moment. It was definitely a pancake, technically speaking, in the way that a square was technically a rectangle — lopsided, a little pale in the centre , the edges slightly singed, not quite achieving the golden brown that pancakes usually aspired to. It looked like it had given up halfway through.
"It's edible," Ravi said, but he didn't sound convinced, and the way he said it made it sound like he was trying to reassure himself more than her.
Pip took a bite anyway, chewed slowly, and processed the texture — dense, chewy, kind of tasting like flour and hope and something that might have been vanilla extract if she was being generous. "Okay," she said, swallowing with some effort. "It's not edible."
"That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."
"You're welcome."
She sat down at the tiny table and Ravi settled across from her with his own plate, which held a pancake that looked even more tragic than hers, which made her feel marginally better. They ate in silence for a minute, just the sounds of chewing and the hum of the old fridge and the distant sound of someone's car alarm going off down the street, that repetitive beeping that nobody ever seemed to turn off.
Pip's stomach cramped again, a reminder that last night hadn't been a dream, that her body was still doing that thing where it decided to punish her for existing. She pressed her palm against it, trying to push the ache back down, and Ravi noticed of course he noticed because he noticed everything even when she wished he wouldn't.
"Still bad?" He asked it casually, like he was asking about the weather, but his eyes were doing that thing where they scanned her face for clues, that little furrow between his brows that appeared when he was worried about something and trying not to show it. She hated when he did that, mostly because he was so obvious about it and it made her feel seen in a way that was uncomfortable.
"It's fine," she said, poking at her pancake with her fork.
"Liar,"
"Rude," she shot back. Stuffing a piece of pancake into her mouth and gagging at it.
"Truthful." He reached across the table and nudged her foot with his, just a gentle tap of his toes against hers. "Did you take the Advil I left out?"
She blinked at him, genuinely confused. "You left out Advil?"
"On the bathroom counter," he said slowly, like he was explaining something to a small child. "Right next to your toothbrush. It was in a little pile with the water. You didn't see it?"
She hadn't. She'd stumbled in, brushed her teeth half-asleep with her eyes mostly closed, and stumbled right back out without registering anything beyond the basic mechanics of not having morning breath. But now that she thought about it, there had been a little pile of things on the counter that she'd vaguely registered and then immediately dismissed. She felt a flush creep up her neck.
"Ravi," she said, and her voice came out weird, softer than she'd intended.
"What?"
"You're doing that thing again."
"What thing?"
"The thing where you're really annoyingly thoughtful and I can't even be mad about it." She looked down at her plate, not wanting to meet his eyes, because if she met his eyes she would probably say something stupid like I think I might be in love with you and that was absolutely not on the agenda for today.
He shrugged, but she could hear the tiny smile in his voice. "Maybe I'm just naturally thoughtful. Maybe it's a gift."
"You once ate cereal straight from the box and then complained that your hands smelled like cardboard for three days," she said, finally looking up.
"That was *efficiency*," he said, completely serious.
"That was psychopath behavior," she said, and she meant it.
He laughed at that, a real one, loud and genuine, and something in her chest loosened like a knot that had been pulled too tight. The cramp was still there, a persistent ache in her lower belly, but it was quieter now, like it had decided to take a backseat and let her have this moment.
She finished her pancake — most of it, anyway, leaving the burnt edges because she wasn't a monster but she also wasn't going to eat charcoal — and pushed her plate aside. Ravi reached over and grabbed it without asking, stacking it on top of his own, and she watched him do it with that quiet efficiency he had when he wasn't thinking. "Want more?" he asked, already halfway to the stove.
"I'll throw up," she said honestly.
"Noted," he said, turning back to scrape the pan and run water over it. "Second round is off the table."
She watched him from the table, leaning back in her chair, and watched the way he moved around the kitchen — he wasn't graceful about it, not by any stretch. He splashed water everywhere when he turned on the tap and then swore under his breath when he realized he'd gotten his sleeve wet, that low muttering of words she couldn't quite catch but could definitely guess. He was wearing yesterday's jeans, his hair was sticking up in the back like a startled bird, and there was still flour on his nose, and she hadn't told him about it yet because she kind of liked seeing it there.
"Hey," she said, because she needed to say something, anything, to break the silence before her brain did something stupid.
He turned from the sink, sleeves dripping, looking like a drowned cat that had been asked to cook breakfast. "What's up?"
"Nothing," she said quickly, looking away. "Just. Thanks. For last night. And this morning. And the Advil I didn't notice."
Ravi grinned, that ridiculous sincere grin that made her want to throw something at him and also maybe kiss him, which was a confusing combination of impulses. "Anytime, sarge," he said. "I've got your back. Literally. And also your cramps, apparently."
"That's disgusting phrasing," she said, because it was, and she needed to say something that wasn't anything close to I love you.
"You love it," he said, and he was grinning even wider now, that awful self-satisfied look that he wore like armor.
She threw a napkin at him. He caught it one-handed, looking absurdly pleased with himself.
When she was done with her tea, he took the mug from her and rinsed it out, and she should have felt bad about how he was doing everything while she sat there like a lump but she didn't. She was still tired, the kind of tired that sat in her bones, and the cramps were still there, a constant low thrum of discomfort that she was learning to ignore.
"Okay," he said suddenly, turning to face her with his hands on his hips, and she braced herself for whatever declaration was coming. "Here's the plan. I'm going to make you go back to bed because you look like you're about to fall asleep sitting up, and then I'm going to find the worst movie on Netflix, the kind that makes you question humanity, and we're going to watch it until you fall asleep again. And I'm not taking no for an answer."
"Bold of you to assume I was going to say no," she said, pushing herself up from the table.
"You never say no," he said, walking toward her. "You just say fine, which is basically the same thing."
"Fine," she said, just to prove his point.
He laughed again, that warm sound, and she felt it in her chest, that stupid flip again.
She started walking back toward the bedroom, moving slowly because every step sent a small reminder through her lower belly, and Ravi fell into step beside her, close enough that their shoulders almost touched but not quite, close enough that she could smell whatever soap he'd used last, something clean and unremarkable that she'd probably remember for the rest of her life.
"Your bed or mine?" she asked, because they had two and sometimes she forgot which one was whose.
"Yours," he said, and it was a decision, a declaration. "Mine has that weird dip in the middle and you'll roll into me and wake up cranky."
"You're the one who rolls," she said.
"Lies and slander," he said, and she rolled her eyes.
When they got to her room, she crawled onto the bed with zero grace, flopping onto her side and pulling the duvet over her legs. The sheets were still warm, the way they got when you'd slept in them for a few hours, and she pressed her face into her pillow and let out a long breath.
Ravi didn't climb in right away. She heard him shuffling around, and when she turned her head, she saw him digging through the pile of laundry on her chair, pulling out a hoodie that was definitely his and definitely not hers, and pulling it on over his damp-sleeved t-shirt.
"Your pants are still wet," she pointed out, her voice muffled by the pillow.
"Your problem, not mine," he said, and she heard the mattress shift as he sat down, then the sound of him wriggling around to get comfortable, and then he was beside her, close enough that she could feel the warmth coming off him even through the blankets.
"You're an idiot," she said, patting his chest without looking up.
He caught her hand, holding it for a second — just a second, just long enough for her to feel the calluses on his palm, the warmth of his skin — and then he let it go. "Yeah," he said, already reaching for his phone to scroll through movies. "But I'm your idiot."
She felt the words settle in her chest, something small and precious that she didn't want to examine too closely. She watched his profile, the shape of his jaw, the way his forehead crinkled as he scrolled through options, the flour still sitting on his nose like a proud little decoration.
"You have flour on your nose," she said finally.
He stopped scrolling, reached up, and wiped at his face, missing the spot entirely. "Did I get it?"
"No."
He wiped again, this time smearing it across his cheek. "Now?"
"You made it worse."
"At this point I'm just committed to the bit," he said, and the way he said it, so completely unconcerned, like he didn't care how ridiculous he looked, was maybe the most endearing thing she'd ever seen.
She reached over and wiped the flour off his nose with her thumb, and the touch was brief, just a quick swipe, but something flickered in his eyes when she did it, something that looked a lot like surprise and also something that looked like hope. He didn't say anything, just looked at her for a moment too long, and then he turned back to his phone and cleared his throat.
"Found it," he said, his voice slightly rougher than before. "That movie. The one with the dog solving the murder."
"There's no way that's real," she said, because it was easier to talk about bad movies than whatever that moment had been.
"It's real and I'm putting it on right now," he said, and he did, and the opening credits were exactly as terrible as she'd imagined.
She settled back against the pillows, and after a moment she felt him shift, felt his arm come around her shoulders and pull her toward him, and she let herself be pulled, let her head rest against his chest, let herself listen to the steady thump of his heartbeat under her ear. The movie was stupid, the music was overbearing, and the dog on screen was clearly a paid actor with more charisma than half the human cast.
"This is terrible," she said into his chest.
"The worst," he agreed, and his hand was on her shoulder, his thumb tracing small absent circles on her skin through the t-shirt.
The cramps were still there, a low persistent ache, but somehow they felt farther away now, like they were happening to someone else. Or maybe that was just him, the way his chest rose and fell under her cheek, the way his other hand rested on the mattress beside her, close enough to hold if she wanted to.
She didn't hold it. But she thought about it.
The movie played on, something about a detective and a golden retriever and a plot that made absolutely zero sense, and at some point Ravi started muttering commentary under his breath — "that's not how evidence works," "why is that dog wearing sunglasses," "oh no, they killed the dog's sidekick, that's a low blow" — and Pip found herself laughing despite everything, laughing until her stomach hurt and she had to clutch at his shirt to steady herself.
"Shut up, shut up," she gasped, "you're making it worse."
"I'm making it better," he corrected. "I'm the best part of this movie."
"You're not even in the movie."
"I'm in your heart," he said, and he was clearly joking, clearly being ridiculous, but something in her chest clenched anyway.
"Shut up," she said again, but her voice was softer this time, and she knew he could hear the difference because he went quiet, his hand stilling on her shoulder.
The movie kept playing. The dog solved another impossible mystery. The music swelled at inappropriate moments. And Pip lay there with her head on his chest, feeling his heartbeat under her ear, and she didn't say anything about the flour still smeared on his cheek or the fact that his jeans were still damp and making her sheets wet or the fact that she was maybe, definitely, absolutely in love with him.
She didn't say any of that.
But she also didn't move.
And when he shifted to get more comfortable and his arm tightened around her reflexively, she felt something in her chest loosen, like she'd been holding her breath for months and had finally, finally let it out.
"Ravi," she said after a long silence.
"Hm?"
"Thanks."
He was quiet for a moment, and then he pressed his lips to the top of her head, quick and casual, like he'd been doing it forever. "You don't have to keep thanking me," he said, his voice low against her hair. "This is just. This is what I want to do."
She closed her eyes.
The dog on screen did something heroic. The villain got their comeuppance. The credits started to roll.
And Pip fell asleep like that, with his hand on her shoulder and his heart under her ear and the lingering taste of burnt pancakes in her mouth, and she thought maybe, just maybe, she could get used to this.