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When you heard the heavy sound of someone simply collapsing into the stool of the kitchen island, you knew immediately they would need company.
Abandoning your horror marathon for the time being- old monster films that had been around since before you were even a thought- you made your way into the dark room, sliding your dimmer just bright enough to make out the figure hunched over the counter.
You winced, sensing his sorrow and the aura of anguish shrouding him like a second skin.
Quietly, but ensuring you were loud enough for him to hear your arrival, you made your approach, slowly placing your hands onto his back. With no indication of his refusal, you began to massage his shoulders through his coat, pressing no deeper than necessary.
He was subdued for some time, the silence of the moment disturbed only by the ticking of your ancient wall clock, the thrumming of the distant television, and the steady harmony shared by two sombre souls.
The murmur of appreciation that rumbled from beneath your palms was met with a soft hum, the atmosphere still dictating a necessity for stillness, for contemplation.
Cinnamon still lingered in the air, teasing the senses and reminding you of the freshly baked cookies residing just inside the fridge. Gradually, you pulled away from him, fingers lingering as you drifted to the double doors, LED pouring onto the linoleum.
"I have pumpkin, chocolate chip, oatmeal, and gingersnap. Want any?"
He offered a shake of the head, heavy eyes averted towards your window.
Your eyes narrowed, words slipping out before you could restrain yourself.
"How about a knuckle sandwich?"
This startled a scoff from him, golden eyes darting over to your own in shock. "Excuse me?"
"I wanted to know if you wanted a knuckle sandwich, since apparently you're too good for cookies."
You would have thought him irate were it not for the smile he tried to restrain, turning away from you once more. "I think I'm good, darlin'. Thanks though."
Shrugging to yourself, you started to assemble your collection onto a plate, grabbing a glass to fill with milk on a whim.
Benny's voice carried to you once more, slightly sheepish. "Ya know- I coul' actually really go for a drink? Please."
You felt a smile blossom, warmth reverberating all the way to your toes from the mere appearance of contentment returning to his gaze.
"Of course, sweetheart."
With a flourish, you opened the cabinet, gesturing to the shelves of soda, mixers, and instant drink pouches, earning a near-silent chuckle for your antics.
Lowering your voice in a teasing, horrible imitation of his accent, you feigned sobriety. "Pick yer poison, sugar."
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