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Bunny couldn’t cook.Not in the “oh, I can’t make a soufflé” way, but in the “he once set fire to a saucepan of boiling water” way.
It was a truth universally acknowledged in their little orbit: if you wanted to eat something that wouldn’t land you in hospital, Henry was the one to make it. He wasn’t a gourmet — he didn’t have the patience for fussy plating or the precision for baking — but he could do the basics. Pasta with a respectable sauce, a seared chicken breast, a steak that wouldn’t make you regret being born.
And scrambled eggs.
That morning, Henry was making exactly that. He was standing at the stove in his shirtsleeves, one hand on the pan, moving the eggs slowly, deliberately, with the kind of care one usually reserved for priceless works of art. The smell was warm, buttery, faintly herby — he’d chopped a handful of chives and sprinkled them over like the food magazines said you should.
Behind him, the sound of shuffling slippers and a badly-suppressed cough.
“Morning, doll,” Bunny said, voice pitched low and syrupy, as though he’d been transported directly from a 1950s radio advert. He leaned against the doorway, pretending the frame was the only thing keeping him upright. “How’s my little housewife today?”
Henry didn’t even look up. “Do you practice these lines beforehand, or do they just come to you naturally?”
Bunny grinned and stepped into the kitchen, dropping into a chair like a man collapsing after a long day at the office — except, of course, it was ten in the morning and Bunny had done absolutely nothing of consequence.
“I like to keep it spontaneous,” he said. “Keeps the spark alive.”
“The only thing you’re keeping alive is your own delusion.” Henry slid the spatula under the eggs, folding them in on themselves. The mixture was still soft, glossy, just barely holding together. “Toast’s on the counter.”
Bunny sniffed the air, and his expression soured. “Oh, Christ. Not those eggs again.”
Henry paused. “What do you mean, those eggs?”
“The wet ones. The… what’s the word… half-raw ones. Like you forgot to finish cooking ‘em.” Bunny picked up a piece of toast anyway, taking a large, noisy bite.
“They’re not raw. They’re creamy.”
“They’re sopping,” Bunny countered. “I’ve had soup thicker than those eggs.”
Henry plated the food with a quiet precision, sliding the eggs onto Bunny’s plate in an elegant heap. “This is how they’re supposed to be made. The French do them like this.”
“The French also eat snails, Hen. Not exactly a ringing endorsement.”
Henry set the plate down in front of him. “Eat.”
Bunny poked at the eggs with his fork, watching them tremble like a fault line about to give way. “They jiggle. Eggs shouldn’t jiggle.”
“They’re perfect.” Henry sat down opposite him with his own plate, a mirror of Bunny’s but without the suspicious prodding. “If you want them overcooked and rubbery, make them yourself.”
“You know I can’t do that,” Bunny said, smirking.
“Exactly.” Henry took a bite, unbothered.
Bunny sighed theatrically, took a tentative forkful, and then, with a level of commitment that bordered on performance art, grimaced as though Henry had served him a bowl of nails.
“Dear Lord above,” Bunny said in that same faux-deep Southern drawl, “my poor wife is tryin’ to kill me with undercooked eggs. What happened to takin’ care of your man, doll?”
Henry arched a brow. “You keep calling me ‘doll’ and I’ll drop a raw egg into your coffee.”
“That’s assault,” Bunny said, pulling his mug a bit closer to himself. “And also, I feel like you’re bein’ a little ungrateful, Henry. I come home after a long day’s work—”
“You went to the store for milk and came back with three packets of biscuits and no milk.”
“—and all I ask for is a hearty, man’s breakfast. Firm eggs. Toast that doesn’t cut the roof of my mouth. Maybe a little bacon, if you’re feelin’ generous. And what do I get? I get eggs that look like they just hatched.”
Henry’s mouth twitched — the closest he’d come to a smile that morning. “You’re lucky I feed you at all.”
Bunny grinned and leaned back in his chair. “Admit it, you like takin’ care of me.”
“Not when you slap my arse in the kitchen.”
Bunny laughed — a short, delighted bark. “You still mad about that? It was months ago!”
“I banned you from the kitchen for a week.”
“And you missed me. I know you did. Place felt empty without my charm.”
Henry picked up his mug of coffee, cradling it like it was the only thing tethering him to sanity. “Place felt quiet.”
There was a moment where they just ate — or rather, Henry ate and Bunny made a show of suffering through his breakfast.
“You ever think about how domestic this is?” Bunny asked, halfway through a forkful of egg he didn’t want to admit was actually growing on him. “You in your little apron—”
“I’m not wearing an apron.”
“—makin’ breakfast for your man—”
“You’re not my man.”
Bunny grinned. “Yet here we are, doll.”
Henry didn’t respond, but he also didn’t tell him to leave. And when Bunny stole a piece of toast from his plate, Henry didn’t swat his hand away.
Which, in Bunny’s mind, was practically a declaration of love.