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The apartment smelled like bacon and coffee by the time Vincent finally dragged himself out of bed.
He stood in the bedroom doorway for a second, barefoot, wearing only a pair of loose black sleep shorts and one of Alastor’s old oversized shirts that had somehow become his. The shirt was soft from years of washing and still carried the faint clean scent of Alastor’s cologne. Vincent was broader through the shoulders and chest, taller by a good bit; the shirt that fit Alastor loosely stretched across him in a way that made it obvious who it really belonged to.
He rubbed a hand over his face, then picked up his phone from the nightstand out of habit. A string of work emails already waited for him—none of them urgent, all of them sent far too early for a day he wasn’t even supposed to be working. He wasn’t surprised. He never was anymore. Still, he made a quiet mental note to tell his assistant that this needed to stop. Boundaries existed for a reason, even if most people seemed determined to ignore them. He also noted, with a flicker of genuine irritation, that he was probably going to fire the next person who sent him an email before noon on a day off.
He set the phone face-down. As he stepped further into the living space, his eyes caught on the cluster of framed wedding photos Alastor had insisted on hanging along the short wall near the kitchen. Alastor had arranged them with careful, almost ceremonial precision—black frames, clean spacing, each one catching the morning light just so. Vincent paused for a second, looking at them the way he sometimes still did. The tungsten ring lined with diamonds on his left hand caught the light as he ran a hand through his hair.
Vincent followed the smell of food.
Alastor was at the stove, back to him, moving with the same quiet precision he brought to everything. He had on a pair of high-waisted charcoal trousers that sat perfectly on his narrower hips and a cream short-sleeve knit that looked simple until the light caught the subtle textured weave. His dark hair was still slightly damp from a shower. A cast-iron skillet sizzled. Biscuits were already on a cooling rack. A small ceramic jar of bacon grease sat near the burner like it belonged there more than anything else in the kitchen.
Vincent leaned against the doorframe and watched him for a moment, soft and unguarded in a way he rarely was with anyone else.
“You’re doing the whole thing again,” he said, voice still rough from sleep.
Alastor didn’t turn around, but Vincent could hear the faint smile in his voice. “It’s Saturday. Saturday requires a proper breakfast.”
“You say that every weekend.”
“And every weekend you eat two plates and then pretend you only wanted coffee.”
Vincent pushed off the doorframe and crossed the open living space. He came up behind Alastor and rested his chin on his shoulder, arms loosely wrapping around his waist. Even standing like this, the size difference was obvious—Vincent’s broader frame easily enclosing Alastor’s leaner one. Alastor was warm and steady. He smelled like soap and black pepper and the faintest trace of the bacon he was turning.
“Northerners survive on less,” Vincent murmured against his neck.
“Northerners survive,” Alastor corrected mildly. “Southerners eat.” He tilted his head just enough to give Vincent room, still focused on the skillet. “There’s a difference.”
Vincent huffed a quiet laugh and pressed a lazy kiss under Alastor’s ear. “You’re so dramatic about food.”
“I’m correct about food.” Alastor flipped a piece of bacon with neat efficiency. “You grew up thinking a bagel and black coffee counted as a meal. I grew up knowing that if someone feeds you biscuits and gravy, they at least want you alive for the rest of the day.”
Vincent smiled against his skin. He loved this version of Alastor—the one who still carried soft Southern certainties even while living in a sharp, modern apartment. The contrast never got old.
He stayed draped over Alastor’s back while the last of the food came together. Eggs over easy. Grits with a pat of butter melting in the center. Biscuits split and waiting. Alastor moved around him without complaint, occasionally reaching back to squeeze Vincent’s wrist or adjust the way Vincent was leaning so he could still reach the salt. Vincent’s larger hands rested easily at Alastor’s waist, thumbs brushing slow circles against the fabric of his trousers.
When everything was plated, Alastor finally turned in the circle of Vincent’s arms and gave him a proper look. His eyes traveled over the borrowed shirt stretched across broader shoulders, the sleep-mussed hair, and the soft expression Vincent only wore at home.
“You’re wearing my shirt again.”
“It’s comfortable.”
“It’s mine.”
Vincent grinned down at him. “Sharing is caring.”
Alastor’s mouth curved. He reached up—he always had to reach a little—and smoothed a hand down the front of the shirt like he was fixing it, then let his palm rest over Vincent’s heart for a second longer than necessary.
“Sit,” he said quietly. “Before it gets cold.”
They ate at the small round table by the window. Vincent took the chair that faced the kitchen; Alastor took the one that faced him. The only sounds were forks against plates and the occasional contented noise Vincent tried (and failed) to keep to himself.
Alastor watched him over the rim of his coffee cup, eyes soft.
“You’re doing the face,” Alastor said.
“What face?”
“The one where you pretend this isn’t better than whatever you used to eat at seven in the morning in whatever cold city you came from.”
Vincent pointed his fork at him. “I’m allowed to have standards *and* still like your ridiculous full Southern breakfast.”
“It’s not ridiculous.”
“It’s a lot of food.”
“It’s correct.”
Vincent laughed under his breath and went back to the biscuits. He could feel Alastor still watching him, quiet and pleased. It was one of the things he had fallen for without meaning to—the way Alastor showed care through these small, unshakable rituals. No big speeches. Just a skillet, good bacon grease, and the steady assumption that Vincent would be there to eat what he made.
When the plates were mostly empty, Vincent leaned back and stretched, the borrowed shirt riding up slightly across his broader torso. Alastor’s gaze followed the movement before he politely looked away again.
“I like this,” Vincent said after a moment, softer.
Alastor raised a brow. “The breakfast?”
“This.” Vincent gestured vaguely between them, the table, the apartment, the ordinary Saturday morning. “You. Cooking like the world is still supposed to slow down for it. Me getting to watch.”
Alastor’s expression gentled. He reached across the table and brushed his fingers over the back of Vincent’s larger hand, brief and deliberate. The diamond ring on Alastor’s finger caught the light against Vincent’s tungsten band for just a second before their hands settled together.
“Good,” he said simply. “I intend to keep doing it.”
Vincent turned his hand over and laced their fingers together easily. Outside, the city kept moving at its usual speed. Inside their apartment, time stayed exactly where Alastor had put it—warm, unhurried, and full of the quiet certainty that this was how their mornings were supposed to look.