Nick
Cyan was standing right in the middle of my kitchen.
He was wearing one of my oversized gray cotton t-shirts and my favorite dark sweatpants.
The clothes fit him with a casual perfection that felt entirely illegal, and he had pinned his messy hair back with a small clip so it wouldn't fall into his face.
He wasn't even trying to be quiet.
He was pulling open the pantry door, inspecting the shelves with the thoroughness of a health inspector searching for code violations.
I stood in the frame, my brain stalling out for an entirely different reason than panic.
"What are you doing?" I asked, my voice flat.
He didn't even bother turning around. He just reached up to grab a jar of oats, shook it once, and put it back down with a disappointed sigh.
"I'm hungover and starving. Do you have literally anything in this house that isn't healthy food?"
"That's my kitchen."
