Chapter 18

Freya's POV 

I woke up to the sound of my stomach complaining. Loudly.

Groaning, I turned over in bed, burying my face into the pillow in hopes of ignoring the gnawing ache, but there was no use. It was four in the morning, and I was starving—like, irrationally starving, like I hadn’t eaten in days. Which wasn’t true, of course, but maybe skipping dinner after that long altercation had been a mistake.

I sat up slowly, the soft glow from the streetlights outside casting shadows across the room. I could’ve called down for something, sure. Brandon’s kitchen was stocked and the fridge full, and there were even those fancy late-night room service options he insisted on keeping around, “just in case.”

But none of that sounded good right now.

I didn’t want anything from a menu. I wanted warm food. Something made with care. Something familiar.

Something... shared.

I slipped out of bed and padded barefoot across the cool floor, hugging my arms around myself as I wandered out into the hall. I passed the guest rooms, the art-lined walls, the little sunroom I loved in the mornings. Eventually, I reached his study where Brandon had fallen asleep the night before—the small room he had been using as his makeshift lately, curled up with books and work and the occasional old movie playing softly in the background.

I hesitated outside the door for a moment, then knocked gently, almost too quietly to hear.

No response.

I opened the door and stepped inside.

There he was.

Fast asleep on the couch, one arm tucked beneath his head and a blanket barely clinging to the edge of his body. His legs were curled up slightly, like he’d folded into himself during the night, and his chest rose and fell in slow, even breaths.

He looked... peaceful.

There was something childlike about him when he slept like this. The ever-present tension in his jaw, the furrow in his brow that so often accompanied long work days—gone. Just Brandon, unguarded and soft, his hair tousled and lips parted ever so slightly. It made something warm twist in my chest, something that surprised me with how tender it felt.

I could watched him forever.

Unfortunately, my stomach had other plans.

It rumbled again—louder this time, embarrassingly so—and I winced. If I wasn’t going to let him sleep, I might as well do it gently.

I crouched beside the couch, reaching out to lightly shake his shoulder. “Brandon,” I whispered. “Hey.”

He stirred with a small groan, eyes still closed as he shifted slightly. I waited a second, then tried again, brushing my fingers along his arm.

“Brandon…”

He blinked open one eye, dazed and squinting into the dim light. “Freya?” His voice was low and hoarse from sleep, almost gravelly. “You okay?”

“I’m…” I paused, suddenly feeling sheepish. “I’m hungry.”

He blinked again. Slowly.

Then a soft, amused smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Hungry,” he repeated, like he needed to confirm that this was, in fact, why I had woken him at 4 a.m.

I nodded, biting my lip. “I was gonna make something, but… I didn’t want to cook alone.”

He let out a sleepy chuckle, running a hand over his face. “You woke me up to ask me to cook with you?”

“No. Cook for me....Is that a yes?”

Brandon groaned softly, but it was the kind of groan that meant yes, even though I’m pretending to be annoyed about it. He pushed himself up slowly, his blanket falling to the floor as he stretched his arms above his head and yawned. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” he muttered.

“I know,” I said brightly, already heading for the kitchen.

We moved like ghosts through the quiet house, speaking in whispers and half-laughs. The kitchen lights were soft and warm, casting a golden hue on the marble countertops. Brandon flicked on the overheads and leaned against the island, still sleepy-eyed, watching me rifle through the fridge.

“Okay,” I announced. “We have eggs, cheese, spinach, bread, and… half a tomato.”

“Omelets?”

“Omelets,” I confirmed. “And maybe toast if we don’t burn it this time.”

“That was one time.”

“It was two times.”

He rolled his eyes, grabbing a pan from the hanging rack above the stove. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”

“Absolutely not.”

We moved around each other easily, falling into that rhythm that felt so natural now. He cracked the eggs while I sat watching him as he also chopped the vegetables, the sound of sizzling butter and gentle clinking filling the quiet space between us. Every now and then, our arms would brush or our fingers would touch as we passed ingredients back and forth, and even though it was simple, it felt intimate. Like a secret in the middle of the night.

Brandon reached for the cheese and leaned over me to grab a spatula, his arm brushing mine.

“You know,” he said, voice a little softer, “most people wake their husbands for… other reasons.”

I looked up at him with a grin. “You saying cooking isn’t romantic?”

“Oh, it’s romantic. It’s just not exactly what I imagined when you came into my room whispering my name.”

I laughed, bumping my hip against his. “Well, next time I’ll bring whipped cream.”

His eyes sparkled as he looked at me, and the moment stretched just a little longer than it needed to. Something warm settled in my chest again.

The eggs were ready a few minutes later, and the toast—thankfully—was golden, not burnt. We sat together at the small kitchen table, plates in front of us, legs brushing underneath.

It wasn’t a feast. It wasn’t fancy.

But it was perfect.

“Thanks for getting up with me,” I said quietly as I took a bite. “You didn’t have to.”

He looked at me over his fork. “I know. But I’m glad I did.”

I smiled, resting my chin in my hand. “This is nice.”

“It is.”

Silence fell for a while, but not the awkward kind. The kind that felt full, content. The kind that didn’t need to be filled with words.

Eventually, I leaned back in my chair, full and happy, my heart lighter than it had been in days. Brandon looked just as content, slouched a bit now, his plate nearly empty.

“You know,” I murmured, “if this is what 4 a.m. hunger looks like, I might need to wake you up more often.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I won’t even be mad.”

We cleared the table together, still talking in soft voices as if the walls around us might wake up. The kitchen smelled like butter and toast and something sweeter I couldn’t quite name.

As we stood side by side at the sink, washing up, I glanced at him again—his jaw still dusted with sleep, his hair slightly messy, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up.

I reached over and flicked a soap bubble at his cheek.

He blinked, caught off guard, and gave me a look of playful betrayal. “Oh, it’s on now.”

I squealed as he dipped his hands in the soapy water and flicked bubbles back at me, laughter bubbling up between us in the quiet kitchen. It was childish and silly and completely unplanned—but in that moment, it felt like everything was exactly as it should be.

Eventually, breathless and damp from our impromptu soap war, we leaned against the counter, grinning.

“You know,” Brandon said, “this might be one of my favorite memories with you.”

“Really?” I asked, tilting my head.

“Yeah.” He looked at me, eyes sincere. “You, me, a ridiculously early morning, and some burnt toast that, for once, wasn’t my fault. It’s simple. But it’s ours.”

I didn’t say anything for a moment. I just leaned into him, resting my head against his shoulder, my heart full.

Yeah. It was ours.

And I wouldn’t trade it for the world.