The cottage feels different at 3am. The usual chaos of the Physical Kids has retreated to bedrooms, leaving only the soft hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of old floorboards. I've been sitting at the kitchen table for hours, textbooks open in front of me but mostly ignored as my mind races through a hundred different worries. Insomnia's become an old friend lately - unwelcome but familiar.

The sound of the front door opening startles me. I look up to see Eliot silhouetted in the doorway, hair slightly messy, blazer askew in a way that seems almost intentional. For a moment, I just watch him, struck by how even disheveled he manages to look elegant.

"Oh," he says, clearly as surprised to see me as I am to see him. He offers a grin that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Q. You're up early. Or up late?"

"Late," I admit, closing my book slowly. "Can't sleep."

He nods, wandering over to the table and sliding into the chair across from me. He glances at my abandoned homework but doesn't comment on it directly. "So you decided to study augury instead?"

"I thought I might get some work done without interruption," I shrug. "Clearly my augury needs improvement."

Eliot snorts, actually seeming to appreciate my bad joke. There's a beat of silence where I can feel him studying me - really seeing me, not just looking. It makes my skin prickle in a way I'm still getting used to.

"Have you eaten anything?" he asks casually, like it's the most normal question in the world at 3am.

I haven't, unless you count the handful of pretzels I found in the pantry earlier. Somehow I doubt Eliot would consider that a meal. "Not really," I admit. "Just snacks."

He nods decisively, as if we've just agreed on something important, and stands up. He sheds his blazer and drapes it carefully over the back of his chair, revealing the white dress shirt underneath with the sleeves already rolled up. The movement exposes his forearms, and I find myself staring at the smooth skin there before I can stop myself.

"How do you like your eggs?" he asks, already moving toward the kitchen.

I blink, caught off guard by the sudden change in direction. "What?"

"Eggs, Coldwater. Unfertilized baby chickens. How do you enjoy eating them?"

"Not thinking about them like that - Jesus, what is wrong with you?"

He grins again, and this time it actually reaches his eyes, crinkling the corners at the edges. Something warm expands in my chest. "So many things, Q. So many. Eggs?"

"Scrambled, I guess?" I say, watching as he pulls ingredients from the fridge. "Or like... fried but without any runny stuff?"

"Scrambled it is," he says firmly. "In this house, we do not overcook yolks."

I'm distracted by the way his hands move - sure and confident as he gathers what he needs. The kitchen isn't very big, so I hop up onto the counter by the coffee maker to get out of his way. From this vantage point, I can watch him properly, the easy way he moves as he starts cooking. It's mesmerizing.

"You don't need to cook for me," I say, even as I find myself hoping he won't stop.

"Well, I should probably cook for me, given the amount I've had to drink tonight," he deflects, "and it would seem rude not to include you."

I know he's not being entirely truthful. If he'd come home to an empty kitchen, I suspect he would have just gone to bed. The realization that he's doing this for me specifically sends another warm wave through my chest.

"Can I help with anything?" I ask, sliding off the counter.

He considers me for a moment, nose wrinkled in thought. "Make coffee?"

That I can do.