Breakfast

We sat on the edge of my bed for a while without saying much.

Veronica stayed close, one hand resting on my thigh, her thumb moving in slow, absent circles. The house was quiet around us. No warehouse alarm. No shift to get ready for. Just the low hum of the fridge downstairs and the occasional car passing on the street outside.

Eventually she spoke, voice quiet but steady.

“You’ve got the whole day,” she said. “No work. No rush. We can figure some stuff out if you want. Or we can just… sit here. Whatever you need.”

I nodded. The idea of having nothing to do for once should’ve felt like a relief. Instead it sat heavy in my chest. But she was right. There was no point sitting up here spiralling when we had the house to ourselves.

“May as well go downstairs,” I said after a minute. “Have breakfast or something.”

She gave my leg a gentle squeeze and stood up. “Yeah. Come on.”

We headed down to the kitchen together. I put the kettle on while she moved around the small space like she belonged there — pulling out eggs, bread, the half-empty jar of peanut butter. It was domestic in a way that should’ve felt strange after everything that had happened, but didn’t.

I leaned against the counter, watching her.

“Realistically,” I said, “HR’s going to do whatever they’re going to do. There’s nothing I can actually do about it right now.”

Veronica glanced over at me as she cracked eggs into a bowl. “Yeah. That part’s out of your hands for the moment.”

She didn’t try to sugar-coat it or tell me everything would be fine. She just said it plainly, which somehow made it easier to hear.

She stirred the eggs for a second, then added, quieter, “Losing that job might not be the worst thing in the world, you know.”

I raised an eyebrow.

She caught the look and gave a small shrug, not pushing. “I’m not saying quit or anything dramatic. Just… that place was grinding you down. Long hours, shit pay, your back getting worse. Maybe this forces you to look at other options sooner than you would’ve.”

I didn’t answer right away. I just watched her move around the kitchen in that oversized hoodie, the same one she’d been wearing when she knocked on my door. She wasn’t trying to fix anything. She was just… helping me think.

We talked while she cooked. Not about streaming specifically — she didn’t bring it up again — but about other possibilities. What skills I actually had. What kind of work might not destroy my body by the time I was thirty-five. Whether there were any short courses or certs worth looking into if the warehouse job did fall through. She asked questions more than she gave answers, letting me work through it out loud.

It helped more than I expected.

I was reaching for plates when she turned too quickly with the pan and a splash of hot oil and egg hit the front of her hoodie.

“Shit,” she muttered, setting the pan down quickly.

A dark, greasy stain spread across the black fabric right over her stomach and chest. She looked down at it, then up at me with a resigned little smile.

“Well. That’s going in the wash.”

She didn’t seem particularly bothered. She just grabbed the bottom of the hoodie with both hands and pulled it up and over her head in one smooth motion, leaving her in just a thin, faded grey singlet and her track pants.

The singlet was old and slightly stretched. It clung to her in a way the hoodie never did — outlining the full, heavy curve of her breasts, the soft dip of her waist, the way her hips flared out. No bra underneath. Her nipples pressed faintly against the thin fabric in the cool kitchen air.

She tossed the hoodie toward the laundry basket by the door without much thought, then turned back to the stove like it was nothing.

I stood there for a second, plates forgotten in my hands, just looking at her.

A few weeks ago I would’ve **** myself to look away. Now I let myself watch, and she didn’t seem to mind at all.

She caught me looking and gave me a small, knowing smile as she plated the eggs.

“Breakfast is ready,” she said, voice light. “Sit down before it gets cold.”

I set the plates on the table and pulled out a chair, still a little thrown by how natural this all felt — her half-undressed in my kitchen, the easy way she moved around me, the calm she’d brought into a morning that should’ve been a disaster.

She sat across from me, singlet riding up slightly as she tucked one leg under herself, and started eating like nothing had changed.

But everything had.

And for the first time since the HR call, I didn’t feel like I was completely drowning in it.