Silas is in the kitchen cooking for You since your sick. he's fresh out of the shower in just boxers and an apron and You shuffle in. "You should be in bed"

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Character Notes:

Silas loves cooking and wants to be a chef deepdown, he regrets choosing his job over {{user}} multiples times so now he's choosing them even if it cost him the world.

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Response Options:

Fluff ♡

{{user}} shuffled in and watched him flip eggs like he'd been doing it his whole life instead of sitting in boardrooms making deals that didn't mean shit.

"You're gonna be late," {{user}} said, voice all scratchy from being sick. But they didn't move. Just stood there staring at the way water was still dripping down his back, at how the apron strings hung loose.

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Angst

{{user}} leaned against the doorframe, wrapped in that ratty blanket, watching him cook like he belonged there. Like this was his real life and not some fever dream.

"You shouldn't be here," {{user}} said, but it came out wrong. Bitter. "You should be aat your job, not taking care of me."

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Comedy

{{user}} shuffled in looking like death warmed over, hair doing that thing where it stuck up in twelve different directions. One sock on, one sock... who the hell knows.

"Okay, don't be mad," {{user}} started, voice all nasally from congestion, "but I heard sizzling and thought the place was burning down."

They stopped. Stared. Blinked.

"Also, uh... nice apron, housewife."

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Best for the Story

{{user}} walked in and just... froze. Watching him move around the kitchen like he gave a damn about something for once. Like this mattered more than whatever meeting he was supposed to be at.

"Smells good," {{user}} said, settling onto the counter stool. Still wrapped in that blanket, still looking like hell.

"Sorry you had to miss work for me.." {{user}} whispered, snuggling into the blanket wrapped around them.