“Wait here,” he says. “I’ll get the food.”
Panic flares instant and sharp. The thought of being left behind in this giant, empty room is impossible to bear.
“No.” Mira reaches out before he can pull away, her voice trembling. “Carry me with you to the kitchen. Don’t leave me alone here.”
Adrian blinks, surprised by the sudden demand, but he simply nods. He lifts her back up into his palm.
The kitchen is brighter, though the fridge he opens is starkly empty—a hollow white box holding nothing but a carton of eggs and a bag of pancake mix. It seems he lives here like a ghost, barely leaving a trace.
On the counter, however, he creates a safe space for her. A wide ceramic mug becomes her chair, lined with a clean, warm handkerchief he folds into the bottom to cushion her. Lowered inside, Mira sinks into the fabric, feeling absurdly small but protected, peering over the rim like a child watching a giant at work.
“Can you actually cook?” she asks, watching the pale powder dissolve into the eggs.
“Basic survival skills,” Adrian answers without looking up, stirring the batter with a practiced motion.
Mira glances around the shadowy, high-end kitchen. It makes no sense—the space, the silence, the proximity to the university. Watching him like this, she realizes she knows nothing about him beyond the rare times they spend in the greenhouse or in class.
“Why do you stay in the dorms? You have an entire house right next to campus.”
Adrian keeps his eyes on the bowl, avoiding her look as if the consistency of the mix requires his absolute focus.
“Just for necessity,” he says. “And overnight lab work.”
Mira doesn’t press further. She simply watches the process. He pours the batter, waits for the edges to bubble, and then, with a casual flick of his wrist, flips the golden disk perfectly in the center of the pan.
Is this his usual breakfast? she wonders.
She knows she should be panicking. Everything is a mess, her class is coming up, and she is still tiny. But sitting here in this cup, watching the rhythm of his movements, she feels a strange, impossible sense of comfort.
Five minutes later, Adrian carries the plates and her mug away from the kitchen hub and into a cozy library nook bathed in soft, golden light from brass wall sconces. The space is lined floor-to-ceiling with warm wooden bookshelves, but the focal point is a large window fitted with a deep, built-in window seat piled with cushions. The heavy darkness of 3 AM presses against the glass outside, making the warm interior feel like a protective sanctuary against the night. Resting on the wide wooden sill, just behind the seating area, is a lush pot of String of Turtles that trails its delicate vines over the edge, identical to the one he carefully chose for her birthday.
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Adrian sits on the bench and places the mug on the sill, adjusting the angle slightly so she can step out onto the smooth wood. Beside her, he sets down a small white ceramic dipping bowl—usually meant for soy sauce, but perfect as a dinner plate for her size. On it sits a single, coin-sized pancake topped with a glistening drop of honey, looking like a miniature feast against the dark grain. As the steam rises from the food and mixes with the sweet scent of syrup, the stillness in the warm library feels comfortable and shared, wrapping around Mira like the soft blankets piled nearby.
No matter how vivid her imagination, Mira could never have conjured this specific madness: having breakfast at three in the morning, in his secret house, sitting next to him while she is the size of a chess piece.
She breaks off a microscopic crumb of the pancake with her fingers and places it on her tongue. It is... perfect. Not too sweet, fluffy, with just a hint of vanilla. It suits her taste so precisely she wonders if he somehow adjusted the recipe just for her.
"Is this normal for you?" she asks, watching him cut into his own stack. "Breakfast at this hour? Do you always stay up all night?"
"It depends," Adrian says. "I practise strategic napping. I rest whenever the window opens to avoid total exhaustion, though I rarely fall into a deep cycle." He glances at her, his eyes scanning the fatigue in her posture. "You, however, look drained. You should sleep after this. Even a nap would help."
Mira exhales, a shaky, tiny sound. "Do you think we can actually solve this?"
"Overthinking it now won't change any thing," he answers simply.
"But how do you know so much?" she asks, lowering the piece of pancake. "The 'Celestial Bloom,' the specific weather conditions, the folklore... is there something you aren’t telling me?"
"New information won't help you at this moment. Rest will." He looks her in the eye, making a silent promise. "Finish eating. Sleep for three hours. When we wake up, I will tell you the rest."
And just like that, the panic subsides, replaced by a peacefulness she didn't expect. She finds herself falling into a new rhythm—his rhythm. After finishing the warm chamomile tea—perfectly steeped, exactly the way she likes it—she settles down into the makeshift bed he prepares: his hard-shell glasses case, lined with a soft fold of his cashmere scarf.
As she curls up, a sound of slow piano keys overlaid with the gentle patter of falling rain, barely louder than a whisper fills in the room.
The chamomile tea. The piano mixed with rain. It is her exact comfort stress-relief ritual.
This is dangerous, she thinks, pulling the scarf tighter around her shoulders, feeling the warmth of him in the fabric. Since when does he know all my habits?
But the question is too heavy to hold. Ten minutes later, she is already halfway into a dream.