@lewmeister - Tumblr Blog

Jun 10

Late Night Snack - Todd Stevens x Bob Reynolds.

briefing: late night sleep struggles leads to two men just falling deeper and harder in love with each other. words: 4.7k warnings: tooth decaying fluff, light teasing, food mentions, playful banters.

author note: hope you guys like this!! Let me know what you think!

Bob wasn’t sure what had woken him up.

For a while, he just lay there and stared at the ceiling.

The room was dark, the kind of dark that felt heavier because he wasn’t in his own bed. Not unfamiliar, exactly. He had spent enough nights in Todd’s room by now that he knew the shape of it in low light—the desk shoved too close to the window, the sweatshirt draped over the back of the chair, the stack of books on the floor that Todd insisted was organized because he knew where everything was.

But it still wasn’t his room.

It still smelled like Todd’s laundry detergent and old wood and whatever cologne Todd had used earlier that evening. It still had sounds Bob wasn’t used to.

The faint creak of the hallway.

A door closing somewhere downstairs.

Someone coughing once through the wall.

A burst of muffled laughter from somewhere far enough away that it was probably outside, maybe on the porch, maybe from one of the other houses on the street.

The frat house was quieter at night than Bob had expected, but it was never actually quiet.

Beside him, Todd was asleep.

Very asleep.

Bob turned his head slightly.

Todd was sprawled on his stomach, one arm bent under the pillow, the other thrown out like he had been reaching for Bob at some point and had given up halfway through. His hair was a mess against the pillow, soft and ridiculous in the dim light. The blanket had slipped down around his waist because Todd somehow slept like he was always too warm and too cold at the same time.

Bob watched him for a moment.

He liked him like this.

Not that he didn’t like Todd awake.

He did.

A lot.

Todd awake was easy in a way Bob still didn’t fully understand. Loud when he wanted to be. Amused by most things. Too charming for his own good. Too good at noticing when Bob was drifting too far into his own head. He had this way of making space for himself in a room without demanding that Bob fill it with him.

But Todd asleep was softer.

Younger, maybe.

Or just unguarded.

Bob exhaled carefully.

He tried closing his eyes again.

It didn’t work.

His brain had already decided it was awake, and once that happened, there was almost no convincing it otherwise. He wasn’t anxious, exactly. Not upset. Not afraid. There wasn’t one single thought circling sharp enough to explain it.

He was just awake.

Restless.

Hungry, maybe.

That thought made him open his eyes again.

He lay there for another minute, debating.

Then, as carefully as possible, he eased the blanket away from his legs.

Todd stirred.

Bob froze.

Todd made a soft, grumbling noise and shifted his face deeper into the pillow.

Bob waited.

Nothing.

Still asleep.

He slid out of bed, moving slowly because the floor in Todd’s room had one very specific board near the door that creaked like it had a personal vendetta. Todd had pointed it out the first time Bob stayed over, mostly by stepping on it, waking up half the hallway, and then whispering, “Yeah, don’t do that one.”

Bob avoided it now.

He found his sweatshirt on the chair and pulled it on over his T-shirt, then padded barefoot into the hallway.

The house felt strange at this hour.

During the day, it was all movement. Voices, music, doors opening and closing, someone yelling from downstairs, someone else yelling back. Even when it wasn’t chaotic, it felt full.

Now it felt hollowed out.

Sleeping bodies behind closed doors.

Empty cups abandoned on side tables.

A pair of sneakers in the middle of the hallway that Bob had to step around.

Someone’s hoodie was balled up on the banister.

He moved quietly down the stairs, one hand trailing along the railing.

The kitchen was empty when he reached it.

Thank God.

Not that he disliked Todd’s friends. Most of them were perfectly nice. A few of them were a little too much before noon, but that seemed like a personal flaw rather than a crime.

Still, Bob liked the kitchen better like this.

Dim.

Still.

Lit only by the weak yellow light above the stove and the bluish glow from the microwave clock.

3:17.

That seemed about right.

He opened the refrigerator and stood there for a moment, letting the cool air hit his face while he considered his options.

Leftover pizza.

Eggs.

Some kind of pasta in a container with no label, which he immediately decided against.

Cheese.

Butter.

Bread on the counter.

That was enough.

Grilled cheese.

The decision settled something in him.

Small task.

Simple steps.

Bread, butter, cheese, pan.

He could do that.

He found a skillet after opening three wrong cabinets and only making one questionable clattering sound. Then he set everything out on the counter and got to work.

Butter softened against the bread.

The pan warmed on the stove.

Cheese peeled away from the stack in neat, square slices.

Bob moved slowly, carefully, like the whole house might wake up if he breathed wrong.

The first sandwich had just started to sizzle when he heard footsteps.

He glanced toward the doorway.

Todd appeared a second later.

Or maybe emerged was the better word.

He looked like he had been dragged out of sleep by force.

His hair stuck up on one side. His hoodie was crooked, one sleeve pushed halfway up his arm, the other swallowed over his hand. His eyes were barely open, and there was a crease on his cheek from the pillow.

He stopped in the doorway and stared at Bob.

Bob stared back.

Todd blinked slowly.

“Why are you awake?”

Bob raised his eyebrows. “Why are you awake?”

Todd frowned like that was rude.

“You left.”

“I was hungry.”

Todd shuffled into the kitchen without another word.

There was something deeply unfair about Todd, even when he was half asleep. He should have looked ridiculous, and he did, a little, but mostly he looked warm and familiar and so much like himself that Bob had to turn back to the stove before his face did something embarrassing.

Todd came up beside him, leaned heavily against the counter, and looked down at the pan.

“Grilled cheese?”

“Yes.”

Todd nodded.

Then reached around him and stole a slice of cheese from the open package.

Bob looked at him.

Todd folded it in half and put the entire thing in his mouth.

Bob stared. “I was using that.”

Todd chewed.

Bob waited.

Todd swallowed and said, “You have more.”

“That’s not the point.”

“That is exactly the point.”

Bob sighed, but he was smiling before he could stop himself.

Todd noticed.

Of course he did.

He always did.

His mouth curved, lazy and pleased, and he leaned a little closer into Bob’s space. “You came all the way down here to make grilled cheese at three in the morning?”

“It’s not that strange.”

“It’s a little strange.”

“You followed me.”

“Because you abandoned me.”

Bob flipped the sandwich. “You were asleep.”

“I noticed your absence in my sleep.”

“That isn’t possible.”

Todd made a face like he didn’t care what was possible.

Bob shook his head and focused on the pan, but he could still feel Todd beside him. Warm. Sleepy. Watching.

After a few seconds, Bob glanced toward the cabinets.

“Do you guys have tomato soup?”

Todd went very still.

Bob closed his eyes for half a second.

He already knew.

He knew from the silence.

He knew from the way Todd slowly turned his head.

He knew before he even looked at him.

When Bob opened his eyes, Todd was staring at him.

“Don’t,” Bob said.

Todd’s eyebrows lifted. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I was not.”

“You absolutely were.”

Todd leaned his hip against the counter. “You’re making grilled cheese.”

“Yes.”

“And you need tomato soup.”

“I don’t need it.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s better with tomato soup.”

Todd stared at him like Bob had just admitted to needing a bedtime story.

Bob pointed the spatula at him. “It’s a classic combination.”

“It’s a kid’s meal.”

“It is not.”

“That is what they serve seven-year-olds when their parents want to pretend they ordered real food.”

Bob let out a quiet, offended laugh. “That’s not true.”

“It absolutely is.”

“It’s comfort food.”

“It’s a children’s menu item.”

“Todd.”

Todd was grinning now, fully awake in the most annoying way possible. “Do you want me to cut the sandwich into triangles too?”

Bob turned back to the stove. “I can cut my own sandwich.”

“That wasn’t a no.”

“I’m not dignifying this.”

“Do you want a little apple juice box with it?”

“Todd.”

“Maybe some dino nuggets on the side?”

Bob tried to look annoyed.

He really did.

But Todd was laughing under his breath, all pleased with himself, and Bob’s mouth kept trying to betray him.

Todd reached past him and stole another piece of cheese.

Bob caught his wrist this time.

Todd froze.

Bob looked at him.

Todd looked down at Bob’s hand around his wrist.

Then back up.

There was a pause.

Todd smiled.

Bob immediately let go.

“Stop stealing ingredients.”

Todd’s smile got worse. “Okay.”

Bob did not trust that at all.

Todd backed away, hands lifted in surrender, still grinning. “Fine. You want soup?”

“I asked if you had soup.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Bob sighed. “Yes. I want soup.”

“Because you’re eight.”

“Because it’s good.”

“Because you’re eight and it’s good.”

Bob pointed the spatula at him again. “Can you please just tell me if you have it?”

Todd rolled his eyes as if this were a tremendous burden.

Then he walked to the pantry.

Bob expected him to search. Expected cabinet doors, maybe a muttered complaint, maybe another joke about juice boxes.

Todd did not search.

He opened the pantry, reached for the second shelf, and pulled down a can almost immediately.

Then he turned and tossed it to Bob.

Bob caught it against his chest.

Tomato soup.

For a second, he just looked at it.

Todd had already turned away, opening another cabinet for a pot.

Bob blinked.

“You have tomato soup.”

Todd glanced over his shoulder. “That is what you asked for.”

“No, I know, I just—” Bob looked down at the can again. “I didn’t think you actually would.”

Todd set the pot on the stove. “Why?”

“I don’t know.”

Todd gave him a look. “It’s soup, Bob.”

“I know it’s soup.”

“You’re holding it like it’s evidence.”

Bob loosened his grip.

A little.

Todd opened a drawer and rummaged for the can opener.

Bob watched him.

There was something casual about the way Todd moved. Like the soup had always been there. Like this was normal. Like Bob asking for it at three in the morning was no different than asking where the cups were.

“Did someone else buy this?” Bob asked.

Todd paused.

Then looked at him again.

“What?”

“The soup.”

“No.”

Bob’s fingers tightened around the can again. “You bought it?”

Todd blinked. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

Todd stared at him for a second.

Then, slowly, like Bob was the one being strange, he said, “Because you like it.”

Bob didn’t say anything.

Todd waited.

Bob still didn’t say anything.

Todd’s brow furrowed slightly, but then the sandwich hissed in the pan, and Bob quickly turned back toward it before it burned.

Because you like it.

The words were so simple.

So obvious, apparently, to Todd.

Bob flipped the sandwich onto a plate.

His chest felt weird.

Not bad.

Just tight.

Warm, maybe.

Too full all at once.

Todd took the can from him and opened it, still looking mildly confused, then poured the soup into the pot. It slid out with a soft, unpleasant sound that made Todd grimace.

“Romantic,” Todd muttered.

Bob huffed a laugh.

Todd looked pleased that he had gotten one out of him.

Then he stirred the soup and said, “You always ask for it.”

Bob looked at him.

Todd wasn’t even looking back. He was standing at the stove in his crooked hoodie, stirring tomato soup at 3:25 in the morning like this was simply something that happened.

“You noticed that?”

Todd shrugged. “Yeah.”

Bob swallowed.

He looked at the plate.

Then the stove.

Then Todd.

“How long?”

Todd frowned into the pot. “How long what?”

“How long have you been buying it?”

Todd stopped stirring.

Not because the question was important to him, Bob realized.

Because he genuinely had to think about it.

That made it worse.

Somehow, that made it much worse.

Todd leaned against the counter, spoon still in hand, eyes narrowed slightly like he was trying to remember a date.

“I don’t know,” he said finally.

Bob waited.

Todd shrugged.

“Months?”

Bob stared at him.

Todd went back to stirring.

Months.

Bob turned that over in his mind.

Months of Todd seeing tomato soup at the store and putting it in his cart because Bob liked it.

Months of Todd keeping it in the pantry without saying anything.

Months of Bob asking for it and Todd teasing him and acting like he was ridiculous while still making sure it was there.

Bob didn’t know what to do with that.

It was soup.

It was just soup.

A cheap can in a messy frat house pantry.

And yet.

Todd had noticed.

Todd had remembered.

Todd had made room for Bob in a place that was already so full of other people and noise and mess.

He had stocked something Bob liked because Bob liked it.

Not for credit.

Not for praise.

Not as some grand romantic gesture.

Just because.

Bob looked down.

The second sandwich was burning.

“Oh—”

Todd reached around him and turned the heat down. “You good?”

“Yes.”

Todd’s hand lingered near his waist for half a second before dropping away.

Bob nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Sorry.”

Todd narrowed his eyes.

Bob focused very hard on the sandwich.

He rescued it before it got too dark, though one side was definitely more toasted than the other. Todd, thankfully, did not comment. He just kept watching him with that look on his face.

The one Bob knew too well.

The one that meant Todd had noticed something and was deciding whether to let Bob pretend he hadn’t.

Bob plated the second sandwich.

Todd turned off the burner under the soup.

Neither of them moved for a second.

Then Todd said, “Oh my God.”

Bob closed his eyes. “What?”

“You’re doing the thing.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You are absolutely doing the thing.”

Bob opened his eyes and looked at him. “There is no thing.”

Todd pointed at his face. “That. That’s the thing.”

“This is just my face.”

“No, that’s your ‘I’m having twelve feelings and trying to make them nobody else’s problem’ face.”

Bob stared at him.

Todd stared back.

Bob looked away first.

Todd’s voice softened, but only a little. “Bob.”

“It’s nothing.”

“That has never once been true when you say it like that.”

Bob rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “It’s stupid.”

Todd immediately made a face. “Okay, so it’s definitely not nothing.”

“It is.”

“What is it?”

Bob looked at the soup.

Todd followed his gaze.

Then looked back at him.

There was a beat.

Another.

Then Todd’s expression changed.

Slowly.

His mouth parted a little.

“Oh my God,” he said again, quieter this time.

Bob frowned. “What?”

Todd stared at him. “You’re getting emotional over soup.”

Bob’s face went hot. “I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m not emotional.”

“You’re looking at that can like it proposed to you.”

“Todd.”

Todd’s teasing smile came back, but it was softer around the edges now. Less sharp. Less amused at Bob and more fond in a way that made Bob’s chest ache.

“You’re ridiculous,” Todd said.

Bob looked down. “You bought it for me.”

“It’s soup.”

“For months.”

Todd set the spoon down.

Then crossed the small distance between them.

Bob didn’t move.

Todd stopped in front of him, close enough that Bob could see the pillow crease still faintly marking his cheek. His hair was still a disaster. His hoodie was still crooked. He looked warm and tired and impossibly dear.

“Yeah,” Todd said.

Bob swallowed.

Todd tilted his head slightly. “Bob.”

“I know it’s soup.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

“Because you’re acting like I carved your name into the moon.”

Bob let out a helpless little laugh, but it caught somewhere in his throat and came out softer than he meant it to.

Todd’s expression changed again.

He noticed that too.

Of course he did.

Todd always noticed.

Bob looked at him and tried to explain it in a way that wouldn’t sound ridiculous.

He didn’t know how to say that he still wasn’t used to being remembered in little ways.

He didn’t know how to say that grand gestures were almost easier to accept because they announced themselves. Flowers, dates, anniversaries—those things came with instructions. They said, this is affection. This is attention. This is something you are allowed to understand.

But this?

This was Todd walking past a shelf and thinking, Bob likes tomato soup with grilled cheese.

This was Todd buying it.

Putting it away.

Never mentioning it.

Never asking Bob to notice.

Just making sure it was there.

That kind of care got under his ribs before he had time to defend against it.

“You remembered,” Bob said finally.

Todd’s face softened.

Only a little.

Enough.

“Yeah,” he said. “I do that sometimes.”

Bob looked down again.

Todd’s hand found his.

Not dramatic.

Not urgent.

Just fingers wrapping loosely around Bob’s, warm and steady.

“You make it really hard to tease you,” Todd said.

Bob huffed. “You seemed to be managing fine.”

“I was. And then you got all sweet and tragic about canned soup.”

“I’m not tragic.”

Todd squeezed his hand. “No, you’re not.”

Something in his voice made Bob look up.

Todd was smiling at him.

Not laughing.

Just smiling.

It was worse, somehow.

Bob looked at him for another second, then shook his head and tried to step away. “The food’s getting cold.”

Todd did not let go.

“The food is grilled cheese and tomato soup. I think it’ll survive another minute.”

Bob gave him a look.

Todd ignored it.

Instead, he backed up until he reached the counter, then hopped onto it with the easy confidence of someone who had been told not to sit on kitchen counters his entire life and had learned nothing from it.

Bob watched him.

Todd spread his knees slightly and tugged Bob closer by the hand.

Bob went.

Of course he went.

He stepped into the space between Todd’s legs, close enough that Todd’s knees brushed his hips.

Todd’s free hand settled at Bob’s waist.

Then the other.

Bob stood there for a second, not quite sure what to do with himself, even though this was familiar now.

Todd touching him.

Todd pulling him close.

Todd making space for him like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Bob rested his hands lightly against Todd’s thighs.

Todd looked down at him.

“You’re really worked up over this,” Todd said, but his voice was gentle.

Bob shrugged one shoulder. “A little.”

“Because I bought soup.”

“Because you noticed.”

Todd’s thumbs moved lightly against his waist.

Back and forth.

Barely there.

Bob could feel it through the sweatshirt anyway.

Todd was quiet for a moment.

Then he leaned forward and kissed Bob’s forehead.

Bob’s eyes closed on instinct.

Todd stayed there for a second, lips warm against his skin.

Then he murmured, “I notice you all the time.”

Bob’s throat tightened.

Todd pulled back just enough to look at him.

Bob opened his eyes.

“That one might be worse,” he said quietly.

Todd smiled. “Yeah, I kind of heard it after I said it.”

Bob laughed softly.

Todd looked pleased with himself again, but not smug.

Just happy.

Warm.

Awake now in the yellow kitchen light with the whole house asleep around them.

He reached up and brushed a piece of Bob’s hair back from his forehead.

“You want to know something really embarrassing?”

Bob narrowed his eyes. “For you or for me?”

Todd grinned. “For me, probably.”

“Okay.”

Todd glanced toward the pantry. “There are two more cans in there.”

Bob stared at him.

Todd’s grin widened.

Bob’s mouth parted slightly. “Todd.”

“What?”

“Why?”

“Because you keep eating them.”

“I don’t keep eating them.”

“You absolutely do.”

“I’ve had tomato soup here maybe three times.”

“Four.”

Bob stared harder.

Todd looked delighted. “See? I notice.”

Bob dropped his head forward against Todd’s shoulder.

Todd immediately laughed, quiet and bright, and wrapped both arms around him.

Bob stayed there.

His forehead pressed against the soft fabric of Todd’s hoodie.

His hands resting on Todd’s thighs.

Todd’s arms around his shoulders.

For a moment, the kitchen faded into background noise.

The cooling pan.

The weak stove light.

The hum of the refrigerator.

Someone shifting upstairs.

Todd’s hand slid up the back of Bob’s neck, fingers gentle.

“Hey,” Todd murmured.

Bob hummed.

“You still want your kid’s meal?”

Bob turned his face slightly against Todd’s shoulder. “I changed my mind. I’m eating yours too.”

Todd laughed. “Rude.”

“You stole my cheese.”

“I was helping.”

“You were not.”

“I helped you realize how much cheese you truly needed.”

Bob lifted his head.

Todd was already looking at him, eyes soft and amused.

Bob kissed him.

Just once.

Quick and quiet.

Todd smiled against his mouth like he had won something.

Bob pulled back before that could become unbearable.

Todd made a small disappointed noise.

Bob ignored it, mostly because he liked it too much.

“The food,” he reminded him.

Todd sighed dramatically. “Fine.”

But he didn’t let Bob go immediately.

Instead, he pulled him in again and kissed his temple.

Then the side of his head.

Then his cheek.

Bob started to smile despite himself.

“Todd.”

“What?”

“The food.”

“I heard you.”

“You’re not moving.”

“Neither are you.”

Bob paused.

That was unfortunately true.

Todd looked extremely proud of himself.

Bob stepped back before Todd could say anything else, turning toward the stove and hoping his face wasn’t as warm as it felt.

Todd hopped down from the counter behind him.

Together, they finished the meal.

It was not graceful.

Todd poured soup into two bowls and spilled a little onto the counter. Bob cut the sandwiches in half. Todd looked at the halves, looked at Bob, and very seriously asked why they weren’t triangles. Bob told him he could starve.

Todd laughed hard enough that Bob had to shush him, which only made him laugh more.

Eventually, they ended up sitting on the kitchen floor with their backs against the lower cabinets because Todd claimed the chairs were too far away.

They were six feet away.

Bob didn’t argue.

The tile was cold beneath him, but Todd sat close enough that their shoulders touched. Their knees bumped occasionally. Todd dipped his grilled cheese into his soup like he had not just spent ten minutes mocking Bob for wanting exactly that.

Bob noticed.

Todd caught him noticing.

“What?”

Bob raised his eyebrows.

Todd took another bite. “Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking loudly.”

“I was thinking that you’re enjoying your children’s menu.”

Todd pointed half a sandwich at him. “First of all, it’s good.”

Bob smiled.

Todd narrowed his eyes. “Don’t look so smug.”

“I’m not smug.”

“You’re a little smug.”

“You made fun of me.”

“Because it’s fun.”

“And then made the same thing.”

“Because it’s good.”

Bob laughed quietly and dipped his sandwich into the soup.

Todd watched him for a second.

Then nudged him with his shoulder.

Bob nudged him back.

They ate in comfortable quiet for a while.

Outside, the world was starting to shift.

Not sunrise yet.

Not really.

But the black at the windows had softened into something less complete. A faint blue had started to gather along the edges of the sky, barely visible through the kitchen window above the sink.

Todd finished first because Todd always finished first, then set his bowl aside and leaned his head back against the cabinet.

Bob took a slower bite.

Todd looked at him.

“What?” Bob asked.

“Nothing.”

“That’s usually my line.”

Todd smiled faintly. “I know.”

Bob looked down into his bowl.

The soup was cooling now.

Still good.

Still warm enough.

After a moment, Todd reached over and took Bob’s free hand.

Bob let him.

Todd played idly with his fingers, turning Bob’s hand palm-up, tracing one line, then another.

Bob watched him do it.

He wondered if Todd knew.

How much of this he did.

How often.

Little touches.

Little notes.

Little things bought and remembered and tucked away somewhere Bob wouldn’t notice until the exact moment it undid him.

Maybe Todd did know.

Maybe he didn’t.

Maybe that was part of what made it feel so honest.

“You’re thinking again,” Todd said.

Bob’s mouth curved. “I’m always thinking.”

“Yeah, but now you’re doing it at the soup.”

Bob laughed.

Todd’s thumb brushed over his palm.

Bob leaned sideways until his shoulder pressed more fully against Todd’s.

Todd shifted immediately to make room for him.

Like he had been waiting.

Like, there was always room.

Bob finished the last of his sandwich and set the plate aside.

Todd lifted their joined hands and kissed Bob’s knuckles.

Casual.

Sleepy.

Almost absentminded.

Bob closed his eyes.

Todd noticed that too.

“Come here,” he murmured.

Bob opened his eyes. “I’m already here.”

Todd tugged him anyway.

Bob let himself be pulled.

It was awkward on the floor, but they managed. Todd shifted, and Bob leaned into him, and eventually Bob ended up with his head against Todd’s shoulder while Todd’s arm came around him.

The kitchen was quiet again.

The kind of quiet that belonged only to very late nights and very early mornings.

Todd’s cheek rested against Bob’s hair.

Bob could hear him breathing.

Slow.

Steady.

Familiar.

After a while, Todd said, “For the record, I also bought that tea you like.”

Bob lifted his head slightly.

Todd kept looking forward, casual as anything.

“And the weird crackers.”

Bob stared at him.

Todd’s mouth twitched.

“And those ginger candies you pretend you don’t eat all of.”

Bob’s chest went warm again.

Todd finally looked down at him.

His expression softened immediately.

“Too much?”

Bob shook his head.

“No,” he said.

Todd searched his face for a second.

Then nodded once.

Bob rested his head back against Todd’s shoulder.

Outside, the sky was getting lighter.

Not bright.

Just enough that the window had turned gray-blue instead of black.

Soon, the house would wake up.

Someone would come downstairs and find dishes in the sink. Someone would complain about the smell of grilled cheese. Someone would ask why they were on the floor, and Todd would probably say something ridiculous, and Bob would pretend to be embarrassed even though he wouldn’t really be.

Not much.

Not with Todd there.

For now, though, it was only them.

The empty kitchen.

The cooling bowls.

Todd’s hand warm around his.

Bob let his eyes close.

Todd shifted beside him and kissed the top of his head.

“You’re ridiculous,” Todd whispered.

Bob smiled.

“You bought me soup.”

Todd laughed softly.

“Yeah,” he said. “I did.”

Bob didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

Todd knew.

That was the dangerous thing about him.

The wonderful thing.

He knew.

And as the first pale light of morning slipped into the kitchen, Bob sat there against him, warm and full and quietly ruined by a can of tomato soup, thinking that maybe being known didn’t have to feel terrifying every time.

Maybe sometimes it felt like grilled cheese at three in the morning.

Todd’s shoulder beneath his cheek.

A sleepy kiss pressed into his hair.

And a pantry shelf already stocked with proof that someone had been thinking of him long before he ever thought to ask.

#lewis pullman #todd stevens #bob reynolds #sunshines