Tags/Warnings: FLUFF, insinuation of ptsd/past abuse, ya'll are just having some nice soup :), petnames (sweetheart)
Not beta'd. I do not give permission for my work to be translated, copied or reposted or put through an AI machine.
Summary: When a strange man turns up in your home for some unknown reason, you decided to offer him some soup.
Word Count: 448
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Not many people know what to do when there's a strange man in their kitchen. The usual ports of call, according to life and TV, is to:
a. Scream
b. Call the cops
c. Hide
d. All of the above
But somehow you created your own special fifth option (hereby referred to as option e): Give him soup.
He pokes at the soup with his spoon and you watch him over your own bowl. You can't tell if he's about to burst into tears or dart off into the night. There's something about his eyes, something that tells you he's a lost, stray in need of food and probably a hot bath rather than a six foot lug of a man in tac gear.
After a particularly hot slurp of soup, doing the whole hoo-ha-ooh charade, he looks up at you.
"Sorry," You mumble with an apologetic look. "Hot."
He nods but doesn't say anything. So, he clearly understands English. You watch as he stirs his soup again before finally bringing it to his lips. The air is heavy. You don't know why you care about what he thinks of your soup, but you do.
You want to make a joke; asking him not to kill you if it's awful but you think better of it. You still don't know if he would kill you.
His hum catches you off guard and you jump, looking over at him. His eyes flutter, and you think he definitely will cry. He sniffs a few times and raises a shaky hand with a second spoonful again, before he's suddenly gorging the soup.
His spoon clatters against an empty bowl and he looks over at you worriedly and you just smile at him around your own spoon.
"Want seconds, sweetheart?" You ask gently, getting to your feet and angling yourself to the stove. You're face is blasted with the smells of basil, garlic and roasted tomato as you lift the lid from the pot. You hold out a hand for his bowl which he carefully hands to you.
Ladling the soup to the brim (thank God for Bulk Soup Sundays), you reach into the bread bin and butter two slices of bread, placing them next to his soup when you set the bowl down. Retaking your seat, attempting to finish your own bowl, you watch him curiously.
He mumbles a thank you as he tears into the bread with his teeth, and you offer a warm smile.
"No worries. Help yourself to as much as you need."
You had the strangest feeling like your life was going to change, thanks to the stranger before you. Although, you didn't know just how much.
