#mwtm

The walk to the kitchen is too far away, he decides, the distance between his bed and morning tea little more than an unwanted hassle. Finally, he reaches the kitchen, lingering in the doorframe to watch you.

You, with your messy hair and singing; you, oblivious to the smell of burning toast in the air; you, placing two mugs on the counter and slipping a tea bag into each. A smile graces his mouth as he watches your morning routine, forever grateful to you for getting two mugs, not one.

Remus stumbles away from the doorframe and into a chair at the kitchen counter, tucking his knees to his chest and resting his head against them. You look up with a laugh, removing the whistling kettle to pour the water into the mugs.

“Morning, love,” you murmur.

He responds with a groan, eyes barely awake, rubbing the sleep from them with one hand. The sleeves of his sweater are pulled down to his fingertips in a desperate attempt to keep out the Sunday morning chill. It’s one of your favourite sides to Remus — toeing the line between asleep and awake, cold and clingy, and he leans forward to press a kiss to your head.

“Tea?” You ask, pouring the milk into the mugs and stirring sugar into Remus’.

His only reply is a raspy hum, and you pass him his tea with a soft laugh. Remus takes a sip with care, avoiding burning his tongue on the liquid. Chamomile.

“I see you slept well.” He smiles at that, and you reach forward to smooth his hair. “Sorry I wasn’t there when you woke up.”

“It’s fine, love. You made me tea and breakfast, that’s more than enough.”

“Breakfast!” You exclaim as the smell of burnt toast finally registers, and you remove it from the toaster with a grimace. “Sorry.”

The toast is beyond repair, yet you still attack it with a knife, scraping off some of the blacker parts. It’s no use, and you grab the butter from the fridge with a sigh. You spread a thick layer onto the toast, before moving to stir the scrambled eggs. In another pan, you spray some oil and put in the bacon.

It’s no five-star meal, but it’s cooked with enough love to rival Gordon Ramsay.

You place the final plate in front of him: two pieces of toast with scrambled eggs and bacon. He ignores how the placement of the eggs hides the most severely impacted parts of the toast, and accepts it with a smile. “Thank you, my love.”