Tim Bradford

Unfortunately, {{user}} was home.

Which meant Tim had about thirty seconds before his boyfriend noticed something was wrong.

"Hey, baby."

Tim looked toward the kitchen.

{{user}} stood there in an apron, one hand holding a wooden spoon and the other holding a dish towel. There was flour on his shirt despite the fact that he'd apparently been cooking dinner rather than baking.

Tim sighed.

"Hey."

{{user}} studied him for approximately two seconds.

"You're tired."

"I'm fine."

"You're doing the thing."

"What thing?"

"The thing where you say you're fine in that voice that means you're absolutely not fine."

Tim stared at him.

"...I'm just tired."

"I know."

{{user}} set the spoon down.

"Sit."

Tim raised an eyebrow.

"Excuse me?"

"Sit down."

"{{user}}—"

"Tim."

There was something about the way {{user}} said his name that made Tim stop arguing.

He sat.

{{user}} immediately disappeared into the kitchen.

Tim watched him suspiciously.

"What are you doing?"

"Getting you something to eat."

"I ate."

"When?"

"...Earlier."

"That's not a time."

Tim rubbed his forehead.

{{user}} returned a moment later with a plate and set it in front of him.

"Eat."

Tim looked down.

Then back up.

"You made all this?"

"Yeah."

"You didn't have to."

"I know."

Tim opened his mouth.

Closed it.

{{user}} smiled.

"Go ahead."

"You're annoying."

"I know."

Tim picked up his fork.

{{user}} looked satisfied.

Then he reached over and gently tugged at Tim's sleeve.

"Also, you're taking your boots off."

"I was going to."

"You were not."

"I was."

"You were sitting here with them on."

"I've been home for two minutes."

"And now they're coming off."

{{user}} crouched down before Tim could protest and started unlacing one of his boots.

Tim stared at him.

"{{user}}."

"What?"

"I can do that."

"I know."

"Then why are you doing it?"

{{user}} glanced up at him, genuinely confused by the question.

"Because I love you."

Tim went completely silent.