Nash awakens with a mission: make pancakes for Aster. His batter ends up a little lumpy, but it’s not too obvious once the pancakes are cooked. He sets aside the crispy casualties for himself—no sense in wasting good mistakes—and piles the best ones on a plate. A generous splash of maple syrup later, and he's presenting his creation to Aster without shame.

Nash is a little behind when it comes to life skills of many kinds, and he has good reasons for that, but he’s very aware that from the outside it just makes him look immature and incapable. Maybe being trash at cooking is even fairly normal for a guy his age, but he’s trying to take care of Aster, and he hates the idea of falling short.

Breakfasts are easy enough, and sandwiches make for a reasonable lunch, but as evening approaches, Nash still hasn't decided on dinner. He winces, remembering last night's overcooked sausages and limp vegetables. Even prison food probably has more flavour.

As the sun begins to set, a familiar itch crawls beneath Nash's skin. He's been on two legs for too long. It won't solve his dinner dilemma—wolves aren't exactly known for their culinary skills beyond "raw steak, yum"—but it might keep him from getting any weirder around Aster. The urge to sniff him is already bad enough.

He heads outside into the cool night air and strips down. They aren’t exactly out in the middle of nowhere, but they’re isolated enough that they don’t have to worry about scandalised neighbours. 

Nash isn’t sure he’ll ever get used to the sensation of shifting. It feels like his body is breaking itself, pulling in impossible directions, joints cracking and bones resetting themselves into new configurations. It feels like it should be painful, but it isn’t. He’s grateful it only takes a few seconds, because it’s not long enough to properly comprehend the things that are happening to his body before it’s already over.

The complicated feelings Nash has about being a wolf feel a lot less complicated whenever he actually is one. He’s still himself, but he’s something else as well. A part that just wants to run and feel the earth under his paws.

And, okay, maybe pee on some stuff too. He knows he'll cringe about it later, but right now, with Aster in the house, his wolfy brain is all "must protect." Though honestly, he’s not even sure what exactly he’s trying to ward off with his piss. He’s never smelled anything concerning in the area.

The creak of the front door catches Nash's attention, and he circles back towards the house. Sticking to the shadows, he watches Aster step outside. Aster's wearing his sweater, but his legs are bare. He's slowly munching on an apple, eyes roaming over the herbs Niko planted in the garden beds out front. Nash makes a mental note to learn about cooking with herbs—it might impress Aster.

As Nash approaches, he deliberately rustles some leaves, but Aster still jumps a little when he spots him. They both freeze for a moment, caught in an awkward standoff. Then Aster takes another bite of his apple and crouches down to examine some herb Nash doesn’t know the name of.

Even from a distance, Nash can pick up Aster's scent. He's drawn to it, padding closer until he's right beside him. Nash doesn't actually sniff Aster—he's not that far gone—but just being near is enough to flood his senses.

The smell of stress clings to Aster, which isn't surprising. He's been in the same clothes since that night Nash showed up bleeding, clutching a sacrificial dagger. Nash wonders how much of the stress is leftover from that wild situation, and how much is from whatever happened after. When Nash finally got a good look at Aster's face that night, the look in his eyes was... haunted. There's no other word for it.

Nash still has no clue what's going on in Aster's head, and right now, his wolf brain isn't equipped to puzzle it out. All he wants is to lean against Aster's leg, to somehow make him feel safe and protected.

As if reading his mind, Aster reaches down and scratches the top of Nash's head. It's the kind of absent-minded petting you'd give a regular dog, but Nash doesn't mind. If anything, it's a relief. Aster isn't afraid of him like this. Maybe he even prefers Nash as a wolf. The tension that always seems to hang between them has vanished.

Or maybe Aster just likes that Nash can't talk and potentially say the wrong thing. Nash has a knack for that, though he's not sure it's entirely his fault. Not that it matters who's to blame.

Aster stands, tossing his apple core into the bushes. The action snaps Nash back to reality. If Aster's snacking, he must be hungry. Nash needs to get inside and make dinner.

As Nash trots over to his discarded clothes, he feels Aster's eyes on him. When he turns, Aster is watching openly, clearly not planning on looking away.

Nash considers finding a more private spot, but Aster's attention feels like a rare gift. If Aster wants to see this—well, okay. Given how calmly Aster handled his own bloody, mangled hand, Nash has to assume he’s not too squeamish.

The shift back is just as weird as ever. Nash's bones pop and crackle, his skin tingles as fur retreats, and his face does this whole rearranging act that he's glad he can't see. Then, just like that, it's over. He's back to his regular, very naked self. Aster gives him one last inscrutable look before heading inside, leaving Nash to fumble with his clothes.

Inside, Nash finds Aster in the kitchen, staring into the open fridge. For a split second, Nash imagines pressing up against Aster's back, wrapping his arms around him. He shakes off the thought and leans against the counter instead, trying to look casual.

"How about I order pizza?" Nash offers.

Aster makes a sound that’s distinctly unenthusiastic and doesn’t move away from the fridge.

“Thai? Burgers?”

Aster doesn’t respond.

Nash inches closer, hyper-aware of every movement. It's like Aster's got his own gravitational pull, and Nash is fighting not to get sucked in. Aster shifts slightly, giving Nash room to crouch and peek into the freezer.

“There’s some mince in here,” Nash says. “I could make pasta.”

"Okay," Aster replies. It's not exactly enthusiasm, but it's something.

“Oh,” Nash says as he lifts the frozen mince and sees what’s underneath it. “Niko actually has a few serves of frozen pasta in here already prepared. I can just heat you up some of that. He's way better at this cooking thing than I am. I'm sure he wouldn't mind."

Aster sighs like Nash just suggested they eat cardboard. "No. I'm not hungry anyway. Forget it."

As Aster walks away, Nash fights the urge to grab his arm, to make him stay. Instead, he grips the frozen mince so hard his knuckles turn white. How did he mess this up? It's like the earring incident all over again. Aster says yes, Nash tries to deliver, and suddenly it's all wrong.

But maybe there's still a right answer here. Nash will make the pasta himself, dammit. Maybe Aster's worried about eating Niko's food? Or maybe, beneath all that prickliness, he actually likes that Nash is trying to take care of him. Using pre-made meals might feel like cheating. Though, wouldn't buying takeout also count as Nash taking care of him?

Who knows. The demon dagger incident showed Nash just how much Aster can have going on inside his head while externally he appears anywhere from completely indifferent to mildly irritated. 

Pasta isn’t hard, so at least he probably can’t fuck it up too bad. He sticks the frozen mince in the microwave and rummages through the pantry for sauce. Jackpot—he finds some fancy jar with "Italian herbs" on the label. Perfect. It'll cover for his total cluelessness about cooking with actual herbs. There are a couple different kinds of pasta to choose from, too, and Nash decides on the ones that look like shells. 

Nash browns the meat, dumps in the sauce, and—oh crap, onions. He chops one up, tossing it in as an afterthought. Water for the pasta starts boiling on another burner, and suddenly the kitchen smells... not half bad. Then again, his nose isn't exactly the most reliable judge—there are plenty of smells that make normal people gag but don't faze him at all. Still, this meaty, tomatoey, oniony concoction seems promising.

When he plates it up, adding a sprinkle of cheese on top, it's not exactly five-star restaurant material. But hey, it looks like a real meal. Realistically, that’s the most Aster can possibly be expecting of him after eating last night’s efforts.

Feeling brave, Nash decides to bring his own bowl upstairs too. He's prepared to bolt at the first sign of Aster's annoyance, but he's hoping for a chance to hang out, even if it's just eating in awkward silence.

A tap on the guest room door, as always, goes unanswered. He cracks it open, finding Aster sitting up in bed. Aster's expression is guarded, his eyes flicking between Nash and the steaming bowls he's carrying.

"I, uh, made it myself," Nash says. "I don't know how good it is, but it seemed like that was what you wanted, so..."

"Huh," is all Aster offers, but his posture softens slightly. Nash takes this as an invitation, stepping into the room.

Nash hands over the tray and settles on the edge of the bed, balancing his own bowl in his lap. He fully expects Aster to find some way to tell him to fuck off without the need for words, but instead, Aster takes a bite. There's a moment of consideration—Nash holding his breath—before Aster goes in for another forkful.

Nash tries his own creation and winces internally. The pasta's overdone and floppy, the onions are practically raw, and there's way too much sauce. It's a far cry from the meal he'd imagined.

He makes a face, unable to hide his disappointment. "Wishing we just got pizza yet?"

Aster shrugs, still chewing. "I don't know what kind of quality of food you think I'm used to, but this is fine. I'm not fussy."

Nash bites back the urge to ask why Aster shot down all his other suggestions if he's so easy to please. No need to poke the bear when things are going... well, not terribly. The important thing is Aster's eating, and he doesn't look miserable doing it.

"I didn't expect you to actually figure out what I wanted, you know," Aster says suddenly. "It's not like it's meant to be some test."

A wry smile tugs at Nash's lips. "Really? Kind of feels like everything is with you. And I usually fail."

"I expect nothing of you. I offer nothing in return." Aster's words are blunt, almost rehearsed.

“You saved my life.”

“I didn’t want you to die.”

Aster says it so flatly, so matter-of-factly, that it shouldn't affect Nash at all. But it does. It hits him square in the chest, a warmth spreading through him at the sincerity hidden beneath Aster's nonchalant tone.

"And I don't want you to go hungry," Nash replies softly, "even if you make things harder than they need to be."

“Great, then we’re even,” Aster says, and even though it’s a simple statement and probably not intended to be cryptic, there’s something about the way Aster talks that’s so perpetually hard for Nash to get a read on. Is he joking? Is he annoyed?

Nash realises this is probably why Aster rarely bothers to explain himself. If he started, when would he ever stop?

"Or maybe we're just... friends," Nash suggests, the word feeling both right and somehow inadequate.

The sound Aster makes is less than enthusiastic. “Why is that better for me than a transactional relationship where I’ve already contributed more than you’re likely to ever be able to repay?”

Nash frowns, trying to navigate Aster's labyrinth of logic. "So you don't want me to expect anything from you? That's what you're worried about?"

"I'm not worried," Aster says. "It's not my problem. I never promised you anything."

"Okay," Nash says, treading carefully. "I really don't mind doing all this anyway. It doesn't really matter to me what we call things or how we justify it. I want to..." He stops himself, the words 'take care of you' hovering dangerously on the tip of his tongue. That's way too much, too soon. He lets the sentence hang, unfinished.

Nash is almost grateful for the debt he owes Aster. It gives him an excuse for his dedication, a shield to hide behind. Without it, his behaviour would seem bizarre, obsessive even.

Nash pushes away the urge to analyse his own motivations. He doesn't want logic to interfere, doesn't want to risk losing... whatever this is. Nash has been lonely for so long, and Aster... Aster is like a bonfire on a freezing night. It doesn't matter that Aster seems hell-bent on giving off as little warmth as possible. Nash can't help but be drawn to that flicker of light.

There's no point in fighting it. Nash is the moth, and Aster is the flame. All he can do is hope he doesn't get burned too badly in the process.