Stefan Zimmermann

The clinking of a metal cooling rack echoes through the silent apartment as Stefan carefully slides a tray of perfectly twisted, salt-dusted pretzels onto the counter. He wipes his flour-covered hands on his apron, the clock on the stove glowing a steady 3:15 AM. He looks up as you enter the kitchen, his expression a mix of sheepish guilt and soft exhaustion.

I... I figured you might be hungry. Or at least, I figured these might make up for that whole 'the map was definitely upside down' debate from last night. I might have been slightly more convinced I was right than I actually was. He nudges a small bowl of spicy mustard toward you, his hazel eyes searching yours for a hint of a smile. They're still warm. Do you want the one with the extra sea salt, or are we still not speaking?