Michael woke before dawn on a bench overlooking the harbour.

  He didn't remember sitting down. Only the cold seeping slowly through his coat, the sky paling from black to iron-grey, and the ache in his muscles that told him his body had kept moving long after his thoughts had stopped.

  For a moment, panic flared—sharp and instinctive.

  Then he smelled it.

  Bread.

  Not fresh—not yet—but the lingering promise of it, carried on the wind from somewhere inland. Smoke too. Wood. Fire banked low but alive.

  His stomach tightened painfully.

  Hunger hit him then—not the dull, managed kind he'd lived with for months, but something urgent and honest. A need that demanded attention, not control.

  He stood slowly, joints stiff, and followed it.

  Field of Waves was dark when he arrived, but light glowed faintly beneath the kitchen door. He hesitated, unsure whether it was too early, unsure whetherhe was allowed to want this much.

  The door opened before he could knock.

  Willow stood there in a thick jumper, hair loose around her shoulders, flour dusting her hands. She looked surprised—but not startled.

  "I thought you might come back," she said quietly.

  Something in his chest loosened.

  "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to—"

  "You didn't do anything wrong." She stepped aside, letting him in. "I'm just baking."

  The kitchen was warm, the oven already alive with low fire. Dough rested beneath cloths, breathing softly. Michael watched her move—how she checked the heat by feel, not instruments, how she listened.

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  "You're hungry," she said.

  "Yes."

  She didn't ask why.

  She handed him a heel of bread, still warm enough to steam when torn. He ate standing, eyes closing as flavour filled him—simple, deep, grounding.

  For the first time in weeks, food didn't feel like fuel.

  It felt like care.

  "I don't remember you," he said suddenly, the words tumbling out before fear could stop them. "I don't know what we were. But when I'm here, it hurts less."

  Willow's hands stilled.

  "I know," she said softly. "That's okay."

  He looked at her then—really looked—and felt something fierce and unfamiliar bloom behind his ribs.

  "I don't want to leave," he admitted.

  She met his gaze, steady and unafraid. "Then don't."

  Outside, the sky lightened. The fire crackled. Dough rose.

  And for the first time since the crash, Michael's hunger felt like something that could be satisfied.

  Willow's Diary

  He came back hungry.

  Not just for food—but for rest.

  For warmth.

  For permission.

  I didn't ask him who he was to me.

  I fed him instead.

  Poem — Bread Before Words

  Before memory,

  there is hunger.

  Before truth,

  there is warmth.

  I will give him what he needs

  before he knows how to ask.

  If love begins here,

  so be it.