It was just a little thing.

One small thing Harold Lee could do for the man who, in his internal monologue, was as often "husband" as he was "fiance". Harold wasn't so much creative, when it came to gifts. He always had to give great consideration to what he offered, and often his efforts were as simple as a flower, a drawing, or tea.

This morning it would be a memory.

He snuck out, that morning, having had an entirely lazy day the day before. Slipped down the stairs of their home in the Inn, and tried to keep quiet in his quest in the bar's kitchen.

A cook, Harold is not. Which did rather explain the two or so bowls of ruined oatmeal before he managed to work out the ratio of liquid to oats. To his credit, the instructions weren't in English. He wasn't even entirely sure it was a Terran language.

The bowl nestled protectively in one arm, and a little shaker of cinnamon and sugar in the other (Scotty hadn't a sweet tooth, but he thought it might be nice just in case), he padded back up the stairs.

He took up a few fallen petals from the little plant Scotty had given him, scattered them beside the bowl and left it steaming on the nightstand. He crawled back under the covers, the bedwarm sheets and body beside him entirely welcome after the slight chill air of the empty bar, and curved his own form alongside.

It was just a little thing, but then, so was the grin he pressed into the mess of Scotty's dark hair.