She smirks. “Surprise me.”
She gets up to shower, and I head to the kitchen, heart full, hands already reaching for the coffee grounds and a pan.
This isn’t just the morning after. This is the beginning. And I’m all in.
By the time she walks into the kitchen, wrapped in that slouchy cardigan she stole from my place months ago, I’ve already got the pancakes sizzling and her coffee poured—black, with exactly one and a half spoonfuls of sugar, just the way she likes it.
She pauses in the doorway, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised. “Pancakes are the winner huh?”
I glance over my shoulder and smirk. “You say that, like you didn’t eat four the last time I made them. Yesterday to be more precise.”
She narrows her eyes but doesn’t deny it. “They were decent.”
“Decent?” I gasp. “Ma’am, these pancakes have emotional depth.”
She laughs, walking over and stealing a bite straight off the spatula.
“Emotional depth, huh?”
“They’re soft in the middle and a little crispy on the edges,” I say, mock-serious. “Like me.”
She snorts. “You’re a menace.”
“And you love it,” I say, grabbing a plate and piling them high.
I grab her coffee and hand it over. She takes a sip, eyes fluttering shut for a second like it’s a religious experience. “You remembered the sugar.”
“I always do.”
She sits at the table while I grab my own cup and join her, and for a few minutes, we eat in that easy silence that’s only possible when things feel… right.
After a while, she sets her fork down and looks at me, that nervous glimmer creeping into her eyes. “I don’t know why I still feel like this is temporary.”
I reach across the table for her hand, lacing our fingers together. “Ava, this is not temporary. I didn’t learn how to make pancakes just to win you over once.”
She laughs, but it’s a little watery around the edges.
“I waited so long,” I continue, my voice softer. “All that time pretending I wasn’t scanning every room, hoping you’d be there. And now that you are? You think I’m backing down? Not a chance.”
She looks down, voice breaking. “I’m terrified.”
“Good,” I say, gently but firmly. “Fear means it matters. But don’t use it as a reason to run. Stay with me. Let me in.”
She blinks fast and then gives me this tiny, vulnerable smile. “You really want all of it?”
I squeeze her hand. “I want sleepy Ava, anxious Ava, bookstore-goblin Ava, and snarky-in-the-morning Ava. All of it.”
She pulls me up from my seat, wraps her arms around my waist, and murmurs into my chest, “You’re dangerously good at this.”
“I’m just good at you,” I whisper back, holding her close. “Always have been.”
She 's quiet again.
We’ve finished breakfast, coffee cups nearly empty, plates pushed aside. She’s curled her fingers around the warm mug like it’s anchoring her, eyes on the surface but not really seeing it.
I can tell something’s brewing beneath that calm exterior of hers. I’ve learned her silences. There’s the I’m-thinking-about-a-book silence, the I-hate-people silence, the I’m-tired-but-I-don’t-want-to-say-it silence.
And then there’s this one. The I’m-nervous-about-us silence.
