Maverick’s cooking, in my kitchen, like he’s been living here his whole life.
Black sweatpants ride low on his hips, shirtless, with his back to me.
The natural light streams through the window, highlighting the curve of his shoulders and the rippling muscles along his back as he flips a strip of bacon. His blonde hair ismessy, with strands sticking up in different directions, and his tattoos shift with each movement.
“You’re toxic, I’m slippin’ under—” He spins dramatically, nearly knocking the spatula into the sink, then points directly at Rex, who blinks, unimpressed.
I don’t say a word as I stand there, silently staring like a creep, taking in the clean countertops, the freshly wiped sink, the absence of clutter.
He cooked and cleaned, again.
I didn’t ask him to do anything like that; he took it upon himself.
And to top it off, he’s standing there looking so delicious in a pair of damn sweatpants.
I shift my attention back to Maverick, who is now attempting to sing to Rex.
Maverick crouches slightly, wagging his brows. “C’mon, little dude, sing it with me!”
Rex hisses, and Maverick gasps. “Rude.”
Undeterred, he leans in closer, attempting to croon the chorus directly at him. “With a taste of a poison paradise?—”
Rex hisses and lashes out, catching the back of Maverick’s hand with a swift swipe.
“AHHHHH!”
The scream that erupts from Maverick is so high-pitched, so terrified, so cartoonish that I lose it. I double over at the doorframe, laughter bursting out of me in hysterical waves.
He spins around, eyes wide with shock, clutching his hand. “HE TRIED TO KILL ME!”
I can barely breathe, tears burning my eyes as I slide down the wall. “Oh my God, Maverick, you screamed like a little girl!”
“I did not!” he protests, his voice cracking. “That was a manly cry of pain!”
Rex glares, tail flicking, clearly satisfied with himself.
I step closer, catching the red line on the top of his hand. “Let me see it.”
“It’s fine, just a scratch.” He tries to play it off, but flinches when I gently take his wrist.
There’s a smear of blood just under his thumb, already starting to dry. Without thinking, I turn toward the cabinet, grab the little tin where I keep bandages and alcohol wipes, and motion for him to sit at the barstool.
He blinks at me. “Are you... taking care of me right now? Is this happening?”
“Shut up and hold still,” I mutter, cleaning the cut with practiced hands.
He watches me the entire time, a lazy smirk curling at his lips.
“You’re kinda hot when you’re gentle,” he says as he stupidly flexes his pecs.
“Do you ever stop talking?”
“Nope,” he says, grinning wider. “But I’ll be good if you kiss it better.”
I press a fresh bandage to his skin harder than necessary.
“Ow!”
