“Oh, relax. I’m just quality-checking,” she says, tossing another blueberry up and catching it in her mouth with a triumphant smile. “Besides, I’m doing you a favor. What if they’re poisoned?”
“Oh, of course.” I flip another pancake, trying to keep up my serious demeanor, but she’s making it impossible. “So you’re saying you’re here to keep me safe. Is that it?”
She nods, mock-serious. “Obviously. Someone’s gotta look out for you.”
She grabs a spatula and pretends to start flipping the pancakes herself, but I reach out, covering her hand with mine to stop her. Her eyes meet mine, a quick flash of challenge. The warmth of her hand is impossible to ignore, but instead of pulling away, she grins, trying to nudge me aside to take over my station.
“Dove,” I say, a warning in my voice that’s softened by thesmile I can’t hold back anymore. “You’re making a mess of my kitchen.”
She laughs, finally relinquishing the spatula and raising her hands in surrender. “Fine, fine. I’ll let the master chef do his thing. But don’t expect me to sit quietly.”
She hops up on the counter across from me, swinging her legs, watching as I finish off the last few pancakes. She grabs the syrup bottle, holds it up like it’s a trophy. “How much syrup do you want on yours?”
“Enough to drown them,” I say, eyeing her as she tips the bottle, pouring a waterfall of syrup over both of our plates with an exaggerated flourish.
“Good answer,” she says, giving me a wink.
I bring the plates over to the table, where she’s already settling in, reaching for a fork and digging in with enthusiasm. Her eyes close as she takes a bite, and a small hum of approval escapes her, which does strange things to my chest. It’s easy to be wrapped up in her energy, to forget about the things that usually keep my mind on edge.
“They’re actually good,” she says, surprise coloring her tone. “And here I was expecting to have to pretend they were edible.”
“Oh, thanks for the vote of confidence.” I shake my head, reaching for my coffee. “And you should know I don’t need any of your critiques this early in the morning.”
She laughs again, nudging me with her foot under the table. “Fine, fine. I’ll just enjoy the food, then.”
I glance at her, watching as she eats, her laughter filling the air. This feels… easy. Comfortable. Her messy hair, her unguarded smile, the sunlight that spills across her face. I realize I’m staring, and she raises an eyebrow at me, her mouth half-full as she looks at me with a curious smile.
“What?” she asks, her voice light, carefree.
I just shake my head, trying to play it off. “Nothing. Just… didn’t expect you to enjoy this so much.”
She swallows, a glimmer of something softer in her eyes now. “Maybe I just didn’t expect you to let me.”
And just like that, the laughter slips into something more, a gentle silence settling over the table. It’s strange, the way she looks at me—like she’s challenging me, yet inviting me in all at once. And for the first time in a long time, I let myself be pulled into it.
For a moment, we just sit there in that quiet, letting the unspoken words linger between us. She’s still smiling, but there’s something softer in her expression now, like she’s daring me to drop the guard I’ve kept up so tightly around her.
Without thinking, I reach out, letting my hand settle over hers on the table. Her skin is warm beneath mine, and she doesn’t pull away, only watches me with those intense, searching eyes of hers.
“I wasn’t expecting this,” I murmur, keeping my tone low, almost like I’m speaking to myself. “Any of this.”
She tilts her head, the glint of playfulness still there, but softer, thoughtful. “You didn’t expect breakfast? Or you didn’t expect… me?”
Her words hang in the air, and I take a breath, letting them settle, feeling that pull towards honesty with her that I can’t quite explain.
“Maybe both,” I say finally. “I’m not used to… sharing things like this. Letting anyone in.”
She watches me for a long moment, her gaze steady, unflinching. “I can tell,” she replies softly, her tone laced with a gentle understanding that catches me off guard.
I realize then that I’ve been holding onto her hand longer than I should, but I can’t bring myself to let go just yet. Instead, I give her hand a slight squeeze, feeling the steady beat of herpulse against my fingertips. There’s something grounding in that—something that feels like stability, like something I’ve been missing.
She shifts a little closer, her eyes dropping to where our hands are intertwined on the table. “You know,” she says, a small smile curving her lips, “for all your dark, brooding, ominous looks, you’re actually… kind of sweet.”
I huff out a quiet laugh, shaking my head. “Don’t go spreading that around. I have a reputation to maintain.”
“Oh, trust me,” she teases, leaning in, her voice a whisper that somehow manages to send a thrill down my spine, “your secret’s safe with me.”
The playful look returns, and before I can think of a comeback, she swipes a piece of pancake off my plate with her fork, grinning as she pops it into her mouth, watching me with that daring sparkle in her eyes.
