"??Just to be the man who walked a thousand miles to fall down at your door??"
I creep down the hallway, my hand trailing along the wall for balance. The house is warmer than Mom's. The heat is working here, which is novel. My toes curl against the wood with each step.
The singing gets louder as I reach the stairs.
"??DA DA DA??"
I peer around the corner into the kitchen and freeze.
Pedro is at the stove.
Grumpy, scowling, I-hate-everyone Pedro is standing at the stove in wrinkled scrubs, flipping pancakes while belting out The Proclaimers like he's auditioning for a musical. His dark hair is sticking up in seventeen different directions, clearly finger-combed at best. He's still wearing yesterday's clothes, which means he either just got home from the clinic or never changed.
And he's using the spatula as a microphone.
"??DA DA DA??"
He does a little hip wiggle as he flips a pancake. An actual hip wiggle. His hips move side to side with the beat, and the spatula conducts an invisible orchestra.
I press my hand over my mouth to keep from laughing out loud.
This is Pedro. Grumpy, silent, intense Pedro who scowls at everyone and communicates primarily in grunts. Dancing in the kitchen. Singing about walking a thousand miles. With a spatula.
I can't not say something.
"You know that's not the right key, right?" I say from the doorway, leaning against the frame.
Pedro whirls around so fast he nearly drops the spatula. It clatters against the pan, and pancake batter splatters onto the stovetop.
His face goes bright red. The color creeps up his neck, floods his cheeks, reaches the tips of his ears.
"Jesus Christ, Jessica!" He clutches his chest with his free hand, spatula still held aloft like a weapon. "How long have you been standing there?"
"Long enough to witness the hip wiggle." I push off from the doorframe and step into the kitchen. The tile is cold under my bare feet, shocking after the warm hardwood. "And the spatula solo. Very impressive."
His face somehow gets redder. "There was no hip wiggle."
"There was definitely a hip wiggle. I have evidence. My eyeballs are evidence." I move closer, drawn by the smell of pancakes and butter and something sweet that I realize is maple syrup warming on the stove. "And spatula choreography. Very elaborate. Five stars."
"I was just making pancakes." He turns back to the stove quickly, but not before I see his ears are now the color of tomatoes.
"You were serenading the pancakes."
"The pancakes appreciate good music."
"That wasn't good music. That was a crime against The Proclaimers." I hop up to sit on the counter beside the stove, the cold granite shocking against my bare thighs. The henley rides up slightly, and I tug it down with one hand. "That was musical assault. The pancakes are probably traumatized."
He doesn't look at me. Keeps his eyes firmly on the griddle. "You want breakfast or not?"
"I want breakfast," I say, swinging my legs. My bare feet bump against the cabinet doors with soft thuds. "And an encore performance."
"Absolutely not."
"Come on. Just the chorus. I'll even clap."
"I don't know what you're talking about." But his ears are still red, and the corner of his mouth twitches like he's fighting a smile. "I wasn't singing."
"You were definitely singing. Loudly. With passion. And questionable pitch." I lean forward slightly, trying to catch his eye. "There was hip movement involved."
