He finally looks at me. Just a glance, but it's enough. His grey eyes meet mine through his wire-rimmed glasses, and something flickers there. Something warm and amused and a little bit flustered.
Then his gaze drops lower. To the henley. To my bare legs dangling from the counter. To my feet bumping rhythmically against the cabinet.
He looks away fast. Back to the pancakes. But I see the muscle in his jaw jump.
"If you tell anyone—" He points the spatula at me without looking. "I will deny everything."
"Too late. I'm telling everyone." I grin, feeling something light and playful bubble up in my chest. "This is going in the group chat. 'Overheard: Dr. Pedro singing The Proclaimers at 7 AM. Hip wiggle confirmed. Spatula choreography outstanding.'"
"You're the worst."
"I'm delightful." I kick my feet harder, and the thuds get louder. "So. The Proclaimers. Interesting choice. Very specific. Very Scottish."
"It was on the radio." His voice is tight. Controlled.
"The radio wasn't on."
Silence. He flips another pancake with more force than necessary.
"My mom used to play it." The words come out quieter. Softer. "When she cooked. Sunday mornings."
Oh.
The teasing dies in my throat. Something shifts in the air between us, going from playful to tender in a heartbeat.
"She had good taste," I say gently, my feet going still.
"She had terrible taste in music. But she loved that song." He slides the spatula under a perfectly golden pancake, lifts it, sets it on a plate. "Used to sing it every Sunday while making breakfast. The whole house would smell like pancakes and vanilla. She'd dance around the kitchen. Dad used to hide in the garage until she was done."
"I bet it was sweet."
"It was awful. She couldn't sing any better than I can." But there's fondness in his voice now. Warmth. "Dad said it was self-preservation. That her singing was a health hazard. But he was always smiling when he said it."
Pedro sets down the spatula and reaches for the chocolate chips sitting on the counter. His hand brushes mine as he grabs the bag, and electricity shoots up my arm.
We both freeze.
His fingers are still touching mine. Just barely. Just the backs of his knuckles against my palm.
I look up. He's closer than I realized, so I can see the flecks of darker grey in his eyes behind his glasses. If I leaned forward just a little, I could—
He pulls back. Fast. Clears his throat. Dumps chocolate chips into the batter with hands that aren't quite steady.
"Want chocolate chips?" His voice is rougher than before.
"Is that even a question?" My own voice sounds breathless. When did I get breathless?
"Fair warning." He stirs the batter, not looking at me. "I make them my mom's way. Which means way too much chocolate. Like, an irresponsible amount of chocolate."
"That sounds perfect."
He pours batter onto the griddle, and I watch the chocolate chips bubble and melt. The smell fills the kitchen. Sweet and warm and comforting.
My stomach growls. Loudly.
Pedro glances at me, one eyebrow raised. "When was the last time you ate?"
"Um." I try to remember. "Toast? Yesterday? Maybe?"
