She can't stop smiling. "Well, how else was I going to get you to kiss me? Good god, did you need a permission slip from my mother?"
"Why, think she would have given you one?"
A laugh bursts out of her. "Had I gone to public school, I doubt she'd give me one for the museum, never mind fucking my coach."
I almost choke. "Jesus peaches. Your mouth. I swear."
One of her brows arches. "You weren't complaining about my mouth this morning when your cock was--"
I shut her up with another kiss, this one long enough that I smell the first pancake burning. With a swear, I leave her blinking up at me as I flip the pancake and confirm its ruin.
When I glance back at her, she's still looking at me like I'm the pancake, dripping with butter and syrup.
This can't be real.
"Watch it, babygirl, or we're skipping another meal."
"I will happily skip every meal if it means you'll do what you did to me last night instead."
"I'd make a promise, but I'm afraid we'll starve to death."
She picks up the bowl of eggs, tucking it her waist, laughing as she walks past me, bumping my hip on the way. "Wouldn't be a bad way to go. What all should we do today, since we're apparently not allowed to spend the day in bed." I get a pointed look.
"Trust me--we are gonna spend so much time in bed, you're not gonna be able to walk straight." God, I love the sound of her laughter. "I wanted to go down to Hal's and order a window. I was thinking…" I pause, unsure all of a sudden, eyes on the pancake as I flip it. "Well, I thought maybe we could put a bay window in instead of the two that were there. I could make you a window seat for your library."
She stills. "How much more will that cost?"
"Don't worry about that."
"Grey--"
"Molly." I set down the spatula and turn to face her fully. "I want to do this. For you. For us."
"But it's my house, my money--"
"See, that's the thing." I step closer, tucking a curl behind her ear. "I don't see it that way. Remember what I told you after the storm? That I don't see your problems--I see ours?"
She nods, her eyes soft.
"It's like that. What hurts you hurts me. What you need, I need. If we shared a bank account, were married"--the word punches my heart--"this would be our house, the fixes would beours. What's mine is yours, peaches. That's just how it is now."
For a second, she doesn't move--didDI say too much? Oh god, I said too much--but then her face somehow crumples and glows at the same time, and she launches herself at me.
"I want it," she says into my neck. "The window seat. All of it. I want all of it."
"Then you'll have it," I whisper into her hair, my eyes falling closed, my heart straining against my ribcage, holding her to me too tight. I can't let her go.
She pulls back, cups my face. "Us against the world?"
"Us against the world, babygirl."
She kisses me, and I could die right there in her arms.
This can't be real.
I almost don't set her down, but we really do need to quit skipping meals. So I find my strength, and we get back to breakfast, talking about nothing, eat with our chairs pulled close so we can touch each other with the hands not occupied with cutlery. Every day, I could have this.
The hope is too much.
