"They're very round."
"Is that a problem?"
"No. It's just very... you."
He sat down across from her with his own plate—protein-heavy, sensible, completely different from the indulgent stack he'd made for her. "I don't know how to make them any other shape."
"Most people's pancakes are blobby. Misshapen. Unique."
"That sounds inefficient."
"It sounds normal."
He considered this while she spread Nutella over her perfectly circular pancakes. "I've never been particularly good at normal."
"Yeah, I noticed."
They ate in comfortable silence. Or at least, she ate—he consumed his breakfast with the same methodical efficiency he brought to everything, probably calculating macros and nutritional balance in his head while she smeared chocolate hazelnut spread over carbohydrates like a heathen.
It should have been awkward. Morning-afters usually were, in her experience. All that pretending everything was fine while mentally calculating the fastest route to the exit.
This wasn't awkward.
This was... nice. Easy. Like they'd been doing this for years instead of hours.
"I have practice at ten," Tarmek said eventually.
"Okay."
"Will you be here when I get back?"
The question was casual. His expression was not.
She thought about lying. Saying yes to make him feel better, then slipping out while he was gone like she always did. It would be easier. Cleaner. Less terrifying than whatever this was becoming.
"I don't know," she said instead.
He nodded slowly. "At least you're honest."
"I'm trying to be."
"I know." He reached across the table and took her hand—engulfed it, really, his massive palm swallowing her fingers. "That counts for something."
For him, apparently, it counted for a lot.
She squeezed his hand back and tried not to think about how much she wanted to stay. About how right it felt, sitting in his kitchen, eating his pancakes, wearing his shirt that smelled like cedar and warmth.
Temporary, she reminded herself. Everything is temporary.
But for the first time in a long time, she wasn't sure she believed it.
He left for practice at nine-thirty, freshly showered and back in his usual controlled mode.
But before he walked out the door, he stopped. Turned. Crossed the room in two strides and kissed her thoroughly enough to make her toes curl.
"Stay," he said against her mouth.
Then he was gone.
