I sit up so quickly that the blanket slides off my lap and lands on the floor.
“No way,” I whisper.
For a second, I sit there, listening. There’s movement in the kitchen. Cabinets opening. Something sizzling. A plate is being set down.
Zane.
A smile spreads across my face before I even realize it’s happening.
I pull on a sweatshirt and make my way toward the kitchen, following the smell like it’s a trail of breadcrumbs leading me home.
When I step into the hallway, I can already hear him humming.
“Please tell me that’s what I think it is,” I say as I walk into the kitchen.
Zane turns around, wooden spatula in hand, looking far too proud of himself.
“You doubted me?” he asks.
“I didn’t doubt you,” I say, stepping closer to the counter.“I just didn’t think you’d actually do it.”
“Well,” he says, gesturing toward the stove,“prepare to be impressed.”
There’s a bowl of batter on the counter, strawberries already sliced in a small dish, a stack of waffles resting on a plate under foil, and…
“Oh my god,” I breathe.“You even did the strawberries.”
“I even did the strawberries,” he confirms.
I laugh and lean against the counter.
“Did you call mom for instructions?”
“I resent that,” he says immediately.“I watched her make these at least a hundred times growing up.”
“That doesn’t mean you paid attention.”
“I paid attention,” he insists.
“We’ll see,” I say suspiciously as I reach for a strawberry.
He slaps my hand away with the spatula.
“Sit.”
“Yes, chef,” I say, sliding onto one of the barstools.
Zane plates the waffles carefully. It’s like he’s presenting something important instead of breakfast. He adds strawberries, whipped cream, and the right amount of powdered sugar. He puts the plate in front of me with a big smile.
“There,” he says.“Moment of truth.”
I pick up my fork slowly, cutting off a piece as if this were some kind of formal taste test.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he says nervously.“Just eat it.”
I take a bite. And immediately close my eyes.
“Oh,” I say softly.
