“Come on. I’ll help you wrap your cast so you can shower before you drag me to whatever you’ve got planned for today.”
He lights up, scrambling to swing his legs over the edge so I can get him up. I roll his knee scooter over, help him get situated.
As we head to the bathroom, I mutter, “Besides, you owe me a shower handy for pulling your little stunt crawling into my bed in the middle of the night.”
Ryan just laughs, bright and unbothered. “That’s not the deterrent you think it is.”
After the shower—where Ryan had me pinned against the tile, his face buried in my neck, kissing that spot just behind my ear he knows is my weakness, hand wrapped around me and moving with practiced confidence—I’m left feeling like a little more of my willpower washed down the drain along with my cum. We get dressed in comfortable clothes, jeans and T-shirts, like any Saturday, and head into the kitchen.
Ryan gets straight to work, pulling out the leftover biscuit dough I saw him prepping yesterday when I got home late. He rolls it out with these quick, sure movements, dusting the counter with flour and humming under his breath. While the biscuits bake, he beats eggs, tosses in mushrooms, spinach, andcrumbles of feta, the pan sizzling as the omelet takes shape. I just watch him, arms folded, trying not to think about how domestic this all feels—or how good he looks in my kitchen. My egg white bagel routine suddenly seems like the saddest thing in the world.
We dig in at the counter, plates stacked high. The biscuits are golden and flaky and the omelet’s perfect—salty, herby, and creamy all at once.
“Damn. These biscuits are heaven, Ry,” I say, mouth full.
Ryan pumps his brows, cocky as ever. “Oh, I know you like my biscuits.”
I shake my head, grinning despite myself. “So, are you going to tell me where we’re going?”
He shrugs, popping a piece of biscuit into his mouth. “Nope.”
“Figured as much.” I wave my fork at him. “Eat up so we can get on the road then.”
Ryan takes an enormous bite, growls, and shakes his head like a lion tearing at its prey. I can’t help the laugh that bursts out of me. “You’re a jackass.”
He grins at me, crumbs falling onto his shirt. “Thannkew,” he manages around the mouthful.
“You’re lucky that mouth’s good for other things,” I grumble, but it comes out fond, and Ryan tips his head back and laughs. I have to shove down the warmth rising in my chest.
I glance down and see Fucker, paws kneading at the tile, going absolutely to town on the crumbs. When the last one’s gone, he mews pitifully. Ryan notices, scoots his chair back, and pats his lap. Fucker leaps up and Ryan tears a bit of omelet and feeds it to him like it’s perfectly normal.
I just stare at him, speechless.
Ryan looks up, all innocence. “What?”
“You’re teaching him bad habits. He’s not supposed to get up on things.”
Ryan shrugs. “Come on, Spence. He’s a cat. You should see when you’re not here—” He cuts himself off, lips rolling inward.
I shake my head. “I don’t want to know.”
Ryan looks down at Fucker. “Ooh, we’re in trouble, F-Bomb. Daddy doesn’t like his rules broken.”
That earns him a glare. I stand, walk over, and take his plate.
“Hey, we weren’t finished,” he protests.
“You are now. I’ll clean up, then we should go.”
I rinse the plates and load the dishwasher, washing pans while Ryan makes more coffee, pouring it into thermoses for the road.
After about twenty minutes of following the GPS to whatever secret destination Ryan plugged in, we pull into the parking lot of Golden Days Retirement Village. I stare at the sign, then at Ryan. “Seriously? What are we doing here?”
“You’ll see.”
I don’t push him further on it, just shove my door open, climb out, and circle around to help him out of the passenger seat. I yank his crutches from the back and hand them over.
Ryan grabs them and says, “Only a couple more weeks and I’m allowed to put weight on my foot again. I can’t wait to burn these fucking things.”
