There’s a gentle hand on his back, fingers softly running down
his spine. She rolls her eyes, although an amused smile tugs
at the corners of her mouth.
“Yes, breakfast. Pancakes, actually. But if you keep insinuating my
cooking smells like the house is burning down, I can’t promise that
you’ll get any.”
A GRIN is unsuccessfully stifled by the sheets before he rolls onto his side,
facing away from the sunlight streaming through the window. How long had
he slept? Her fingers are at his back and he presses upward, sitting and
running a hand through his hair.
“Hey now-- I din’t know pancakes were part of the deal.
That’s an entirely different story.”