By the time Lexi appears, Raf is cooking.
She pauses in the doorway -- and he had barely heard her approach, though he’d been listening for movement. She sun hasn’t risen high enough to chase away the shadows and they still lick at her heels as she stands there, just waiting; she’s a smudge at the edge of his vision, silently appraising the view before her, and he thinks of her gaze as an almost tangible thing.
He doesn’t react and keeps his eyes on the pot, with the thick ploop! of bursting bubbles entertaining him. The floor is cold against his feet, even now, and he regrets not bringing the socks with him as he crept out of the bed.
Best laid plans he thinks ruefully, not unamused.
He’s confident that Lexi hasn’t just woken, despite her languidness -- obviously, she would have laid there for a while, tangled in the sheets and debating how long she would make him wait for her company. Maybe she had even smiled that smug little smile she was so fond of, imagining how terribly boring his life must be without her present.
He likes that smile.
“Morning,” she utters suddenly, and her voice is groggier than he would have anticipated -- could he have been wrong? She doesn’t bother moving from the doorway or make any motion that even implies she might, so he takes a few more seconds; rebelling in the pettiest way possible, tending to his pan and making her wait for his attention.
Ah -- but a lesser man would have regretted such a slight, he thinks, when he finally deigns her with his gaze. She poses for him and his benefit alone, and it would be rude not to at least appreciate that; she leans to one side, her hip pressed against the wood and her arm curled over her head, made of nothing but carefully mussed hair and sleepy smiles. His shirt doesn’t quite reach her knees but it’s buttoned, all the way to the very top, as if she was struck with a sudden need for modesty.
He almost grins but manages to resist, and she silently endures his lazy inspection. He wonders if she can feel his gaze the way he can feel hers.
“Morning,” Raf agrees, when he’s quite done -- he idly considers what she might be wearing under his shirt, but his goop is bubbling and demands his touch more loudly, and he doesn’t bother to try and find out.
Her footsteps are heavy slaps against the linoleum as she stumbles forward, then, yawning and stretching. All the grace implied by her pose dissipates in the light, and he is amused by this as he always is -- but he doesn’t so much as glance over his shoulder to watch her, to see how high the shirt rides up with her arms flung high above her head, because victories should never be that easily won. In another second it doesn’t matter, anyway -- she presses against his side, head slipping through the cook of his arm to peer at the pot, and her demands for his attention are much louder, then.
He glances at her, if only for a moment.
“What are you doing?” Lexi demands, with her nose wrinkled in bewildered horror as she stares at the pan -- like it’s something repulsive, a slug squashed to the sole of her shoe or something slimy and oozing, lightly brushed by in the darkness.
He agrees with the sentiment.
“Cooking,” he shoots back, eyebrows creasing, feigning insult at such a question.
"Is that what you call it?"
He remembers picking strawberries in the summer and biting into bright apples in the twilight, and wonders again -- more curiously, this time -- what she wears under his shirt. The heat from her skin seeps easily through the fabric, burning at his hip, and his hand brushes against her side as she squeezes in closer, tighter against him. They both ignore this, they pretending it’s not happening -- they play like it isn’t deliberate.
It’s more fun that way.
“Grits,” he answers aloud, all too aware of how quickly the answer falls from his lips. But his voice remains calm and even, for all her attempts at distraction, and there is some pride to be had in that.
“Grits?” the brunette questions, tilting her head to peer up suspiciously.
“Grits,” he agrees, stirring the pot. He glances sideways when he thinks she isn’t looking, and she meets his gaze confidently -- a pity, really, that the bench would be too high.
“Gross,” Lexi informs him, and there is no doubt in her tone.
She has a point, truth be told.
“You were the one who demanded southern cooking,” he reminds her, his voice rising in a bad imitation of her tone.
“Wrong southern,” she corrects, hiding her amusement about as well as he managed his impression.
”Whoops,” he utters, as sincerely as he can manage -- which is to say, not at all.
She turns suddenly -- the heat from her body is gone, and the immediate chill is painful. He is struck, not for the first time, at how obvious her absence is, and glances down as she moves.
The table, he knows, will be no more comfortable than the bench -- too low for him, too high for her -- but at least he wouldn’t be suffering alone. The bed remains too far away, as it was the night before.
The table will have to do.
“I’m going to get dressed,” Lexi explains, and he shrugs, looking back to the pan as if this does not interest him in the least. She shrugs back, entirely unconcerned she really did insult his cooking -- but when she steps away from him proper, it’s not back, but to the side. It is expected that he will be the one to move, so that she doesn’t have to make such an effort.
And he does.
She manages a whole step before his fingertips touch her arm, and that’s all it takes to stop her. She turns to loop her around his neck, eagerly stretching to meet him as he dips down, though her kiss is slow and lazy and still tinged with sleep. He grips her hips hard, hard enough to leave bruises, and she runs her nails against the nape of his neck, lightly scratching and silently encouraging, and he thinks the table will have to d--
Lexi lolls her head back, groaning aloud at the morning in general and lamenting that she is even awake -- but it’s not a demand for him to halt, and he doesn’t. Her breathing hitches as he nips at her neck, so willingly bared for consideration, and she pulls him closer, harder, demanding more.
Her skin is sweet and he thinks, not for the first time, of honeysuckle -- he would prefer strawberries, because he likes strawberries, but it never seems so important in the moment. There is a quiet noise at the back of her throat, as if she is still surprised at his touch, and he realizes that even the table is too far away now.
“Your goo is burning,” she sighs to him, but it is a moment before the words arrange into something coherent. Raf’s head jerks up and he scowls, blaming her for this interruption, and she only hikes a brow in amusement.
“Shit,” he complains, with feeling, because he can already smell how ruined it is and the moment has passed -- he’s not sure which is worse, the burned food or the sudden disinterest, but neither is pleasant. She snickers as he pulls away, falling back to her feet and clasping her hands behind her back as he surveys the damage she has wrought.
He can tell with a glance it’s beyond salvage, and he thinks it was deliberate -- a lesson, no doubt, to teach him the folly of trying to ignore her wiles. It’s a petty, sour thought, and quick on its heels is the reminder that he was hardly complaining.
“Golly,” Lexi remarks, and her tone is devoid of both sarcasm and shame. He grunts and flips the burner off, throwing the pan at the sink -- it clangs loudly and he cringes against the noise, but she doesn’t so much as blink. She spins away and prances towards the doorway, satisfied now that her goal has been achieved and the world is on its right axis once more.
This doesn’t surprise him in the least.
“Does that mean it’s bacon and eggs, now?” she calls over her shoulder, without glancing back. Her tone is curious but not hopeful, and he feels a flash of irritation that she doesn’t even care about his answer.
“No,” Raf grinds out, nothing more than piss and vinegar and spite. She does look back then, pausing in the doorway again, with a grin that is both wide and taunting.
“How terribly disappointing,” she laments, and tilts her head to one side. Her hair falls across her face, across her neck, and he sighs heavily. Her brow hikes, but she doesn’t move.
He sighs again.
And as it turns out, there wasn’t much under that shirt at all.
