"You don't need to impress me with breakfast," I murmur. "You already have." My hands slide down to her waist, fingers splaying wide across her back. "Mind." I press a kiss to her temple. "Body." Another kiss, this one to the sensitive spot just below her ear that I discovered makes her shiver. "And all the delightful trouble in between."
She makes a small sound, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh as her body melts against mine. Then she shoves me away.
"As much as I appreciate that sentiment, we still need actual food." Her eyes drop to my unbuttoned jeans, then back up tomy face with a deliberate slowness that makes my blood heat. "Not whatever you clearly have in mind from that kiss."
I smirk, making no attempt to hide the intent behind my eyes. "You sure about that? I can think of several appetizing alternatives to burned eggs."
"I'm sure you can." She taps my chest with one finger. "But some of us need actual protein and carbohydrates to function. Especially after..." Her blush deepens. "Last night."
Leaning in, I brush my lips against her ear. "If your legs are still jelly, I can think of ways to make you feel better that don't involve standing."
She shivers against me, but her resolve doesn't waver. "Food first. Then we can revisit your... treatment plan."
"Fine," I concede with a reluctant grunt, stepping back to survey the disaster zone that is her kitchen. The smoking pan on the stove holds what might have once been eggs but now resembles a blackened science experiment. Pancake batter drips from the counter onto the floor. A carton of milk sits open, completely forgotten in the chaos. "Though I'm not sure salvaging this is possible without hazmat suits."
Mia grimaces at the mess. "Yeah, I may have gotten a little... enthusiastic with my culinary ambitions."
"A little?" I arch an eyebrow, picking up a piece of eggshell from the counter. "Did the eggs personally offend you?"
"Shut up and help me clean," she laughs, swatting at my bare chest with a dish towel.
We move around each other with surprising ease for two people who've spent most of their professional relationship in combative tension. I take care of the smoking pan, scraping the cremated eggs into the trash while Mia wipes down the counters. Our shoulders brush as we work side by side at the sink, her hip occasionally bumping against mine as she reaches for the dish soap.
There's something unexpectedly intimate about this—more intimate, almost, than the way our bodies connected last night. This domestic choreography feels like crossing a different kind of boundary. I'm letting her see me unguarded, not just physically naked but stripped of the professional armor I've worn for so long.
"So," she says, handing me a dripping plate to dry. "What's your preferred breakfast for delivery? I'm thinking that café on Third might still do their morning menu."
"The one with the disgustingly healthy green smoothies and the avocado toast that costs more than some people's hourly wage?"
She rolls her eyes. "I was thinking more along the lines of breakfast burritos and hash browns, but if you'd prefer to drink liquified kale..."
"Burritos," I say quickly. "Extra bacon."
"A man after my own heart." She grins and reaches for her phone before quickly placing an order. As she speaks with the restaurant, I take in more details of her kitchen—the novelty coffee mugs hanging from hooks (one says Trust Me, I'm A Doctor with an illustration of the TARDIS), the bright yellow tea kettle, the refrigerator covered in magnets and sticky notes.
While she finishes the order, I wander back into the living room, drawn again to the abundance of greenery. Plants of all sizes occupy every available surface and hang from the ceiling in macramé holders. It's like standing in the middle of a very cozy jungle.
"Did you buy out an entire nursery?" I ask when she joins me.
She groans, running a hand through her tangled curls. "Ugh, they probably hate me right now. I might have gone a little overboard with the watering yesterday."
"Yesterday?"
"While I was waiting for you to text back." She gestures vaguely at a large fern sitting in the corner. "Poor Fitzwilliam got the worst of it. I was... frustrated."
I take in this information, filing it away with the other pieces of Mia I'm collecting. "Fitzwilliam?"
"The fern." She says it like it's the most natural thing in the world, like of course the fern has a name. "And that's Penelope the pothos hanging by the window—she's dramatic, always drooping when she wants attention. The jade plant on the coffee table is Jasper. He's pretty low-maintenance except when he decides to drop leaves everywhere as a form of protest."
I listen, fascinated, as she continues around the room, introducing each plant with its own name and distinct personality. There's something endearing about the way she speaks of them, not as mere decorations but as living companions with their own quirks and needs.
"Why name them?" I ask when she finishes.
She looks up at me, those green eyes clear and earnest. "Because they're alive," she says simply. "And everything that lives deserves a little attention. A name means you notice them. That they matter."
Something shifts in my chest at her words, a tightness I didn't know was there loosening just slightly. This woman, with her wild hair and her named plants and her burned eggs, sees the world differently than I do. Where I've built walls and maintained distance, she's created connections, even with silent, green things that can't speak back.
Watching her now, animated and sincere as she fusses over a drooping leaf, I'm struck by a realization that should terrify me but somehow doesn't. Mia, in all her mess and magic, makes the world feel like it might be worth the risk. Worth the vulnerability. Worth the potential for pain that comes with letting someone see the parts of me I've kept hidden for so long.
