When I wake again, the room is glowing. Morning light filters through the blinds, dust motes swirling like lazy sparks above the tangled sheets. The faint scent of rain drifts in from the cracked window, mixing with the wintergreen detergent he insists on using. My phone buzzes on the floor where I dropped my leggings.
Julian:Can’t get a date today to save my life. Want to grab lunch?
I smile, half laughing as I type.
Me:Sorry, Nate and I have a little indoor date of our own. He’s “sick.”
Julian:He cuts work for you! Seriously, though, you got yourself a good one, Robyn.
I lean back, my fingers move quickly, heat creeping up my chest.
Me:Don’t I know it!
Julian:Smartass. Oh, well, go play doctor. Just remember the Kells way: more orgasms, less suturing.
Chuckling, I tap out my reply.
Me:You’re ridiculous.
The sight when I walk into the kitchen warms my insides. The top of my scrubs and shirt are stacked neatly on the chair by the door. I fold and add my leggings to the pile, as I’mwearing one of the long T-shirts I keep at his house to lounge in.
Nate is in the kitchen, hovering over a frying pan. I pad into the kitchen right behind him and peer into a pan with sizzling butter and bacon. He’s got that quiet focus he gets when he’s cooking: brow furrowed, hair mussed, a kitchen towel slung over one bare shoulder. The faint mark from my nails makes him look even better.
He’s plating everything on a tray—toasted croissants, cut-up fresh fruit, omelets, coffee. After getting plates ready, he fished the crispier bacon out of the pan, stacking those on one of the portions. That’ll be my plate. He always gives me those little crunchy bits because he knows they’re my favorite. He’s even folded some real napkins in the shape of a little hat.
“Morning, sweetness,” he says, with a lazy smile and bright eyes.
I wrap my arms around his waist while he finishes the last batch of bacon. He’s shit with timing. Eggs will be cold by the time this is done. I kind of love him for it.
“You were supposed to stay in bed,” he murmurs.
“And miss this?” I grin, splaying my fingers across his stomach and chest. “Some would say cooking like this is a high-risk sport.”
He turns around so we’re chest to chest. “Let’s just say I’m highly motivated.” He winks, then returns his attention to the frying pan.
I stay there, my cheek against his warm back, while he makes bacon just the way I like it. There’s no grand gesture, no need to sayI love you—it’s already there. In the folded clothes, the better bacon, the warmth traveling between us.
Nate insists on balancing the two trays but asks that I carry the coffee cups. He sings, off-key of course, “I promised you breakfast in bed, and we’re having breakfast in bed.”
He props the trays in the center, and we cocoon aroundthem, almost like a picnic, with a cup of coffee on each nightstand. It’s a bit precarious, crumbs falling on the bed. Nate pretends he doesn’t mind, but his jaw twitches every time a flake lands on the sheet. I tease him about it, and he rolls his eyes, but neither of us stops smiling.
When we’re done, he wipes his hands on a napkin, folds it with unnecessary precision, and looks up at me. His expression’s soft, a little nervous.
“Robyn, I-I’ve got something to say.”
My brow arches. There’s a pinch in my stomach.
“I was really bummed that your schedule got changed,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I let it get in my head.” He exhales slowly and grabs my napkin and folds it. Then he adds, “And I should have talked to you instead.”
“Oh, Nate,” I mutter, sliding closer. The tray wobbles between us, so he moves it aside, making space. I climb onto his lap, knees framing his thighs, and cradle his jaw. He hasn’t shaved, so his facial hair scrapes my palms.
“I get it,” I whisper. “It’s a mess, but it’s temporary. Four more months.”
“Is it?” His voice is a trembling whisper. “It’s you and me after this, right? No other hurdles?”
I almost nod, then think of all the hurdles that could come after this program—no attending job, asking him to move, asking him to wait, the slow erosion of us under the weight of two careers that refuse to bend. I swallow it down before he sees it on my face.
I peck his lips. “You and me, baby.”
