He sets the plate in front of me, then leans in, bracing his arms on either side of the counter so that his face is close to mine.
“I’m full service in every department,” he says, low enough that I feel it more than hear it.
I decide right then that I’m never going to win a single game with this man, but it’s going to be fun trying.
“So do you always cook bare-chested?” I tease. “Or is this only for me.”
He thinks for a moment, then, as if remembering something, opens a drawer and rummages. He pulls out a green apron, frilly and kitschy, with PICKLE LOVER emblazoned in neon letters.
He shakes it out, then ties it around his waist. “Satisfied?” he asks.
I nearly snort my coffee. “That’s incredible,” I say, “You look like a Chippendale with a side hustle at a county fair.”
He glances down at himself. “I’m regretting the purchase.”
“No, no, it’s perfect,” I say, and mean it. The apron only emphasizes his size, the ridiculous definition of his arms, the way the sweatpants barely contain him. I imagine a world where he wears nothing else, just the apron and the look of a man who could break every bone in my body and then make me breakfast in the aftermath.
He turns back to the stove, but I can see he’s fighting a smile. The air between us is different—looser, almost playful. I wonder if it’ll last, or if we’ll both retreat into our old armor before the day is out.
I pick at the bacon, letting the salt and fat melt on my tongue. “So,” I say, “Is this the part where we talk about our feelings, or should we wait until the pancakes?”
He looks at me, serious again. “What do you want to talk about?”
I swing my legs, the stool creaking under me. “I don’t know. Maybe how amazing this breakfast is. Maybe how you whispered ‘you’re mine’ last night, and I didn’t even compute until I was falling asleep.”
His face goes blank for a second, then softens. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to?—”
“It was nice,” I say, and it hangs there, vulnerable.
He wipes a spot on the counter with his thumb, then leans against the fridge, arms crossed. “I’ve never done this before,” he says.
“Done what?”
He gestures around, vague. “Any of this. The breakfast, the waking up next to someone and not wanting them to leave.”
I finish my bacon, then take another sip of coffee. “Me neither. I mean, I’ve done breakfast. But never like this.”
He steps closer, pulls the mug from my hands, and drinks from the same side I was using. The move is so casual it’s almost intimate.
I watch his throat work as he swallows, then set the mug down. “You want more?” he asks.
I shake my head.
He looks at me, the silence stretching, then says, “What doyouwant, Simone?”
For a second, I don’t know how to answer. I think of all the things I could say—the smart-ass reply, the self-deprecating one, the one that makes it seem like I don’t care.
But instead I say, “I want to do this again.”
He exhales, like he’s been holding it for a year.
“Good,” he says, and there’s a finality to it that makes my pulse skitter.
We finish breakfast mostly in silence, but it’s not uncomfortable. The sounds of the house—pipes creaking, birds outside, the dull hum of the fridge—fill in the gaps. I study his hands, the way he eats, the little flecks of stubble on his jaw. I wonder what it would be like to do this every day. I wonder how long it would take for the newness to wear off, and if that would be a bad thing.
Liam clears the plates, stacks them in the sink, and turns to me. “I have to go to campus for an hour,” he says. “A meeting with the provost. You can stay here if you want. Read, or shower, or…” He trails off, uncertain.
“I’ll stay,” I say, a little too quickly. “I want to see your books.”
