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He glanced over his shoulder, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Sweetheart, I’ve been making these since I was tall enough to see the stove. You think I survive out here on just charm and cowboy grit?”

I narrowed my eyes. “Honestly? Kinda.”

He chuckled, turning back to his task.

Something warm curled in my chest, but I ignored it and slid onto one of the seats at the kitchen table. A plate was set in front of me a second later, stacked with golden French toast, crisp bacon, and scrambled eggs.

I blinked down at it. “Why does this look like something out of a food magazine?”

Wells sat beside me, grabbing his own plate. “Because I’m good at what I do.”

I raised a brow. “You talking about breakfast or last night?”

He shot me a look, mouth twitching.

I laughed and took a bite. And holy hell—this French toast was perfect. Light, fluffy, with the slightest crisp on the edges. I let out a quiet moan, immediately regretting it when I saw the way Wells’s eyes darkened.

“You can’t make noises like that,” he said, voice low, playful. “Not unless you’re prepared to face the consequences.”

I swallowed, trying—and failing—not to blush. “I was just appreciating the food.”

“Mm-hmm.” He took a slow sip of his coffee, watching me over the rim. “Remind me to make you breakfast more often.”

“You already do.” I rolled my eyes and focused on eating, though I was very aware of Wells watching me, his easy confidence making it impossible not to smile.

For a moment, the kitchen was quiet, the only sounds the soft clink of forks against plates and the occasional sip of coffee. It was comfortable, warm, like we’d been doing this for years instead of a few months.

And that was the part that scared me.

I glanced at Wells, at the way he looked so at ease, like waking up next to me and making me breakfast was the most natural thing in the world.

“Alright, cowboy. What’s next on today’s agenda? Or do I have to suffer through more farm animal betrayal before I can get you back in bed?”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Eat your damn breakfast, Sunshine.”

COUNTING CHICKENS

I should’ve known things were going too smoothly. It had been a week since Rose and I stepped into the friends-with-benefits territory, and it had been nothing short of glorious.

The second I stepped outside, coffee in one hand and the other running lazily through my hair, I was greeted by chaos. Absolute, unhinged, poultry-based chaos.

The chickens, the ones that were usually well-behaved and went about their day like respectable farm animals had decided that today was the day they lost their damn minds.

Feathers were flying. Squawks filled the air like some kind of horror movie sound effect. And smack in the middle of it all?

Rose.

Standing on a feed bucket, arms flailing, eyes wide with terror.

“They know!” she shrieked the second she saw me. “They know what I did!”

I blinked. “What—”

“I ate eggs the eggs I gathered this morning! And now they know!”

I almost dropped my coffee. “Rose, they don’t—”

“They’re attacking me, Wells!” she yelled, pointing an accusing finger at the flock of enraged birds surrounding her makeshift perch. “They’re coming for vengeance!”