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"Your turn for the mug choice," Blaze declares, steam fogging up the glasses perched on his nose. A remnant of late-night coding sessions, they give him a scholarly edge that belies his rebel exterior.
"Let's go with the one from the thrift shop—the ugly one with the cats," I say.
"Perfect." He grins, and there's that flash of mischief I fell for—one year ago, one year strong.
Pouring the coffee, he hands me the mug, fingers lingering on mine. "Got plans today? More beach shoots?"
"Maybe." I take a sip, the bitter liquid grounding me. "If the waves play nice."
He leans back against the opposite counter, savoring his own cup. "Take your time. I'll be here when you get back."
"Promise?" It's playful, yet there's an undercurrent of need threaded through the word—a need for constancy in a world that often feels like it's built on sand.
"Always." His affirmation is a vow, etched in the morning light that turns his eyes into pools of promise.
"Your turn for a shower," I tell him, setting aside the empty mug. There's something thrilling about watching him strip down to nothing, revealing all the secret places ink has claimed.
"Join me?" The question is a low growl, an invitation to erase the boundaries of self and become one entity under the cascade of water.
"Thought you'd never ask." Desire coils within me, tightening with each step we take back towards the bedroom, towards what we've created—chaotic, imperfect, ours.
Our routine isn't clockwork; it's the pulse of two hearts learning to beat as one.
Because Blaze is my other half.
* * *
Blaze
The scent of sizzling bacon tangles with the sweet aroma of maple syrup, an olfactory symphony that signals a morning in full bloom. I stand at the stove, a spatula in hand, lost in the rhythm of flipping pancakes. Nova is beside me, her blond hair pulled into a messy bun as she carefully arranges slices of fresh strawberry and banana onto plates, her delicate tattoos peeking out from under the cuffs of my oversized shirt she's claimed as her own.
"Perfection takes patience," she chides gently, watching me nudge a pancake back and forth, seeking that golden-brown hue.
"Patience I have," I murmur, "especially when it comes to you." My gaze sweeps over her, settling on the curve of her hip where my shirt rides up, revealing just enough skin to make me want to abandon breakfast altogether.
"Keep your eyes on the food, chef," she laughs, the sound light and airy, yet it anchors me more firmly than any promise could.
"Can't help it," I admit, flipping the last pancake onto the stack with practiced ease. "You're more appetizing than anything I could cook."
"Flatterer." Her cheeks color with a blush that matches the strawberries. "Save it for the food critics."
"Already got one five-star review," I counter, grinning as I recall the countless meals we've shared, each one a testament to our growing life together.
"Make it two," a familiar voice interjects, and we both turn toward the doorway where Dylan stands, his athletic frame leaning casually against the frame. His presence is as natural in our home as the furniture we picked out together, an integral piece of our unconventional family portrait.
"Morning," he greets, sauntering in, the smell of the ocean clinging to him like a second skin. "Smells like heaven in here."
"Or just Blaze's attempt at domestication," Nova teases, handing him a plate piled high with breakfast. The camaraderie between them is effortless, a dance of siblings who've weathered storms and emerged closer, stronger.
"Hey, I'm tamed. Mostly," I protest, loading my plate and joining them at the table. "And what about you? How many waves did you conquer today?"
"Enough to keep the legend alive," Dylan quips, taking a generous bite of pancake before licking syrup off his fingers. The sight is oddly comforting, a reminder of all the mornings we've spent in this easy companionship.
"Man versus nature. The eternal struggle," I say, raising my mug in a mock toast.
"More like man versus hangover," Nova interjects with a smirk, nudging her brother with her foot under the table. "Someone had a late night."
"Guilty as charged," he admits without a hint of remorse, his eyes twinkling with the remnants of last night's revelry.
