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“Aha!” Kipp cries triumphantly. “You’re awake.”
“What do you want, brat?” I ask, peeling an eye open.
Kipp is sitting on the bed next to me, dressed and ready for work. He gives me a grin. “I made you breakfast.”
“You did?” I ask, not having expected that.
He nods, grin widening. He looks so damn proud of himself that my chest swells about two sizes bigger. “You mentioned taking care of each other,” he says. “When, uh, we were in the shower.”
Oh, I remember. Based on Kipp’s sudden blush, so does he.
“And, anyways, I liked that,” he goes on. “I want to do nice things for you, too, to show you how much I appreciate you taking me in like a stray dog.”
“You’re not a stray dog,” I say with a chuckle, sitting up.
“Well, no,” he agrees. “I don’t piss on you. Not that I want to piss on you. Christ, I don’t know why everyone thinks that.”
“Who’s everyone?” I ask a little warily.
He waves me off. “Breakfast isn’t much, but I make a mean pancake, if I do say so myself. I put blueberries in them because you seem to like being healthy or whatever. Which, solid choice, I guess. Have you seen you? And I ran into the market on the way home from my run to grab syrup. The good kind ’cause I swear to God, Teddy, for being Canadian, your choice in maple syrup is deplorable. What?”
I grab Kipp by the back of the neck and haul him in for a kiss. He makes a surprised noise but melts instantly, tasting of maple syrup and something uniquely him.
“What was that for?” he asks when I let him go.
For making me pancakes? For calling this home? For being so damn sweet it’s impossible to keep my walls up?
“Do I need a reason to kiss you?” I ask instead.
His smile is decadent. “No. Kiss me anytime. Very pro kissing.”
As if I could forget.
Kipp stands as I swing out of bed, his eyes dropping to my crotch. A groan follows. “Dude.”
I snort. “Not your dude.”
“Your dick is just right there, goddamn happy to see me, by the looks of it.”
I tug on a pair of briefs, and Kipp makes an unhappy sound.
“That’s oppression,” he says. “And suffocation. Can the poor guy even breathe?”
“You want to give him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation?” I ask, lips twitching. I pull on jeans next.
“Uh, yes,” Kipp says. “Obviously. But someone won’t let me. My husband is a cruel man.”
“Your husband wants to try your pancakes.”
“Oh, right!” he says, heading for the door. He pauses as I start to follow him. “You’re not going to put on a shirt? You know what? Never mind. Stupid question. In fact, I’ve heard eating in the nude is a really great—”
“Kipp.”
“Yep.”
I shake my head, smiling as Kipp walks ahead of me into the kitchen. He pulls out my chair, looking damn giddy as he does so. There’s one plate set out on the counter, a couple pancakes on top. They’re perfectly golden and dotted with blueberries having turned purple around the edges as they cooked.
“You’re not joining me?” I ask.
