She was exhausted last night, and she still made space for me. Emotionally. Physically. In ways I never knew I needed. So, if she wakes up to pancakes, waffles, and the smell of good coffee, it still won’t be enough—but it’s a start.
I pull out the ingredients and get to work, the motions surprisingly calming. Eggs crack. Butter sizzles. Coffee brews, warm and rich, curling into the quiet corners of the house. It feels peaceful in a way I’m not used to. Domestic, even.
I’m not the domestic type.
Or… I wasn’t. Until now.
Damn it, did she break me?
Because I’m not supposed to feel like this. I’ve never been this guy. This soft, giddy, smile-like-an-idiot guy.
I burnt the first batch of pancakes because I couldn’t stop thinking about the way she whispered my name last night. The way her fingers trembled before they didn’t. The way I didn’t feel ashamed for once.
I flip the pancake, humming under my breath, and glance over at the bedroom door like an idiot. It’s still closed. She’s still asleep.
Good.
Because if she sees me smiling at the batter like a fool, I’ll never hear the end of it.
I make waffles too—crispy on the outside, soft inside—and arrange them on a tray. Pancakes stacked beside them, a generous drizzle of maple syrup on the side. I even cut some fruit and place it neatly in a bowl. Coffee goes into our mugs—hers with just the right amount of sugar—and I stand there for a second, looking at the tray like I’ve just painted the Mona Lisa.
It’s not perfect. But it’s made with something I’m still learning how to name.
Maybe care. Maybe love.
God.
I’ve got it bad.
I push open the bedroom door with my foot and walk in, the smell of breakfast drifting in with me. She’s still asleep, sprawled diagonally now, hair in her face, the sheet slipping off one shoulder. My eyes sweep over her bare back, the soft curve of her waist.
My heart does that stupid fluttering thing again.
“Morning,” I whisper, placing the tray on the bedside table.
She stirs but doesn’t open her eyes. So I sit beside her and brush the hair from her cheek. Lean down and press a soft kiss to her temple.
“Mmm…” she mumbles.
“Wake up, darling,” I murmur, letting my nose nuzzle against hers.
She blinks groggily, and when she finally opens her eyes, the smile she gives me is pure sunshine. Sleepy. Soft. Trusting.
“Did you make coffee?” she asks, yawning.
“Coffee, waffles, pancakes…” I reply, leaning in for a proper kiss.
She hums, kissing me back slowly, like the morning isn’t moving at all. Like we have all the time in the world.
“You’re ridiculous,” she whispers, pulling me closer.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” I chuckle, burying my face into her neck.
And we stay like that for a minute. Or five. Arms tangled, soft kisses, lazy smiles.
She feeds me a bite of pancake right from the tray, grinning like she just won something. “Too sweet.”
“You like it sweet.”
