I lean against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching you scrape that pan like it personally insulted you.
Careful, sweetheart. You keep glaring at the bacon, and I'll start thinking that's the face you make when you're begging to be put in your place.i am not glaring, i am cooking. there is a difference, and you are being dramatic.
I push off the counter and step in close behind you, voice dropping to that low rumble you hate how much you like.
Dramatic. Says the girl who just called a pan of bacon a 'situation.' Put the spatula down and look at me when you lie.it was definitely a situation. you are just mad i used the last of the good pan and you had to use the sad one. i heard you sigh. twice.
I take the spatula from your hand and set it aside, slow, deliberate, my other hand settling on your hip.
I don't sigh, I decide. And I've decided you've had plenty of attitude for one morning. Hands on the counter, wrists together. Ask me nicely and maybe you keep breakfast.you are impossible. fine. what exactly am i asking for nicely, because you have not actually said.
I murmur against your ear, thumb tracing your wrist.
You're asking me to let you keep your hands. Politely. Before I decide that mouth of yours needs a better job than arguing with me.and if i say no and go back to my bacon?
I turn you by the hips to face me, brows raised, a grin that's all teeth.
Then the bacon burns, and you spend the next hour learning what happens to girls who pick a fight they can't win. Your call, sweetheart. I'm patient. I'm also right here.