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It was no secret that Spot was an early bird, and Race absolutely was not. Race was inclined to sleep into the late morning, and even once he’d awoken, to lie in bed on his phone until he absolutely had to move. And Spot, in contrast, tended to wake soon after the sun did, writing at his desk while the sun still streamed through the windows in all its fantastical charm.
They had a deal, for Sundays, though. They didn’t get out of bed until at least ten, but normally noon, and then Race would make far too many pancakes that they’d eat far too quickly.
Sundays, as it happens, had turned into Spot’s favorite days.
He woke up to Race rolling on top of him, which wasn’t a foreign occurrence. He’d awoken several times to Race sprawled across his body, which couldn’t have been entirely comfortable for either of them considering the fact that Spot usually slept on his side, but it happened. Race’s curls brushed the underside of his chin, soft and wild.
Spot brushed a hand through them and reached for his phone with the other. The clock read 11:24 a.m.
He set his phone back down, shifting to wrap Race in his arms, but a short groan escaped his husband and he huffed, “Babydoll, stop fucking moving.”
Spot laughed hoarsely, making long sweeps across his spine. “Sorry, bubba.”
“Wha’ time’s it?” He mumbles, blinking his gorgeous blue eyes.
“Eleven twenty-four.”
“Ick, too early.” Race groans. He hides his face in Spot’s neck and sighs. “Mornings are so gross.”
Spot cocks a brow and slides a hand beneath Race’s shirt. “You want me to make it worth your while?” He whispers.
Race’s eyes open. Meet Spot’s knowingly. “Aren’t you cheeky today,” he laughs.
Spot flips them over at the speed of light, grinning when Race yelps. “Honestly, love, you should be used to it by now.”
Race shrugged and giggled, running his hands through Spot’s dark, curling bedhead. “Marriage changes a person.”
“Oh, is that it?” Spot laughed, scraping his teeth across Race’s collarbones.
Race gasped, fisted his hands in Spot’s curls, arched his back. “You win.” He groaned desperately. “You win, Sean, you win.”
Spot grinned. “How rare.” He teased, and then tore the shirt from his torso and lowered himself across his husband.
—
Spot kissed Race’s chest softly, eyes fluttering, and murmured, “Jesus, I’m starving.”
Race’s legs slid across the bedsheets, falling from where they’d been bent at an angle. “Ain’t that romantic.” He giggled, turning to rest his head on Spot’s chest.
Spot grinned tiredly. “I love you. Pancakes?”
“I love you too. Pancakes.” Race agreed, sitting up and shrugging on some underwear, along with Spot’s sweatshirt. Spot watches him leave the room, eyes trained on his perfect ass, and then leaps out of bed and tugs on his own sweatpants. The telltale sounds of Race rifling through the kitchen sound out through the apartment.
He waddled sleepily into the kitchen, grinning at the sight of Race bent over the stove. “I love your ass, you know that?” Spot giggled.
Race turned and cocked a brow. “That why you married me?”
Spot nods. “The only reason.”
“Intimate.”
He giggles and wraps his arms around Race’s waist, pulling him close. He plants a sweet kiss on Race’s cheek.
“I’ll never get over how secretly domestic you are, babydoll.” Race laughed. “It’s night and day.”
“Everyone has a weakness.” Spot grinned. “You just happen to be mine.”
Race kissed him. “I hope that’s a good thing.”
“Very.” Spot assured, rubbing circles into Race’s hipbone with his thumb. “I think your butter is burning.”
“Is that a euphemism?” Race giggled, running a hand through Spot’s hair. Jesus, Spot loved when he did that.
“No, half-wit, it’s literal.”
“And there goes the domesticity!” Race turned, still in the circle of Spot’s arm, and poured batter onto the sizzling pan.
Spot kissed the back of his neck, the top knob of his spine, down his back through the sweatshirt until he reached the elastic of his boxers.
Spot sat down quietly, twining one hand with Race’s. “I love you so very much.”
Race smiled and turned his head to look at Spot over his shoulder. “Make up your mind, babe.” He laughed, leaning over to kiss him softly and turning back to his pancakes.
Spot cocked a brow. “About loving you?”
“About being domestic.”
Spot burst into laughter, tilting his head back, feeling the soft stream of sunlight beam through the window above the sink.
“My decision is that I adore you, Higgins, and that’s all there is to it.” Spot said simply, running his thumb over Race’s knuckles.
Race looked at him, a flush high of his gold cheeks, and smiled. “If this is what morning sex does to you, it’s happening every day.” He said, casually flipping a pancake.
Spot rolled his eyes. “You, Antonio Higgins, are a jackass.”
Race smirked. “Have I mentioned night and day, yet?”
“You might have said something.”
Race just grinned and flipped the pancakes. The sun continued to shine through the windows, rising higher and lazier with each moment that passed. Race was humming quietly to himself, not their song but a song, something from some Broadway show. It was... perfect, to say the least of it.
Race set a heaping plate of hot cakes on the table and sat at the chair beside Spot. They made and ate their breakfasts in easy, sunshine-filled silence, hands entwined on the tabletop.
“I love you.” Race said finally.
Spot smiled. Some people thought saying “I love you” too much lost its meaning. Spot had too, once. But Race never had, and Race’s “I love you”s had saved his life. So it couldn’t possibly lose its meaning. Rather, it meant more each time.
Spot grinned.
“I love you too.”