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Summary
But this morning is different. He swears there’s even something different in the way Tom descends the stairs, a lazy drag to a step normally spry, and when he turns to look at him in the doorway next to the breakfast nook, he thinks at first he is sickly. But then he takes a single step towards him and spots the trace of a stupid grin on his face at the exact moment he smells the shift in the lad’s good, natural scent. His rut.
He grins, his brow cocked slyly. Shouldn’t be full on rutting yet, and it won’t do to skip breakfast. He turns back to the stove, taps the yolk with the edge of the spatula. Done enough.