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“You don’t have to get up with me ev’ry day, babe,” Jamie insists, his honesty doubted when he rests his chin against your shoulder.
“I don’t mind. I miss you when you’re gone.” You shrug, trying your best to keep the motion identifiable but unbothersome for the man gnawing at your skin. You laugh at him, shimmying your shoulders to get him away. “Jamie, what are you doing?”
“Y’smell good,” he hums.
“It’s the batter,” you say. Jamie disagrees. “Can you get some butter, please?”
Jamie raises a brow and looks over to your hands, busy with the flour. Clumpy yellow bubbles trap more white into sticky goo. “More, love?”
“Yeah.” You wrinkle your nose, scraping gross residue off your index before sticking it back inside the mix. “I don’t think I used it right. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to melt it?”
“What’d the recipe say?” Jamie asks, opening the fridge.
“Soften. But there are different levels of soft, right?” You grimace at your concoction, but take your free hand and wrap it around the stick of butter he hands you.
He watches you settle into your position, microwave ignored. “What’re you doin’?”
“Softening,” you murmur, concentrating on your mixture.
“Don’t ya think we’ve advanced a little further than that as humanity?”
“You’d think, huh?” Your fingers squeeze a little tighter.
He stares at the jutted bottom lip, the little lines between your brows, and decides you must be right. With only a chunk of your attention, you’re trying to figure out a way to rush heat into the stick of butter through your palm. He bites his lip. “We have mix,” he offers.
Your head swivels toward him, features scandalized. “I’m doing good!” you defend.
“I know,” he says. “You’re doing great, I can see that.”
“I wanted to make them from scratch. With love.”
“You are.”
“They’re easy,” you insist, turning back to your task with a distressed look on your face. You squeeze the butter a little harder, the wet noises of your mixing speeding up. The butter’s wrapped ends crinkle. “It just needs more butter.”
Very suddenly, you drop the bar inside the bowl, holding its greasy wrapper between your middle and index. Jamie winces as it plops in, some of the mix drooling onto the counter.
Nodding happily, you shove both hands inside the too-small bowl and look at him over your shoulder with a grin. “See?” You wince when your nails glide into the cold middle, recovering quickly in a facade of surety.
He nods, eyebrows uneven in light concern, but encourages you anyway, trying not to shudder at the sound before you decide you’re finished and begin pouring it onto a hot pan already smeared with more butter.
It’s both too runny and too thick, creating a wavy circle in the center of your pan. You frown at it, looking at your batter again. “Jamie?”
“Yeah?”
“That doesn’t look very right, does it?”
Jamie loops an arm around your waist and presses a noisy kiss to your cheek. “I like it. Like a flower.”
“A wobbly flower,” you comment, leaning toward it, “that’s not bubbling.”
“I don’t think they’re supposed to bubble, love.”
“Inverse bubbling,” you explain. “Nothing is happening, is it on?”
Jamie turns the knob very gently, satisfied when it rotates easily. “Yeah. Give it a second.”
“It’s not doing the thing!” you exclaim, grabbing the spatula and flipping it too early. Jamie watches as it splatters part of the stove and streaks a thin line across the counter. He breathes in, about to say something, and decides against it.
“It’s bubbling,” you say optimistically, sheepish at its ends.
You’re correct. Thin, popped-bubble circles peek out from the edges of the lump-petals. “Huh,” Jamie says inquisitively, leaning in. “That’s interestin’.”
Your brows knit. “I think that’s good.”
Jamie is inclined to disagree, but he refuses to.
“It’s browning really quickly,” you observe, turning it over. It’s splotchy, but it should be fully cooked. You plop it on a plate, lips pinching and face struggling to stay proud.
“It smells edible. Could even say good,” Jamie comforts.
“It’s the bacon.” You say solemnly, poking at it with your spatula, its sizzling soft and barely beginning.
“No,” he says stubbornly, edged hair poking the curve of your arm.
You pluck a fork from your cupboard and cut a neat square of pancake, popping it into your mouth. Jamie watches you chew amusedly, raising an eyebrow when you look down at your flapjack forlornly, a defeated realization on your face.
“What’s wrong, babe?”
You swallow solemnly, meeting his eyes. “I forgot the sugar.”
Jamie inhales, the air stuttering in his throat before shifting into a laugh. You look so sad, and he wraps you up in his arms, kissing your temple through soft laughter. You slump into his chest.
“It was not good,” you admit. “It was really gross.”
“I love ya,” he tells you, still chuckling. “You—” he snorts, “You’re great, you know that?”
“This is awful, Jamie,” you moan, making him laugh harder against the crown of your hair.
“It’s not,” Jamie insists. “We still have the bacon.” He giggles and you watch him, pointy strands of hair prodding his cheekbones.
“Where’s your headband?” you ask, lowering the heat on the stove to turn to the man next to you. You cup a side of his jaw with your hand and pull hair away from his face with a frown.
“Broken.” He mimics your motions, both of his hands flat against your cheeks and squeezing with a careful mischief.
Breakfast failure forgotten, you huff, dropping your fingers to circle around his wrist and pulling him to your bathroom. You lead him inside and push his shoulders to sit him down. He watches as you pull little boxes out of the cabinet, hooking an index inside and pulling out random colors of bands, big and small.
You find a yellow-lined one that seems appropriate and turn to him again. “This should fit even you and your big head,” you murmur affectionately, gently combing his hair back to tug it on. He shuts his eyes when you drag it over his face, pinkies keeping it from brushing against even the highest of his pretty features. You use your index to fix his sliced brow, marriage fixing the band to fit his face. You drop a sweet kiss at his hairline, wiping it away as if it left a mark. “Perfect.”
“Thank you,” he says very quietly, light eyes constellating along your pinched lashes and pursed lips.
“I don’t know what you keep doing to these,” you scold playfully, slipping two others, a glittery blue one and a speckled pink, out of your tray to hand to him.
“Me big head,” he reasons, the left edge of his lips quirking up at your laugh.
“Probably,” you say.
He stares at you for nearly a second before realizing he has no reason to hold back, the heat of his palms grazing your ears when he kisses you.
You hum, delighted, and hook your arms around his waist. “Jamie,” you murmur, nudging his nose with yours.
He laughs against you, pulling away to see your confusion. “You taste like batter.”
You grimace. “Not very good?”
"You always taste good," he rebuts easily, stealing another kiss. He smiles at you when he pulls away, that wonderfully insolent lid to his eyes. You are putty in his hands. He knows this too well.
You twirl a blond strand of his hair around your finger. “Did you use that hair mask I got you?”
“A li’l while ago. Worked great.” He presses his lips against the hard hill of your cheek.
“You’re supposed to use it regularly.”
“Can you do it?”
“Right now? You don’t have enough time, babe.”
“Then when I come home.”
“Sure. We can use those cucumber things I’ve been meaning to try out, too.”
“Can’t wait,” he tells you, crushing you in a sudden hug. You laugh in surprise, going limp in his arms.
“What has gotten into you?” you ask, wriggling in his hold when he presses open-mouthed kisses to the thin skin of your neck.
“I can’t touch ya now?” he teases, a cruel finger digging into your ribs. You squeal, twisting away from him. He only catches your cheek, biting above your jaw with just enough pressure to sting.
“When has that ever happened?” you challenge, turning your face to finally catch his lips.
“Does right now count?” he asks against your mouth, diving back in to press a harsh kiss to your bottom lip.
“Right now is not an example,” you laugh, quiet. His palm smooths over your cheek.
“Agree to disagree,” he offers with one last kiss. “‘Cuz I like ya.”
You snort, pushing him away. He doesn’t let you, dragging his hands down to your waist and keeping them there. “I’m honored.”
He shakes hair away from his eyes, giving up when it does little. You raise an index finger to do it for him when the fire alarm shriekingly cuts in. It bumps harmlessly against the rise of his eyebrow, landing very sorrowfully in sorry circles on his temple when you and he flinch.
You turn your face away from him and toward the door. It only takes you a moment to realize what is going on, the smell of burnt bacon sudden and harsh.
“Fuck,” you say, scrambling to the kitchen.
Your breakfast is but a dark chunk of coal when you arrive, plumes of smoke gathering at the ceiling like a flipped waterfall. You turn off the stove and wince at your tragedy while Jamie shuts off the alarm and opens the doors, pulling you away from the worst of the fog after too long of your lingering.
“You’ll inhale smoke,” he warns.
“It's the only edible part of our breakfast,” you say mournfully.
“Not anymore.”
You snort and lean against him, pouting at your little garden still clothed in the residue of pale moonlight. The flowers haven’t even opened their petals yet. “I’m sorry you won’t get bacon for breakfast today. Or flapjacks.”
“S’okay.” Jamie shrugs, genuine pleasantry leaning delight. “I’m distractin’. You got distracted.”
“So did you,” you oppose.
“You’re distractin’ too.” He grins at you, dropping a swift kiss along your forehead.
“I’ll drop you something off today,” you amend.
“You don’t hav’ta do that, love.”
“I want to. I’ll go to that cafe and get you one of those sandwiches you like. And cookies.” Your smile goes gooey. “Maybe a cinnamon roll.”
Jamie raises an amused eyebrow. “Alright, then.”
You inhale deeply, face contorting at the smoky vignette it comes with. “Do you think the smoke went up to our room?”
“Probably. Stay out here for a little after I leave.”
You moan at the stars. “It’s like five AM. It’s cold out here.”
A loud noise erupts from the opposite end of the house; Roy has arrived.
“He’s earlier than usual,” Jamie muses.
“Give him some of the leftover eggs,” you urge. “And apologize.”
Jamie stares at you quizzically. “Why would I do that?”
“Because I told him I’d send breakfast today and because none of it is fit for human consumption, I’m sending something we bought yesterday.”
“You talk about my breakfast with Roy Kent?” Jamie sputters.
You glare at him, rushing inside to collect the container. “I feel as though you’ve missed the point.” The smoke that continues to linger rushes hatefully into your throat. “Not your breakfast. His breakfast.”
“What? Why?” Jamie asks no one, staring at the little case of eggs you shove into his hands.
“Because I thought it would be nice for him to have one.” You give his dazed face his goodbye kiss before opening the door. Roy stands in your doorway, clearly impatient. He gives you a tight smile.
“Hello.” You smile, some smoke rippling from behind you.
“Hello,” Roy says, slanting two fingers in greeting. He watches the plumes swirl around you with an upturned bushy eyebrow.
You wave it away. “Sorry, we had a little incident.”
You shove Jamie out the door. Roy watches him stumble beside him. “No rush.”
Jamie turns to him, nose wrinkling. “Right. The poundin’ of the door really says that.”
Roy rolls his eyes. “You haven’t seen me impatient, Tartt.”
“Will I?” Jamie dares, glancing at you. “By the way—totally unrelated—lovely, lovely y/n’s sent you some breakfast today.”
Roy follows his line of sight and growls. “No,” he answers.
Jamie steps closer to you with a cheeky smile and kisses you goodbye. “Love ya.”
“I love you too. Have fun. Be nice,” you tell him.
“Tell that to Kent!”
“I’m nice,” Roy grunts. “I’m like a fucking golden retriever.”
“I can see that,” you nod supportively.
Roy juts a thumb toward you.
Jamie shakes his head, lips parted. “I don’t like this.”
“And I don’t fuckin’ care,” Roy buts in. “Let’s go.” He ducks his chin at you respectfully. “Y/n.”
You mimic his motion. “Roy.”
Jamie looks between you two, an index gesturing lazily. "Stop that."
“How about you stop blabberin’ and start runnin’?”
“I’ll see you later, Jamie,” you assure, pulling him in for one last kiss. “I recommend you run, babe.”
“Me too,” Roy barks, a few steps away. “Babe.”