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Hobie thinks he’s being funny when he hangs upside down with his feet flat on the ceiling, arms crossed and gaze expectant as you turn around and drop your toast at the sudden sight of him.
“That’s not funny,” you insist with a huff, bending down to pick your breakfast up. Five second rule – “What, is the floor too dirty for you?”
“Something like that,” Hobie replies, his face a deceptively blank slate.
You stick your tongue out at him. “Weirdo.”
“Social conformity is a prison.”
You stare at him as you eat your toast in quick, large bites, licking the crumbs and butter from your lips when you finish. He waits patiently, only raising an eyebrow when you take your second piece of toast out of the toaster and wave it at him.
“Want it?” you ask.
“Not particularly,” Hobie says. “Thinkin’ of having something else.”
“Oh? What?”
“I’ll tell you, but you have to come closer.” He untucks one hand to beckon you towards him.
Now it is your turn to raise an eyebrow. You draw closer, slowly, a warm thrill shooting up your spine as one corner of his pretty mouth tugs up (or is it down?).
When you’re about a foot away, you stop.
“This close enough?”
He hums thoughtfully. “Not quite.”
You shuffle nearer still. Six inches.
“Is it upside down coffee?”
“You’re half right.”
“Which half did I get wrong?”
Two inches. You can feel his breath on your lips.
“The coffee part,” Hobie says, before he closes the gap.
Your eyes slide shut as he kisses you, mouths soft against each other as he reaches down to cradle your face. You lift your free hand to trace your thumb down his jaw and over his cheekbone. He hums, a raspy, appreciative sound.
When the two of you part, he grins and pecks your lips. “Right, then,” he murmurs. “I’m all set.”
“You really should eat an actual breakfast,” you say, trying your hardest not to swoon. Your cheeks are hot and you scarf down your toast to distract yourself from it.
Hobie unsticks himself from the ceiling and somehow lands on his feet, then immediately goes to wrap his arms around you and rest his chin on your shoulder. “Toast is good, innit?”
“Oh, now you want some.”
As he shamelessly grabs a slice of bread and sticks it in the toaster, you lean against the counter and watch. Even here, casual and domestic, Hobie Brown is beautiful.
It’s only a few seconds before his eyes meet yours again. You bite the inside of your cheek, and he shoves his hands into his pockets.
“Want me on the ceiling again?” he questions.
“No.” Your hands snake their way around his waist. “Right here will do.”