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"Wake up, asshole."
"It's ten a.m. on a goddamn Saturday." K's voice was muffled by the pillow he'd pulled over his head to block out the midmorning sunshine streaming in through the windows. Sprawled on Ronan's bed, tangled in the sheets, he looked perfectly at home. "Someone better be dying."
Though his eyes rolled, Ronan slid onto the bed, straddling K's hips and gently easing the pillow away. "It's about you not dying, stupid."
A nod, sleepy-eyed and soft, and K breathed back, "Four months today."
"Figured you deserved waffles." Ronan said it as if it were nothing, shrugging tattooed shoulders, keenly aware of K's dark, half-lidded eyes following the movement. Then, carefully, he asked, "How's it feel?"
"Half-hard, actually."
Eyes rolling again, Ronan pressed calloused hands to K's shoulders, jostling him a bit. "Dick."
An ages old, devilish smirk came over K's face then, old and familiar and just a bit disconcerting. Even now, it sent a warm shiver crawling up Ronan's spine. "That's exactly what I was talking about."
"Asshole." Coming from Ronan, it sounded like a term of endearment. Leaning in, he pressed a soft kiss to K's lips, hands sliding up to his chest, feeling his heartbeat and trying desperately, futilely, to match them up. "C'mon. Breakfast's getting cold."
"Still can't believe you cook." Kavinsky didn't sound at all displeased, hands drifting up to Ronan's hips and pulling him close. "Domestic."
Nuzzling the curve of K's jaw, Ronan murmured against stubbled skin, "Couldn't let you do the cooking. You'd've burned the place down."
"Prob'ly on purpose," K agreed. "'M not a housewife."
"Sure." A kiss to K's throat, and Ronan pulled back, standing again, knowing full well that this time, K would follow. "Keep telling yourself that."
"'Course." When Ronan held a hand out to him, an offer of unneeded help, K accepted.