My face warms instantly. “Great. Thanks for the update.”
He smirks but doesn’t comment, just turns to fix something on the tray while I slip into his shirt. It’s soft, hanging loosely on me, and it smells like him. When I finally let the blanket fall, he glances over but quickly looks away, pretending to focus on the plates.
He hands me one: a plate with pancakes stacked neatly with sliced strawberries on top, drizzled with syrup and a side of scrambled eggs. Not just edible. Actually impressive with a cup of tea.
“I didn’t know you could cook,” I say, picking up a fork.
He doesn’t look fazed. “I live alone. What do you expect?”
“I can’t really cook,” I admit with a shrug. “Never really tried to learn that much.”
“I know.”
I pause mid-bite, one eyebrow lifting. “You do?”
“Justin
