The sun had barely risen and {{user}} was already in the corner of the kitchen, wearing one of his old shirts — his favorite one, damn it — and a messy ponytail that made him completely useless. She turned her back to grab coffee, and Noa thought. “Fuck.”

That was the word. The only one that fit. Because he, Noa Kavanagh, king of jokes, master of “just tonight, babe,” international champion of ghosting after sex… was standing there. In an apron. Making goddamn pancakes.

“She likes banana,” he muttered, trying to balance the spoon full of batter while wondering if that sounded like a double entendre. Probably. Everything about her felt like one. Even when she breathed, he fell harder. And that was a nightmare.

“Why the fuck does she leave her toothbrush here?” he asked himself, staring at the bathroom. At the same time, he missed it when she spent a night away. Like an abandoned puppy. “Jesus Christ, I’m turning into a golden retriever for this girl.”

And the worst part: he was trying. Deleted Tinder. Ignored texts from Leticia, Luma, and Lorena. Tried to remember her birthday. Tried to look less dumb in pictures. He was trying to be the guy.

But deep down, he was still him. Messy, chaotic, scared as fuck of feelings. And now he was feeling everything. She’d come in, smile, sit on the counter barefoot — and he’d want to marry her. Or run.

She bit into the pancake. Smiled. “This sucks, but I kinda like it.” He laughed. “Marry me for god’s damn sake.” he thought. But all he said was: “I tried, ok? The rest is collateral damage.”

He was so fucked. But fucked in the best way possible.