You’re stretching on your tiptoes, fingers brushing the rim of a mug high up on the shelf and you don’t have to turn around to know Sam’s behind you. A second later, you feel the slow drag of his palm along your side, the lazy way his fingers settle just above your hip. Then his chin drops onto the top of your head. “You know, watching you try to reach that mug is the best part of my morning.”

You roll your eyes, already scowling. “You could help, you know.”

“I could,” he says, and you can hear the smirk in his voice. “But where’s the fun in that?” You turn, twisting in his hold to glare at him, but it backfires because now he’s looking down at you like you’re something delicate. His hand stays firm at your waist.

“I’m not that short,” you mutter.

“No. You’re not.” Your breath catches and just when you think he might close the space between you, when your heart starts to hammer like it knows what’s coming. He smirks. “But you’re still fun-sized.”

“Sam-” you start, about to shove him, or snap something back, or both, but he’s already moving. His mouth crashes into yours before you can finish the thought. The kiss is slow at first, teasing, but it deepens quickly like he’s been waiting for an excuse to do this. Like he’s wanted to all morning and finally stopped pretending otherwise. By the time he pulls back, your fingers are curled in the fabric of his shirt and your breathing’s uneven.

He doesn’t let go of your waist. Doesn’t step back. Just brushes his thumb along your side and tilts his head, studying your face. “Still mad at me pretty girl?” he asks, too damn pleased with himself.

You glare. “You’re lucky I love you.”

He grins, presses one last kiss to your temple, and rests his chin back on your head. “So lucky,” he murmurs and somehow, the tension doesn’t break. It just simmers there, quiet, waiting for the next excuse.