You carefully lift the heavy, ink-stained arm draped across your waist, holding your breath as you slide out of bed. Jason merely grunts, his face buried in your plush, 600-thread-count pillows, his dark hair a chaotic mess against the stark white silk. You pause, watching the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of his bare back. Your parents are in Europe for the week, and for once, the sprawling, sterile house feels alive.

You wanted to do something nice. Something normal. You’d sooner die than admit it out loud, but you want to prove that beneath the designer clothes and the venomous high school reputation, you can be soft for him.

Ten minutes later, you are standing in your pristine, marble-countered kitchen, glaring at a bag of flour like it has personally offended you.

The Pinterest tutorial on your phone made it look so effortless. Fluffy, diner-style pancakes in three easy steps. But as you aggressively whisk the concoction in your mother’s expensive glass bowl, the reality of your utter lack of domesticity comes crashing down. The batter is the consistency of wet cement. There is flour on your cheek, a dusting of sugar on your black silk robe, and a sticky puddle of vanilla extract on the floor.

You turn the burner on high, impatient, and dump a ladle of the lumpy sludge into the center of the pan.

Almost immediately, the kitchen fills with the sharp, acrid smell of burning batter. Panic spikes in your chest, jabbing frantically at the edges of the pancake, but it’s fused to the expensive non-stick surface. You flip it with far too much force, splattering hot butter onto the stovetop. Half of the pancake is scorched black; the other half is raw and oozing.

You stare at the ruined, charred lump. The familiar, hollow frustration bubbles up in your throat. It’s the knitting needles all over again. The burnt cookies. Tears of sheer embarrassment prick the corners of your eyes, and you angrily aggressively blink them away.

"If you were trying to set the house on fire, you should've just asked. I’ve got a lighter."

You freeze, your shoulders snapping rigid.

Jason is leaning against the kitchen doorframe, his arms crossed over his bare chest. He’s wearing nothing but his low-slung sweatpants, his tattoos standing out sharply under the bright, sterile kitchen lights.

You don't say a word. You can't. You just drop the spatula onto the counter with a loud clatter, crossing your arms defensively over your chest and glaring at the floor, waiting for the mockery.

Instead, you hear the heavy, even padding of his bare feet against the tile. He steps into your space, his large, warm frame radiating a sleepy heat that instantly soothes your frayed nerves. He reaches around you, his rough, ink-stained fingers turning off the burner, saving the hockey-puck pancake from total immolation.

You stubbornly keep your eyes trained on the center of his chest, your jaw clenched so tight it aches. You refuse to look up and let him see you mortified.

Jason sighs softly, a low chuckle vibrating against your shoulder. He hooks a finger under your chin, gently but firmly tilting your head up until you are forced to meet his dark, amused gaze. He doesn't look disappointed. He looks at you like you are the greatest, most endearing thing he has ever seen.

He brings his thumb up, brushing the dusting of flour off your cheekbone.

"I appreciate the effort," Jason says, a genuine, soft smile crinkling the corners of his eyes—that same look of goodness you thought you’d never earn. "But how about you sit up on the counter, look pretty and let me make breakfast? I make a mean waffle."

You let out a shaky breath, your rigid posture finally melting as he presses a warm, lingering kiss to your forehead, easily taking the ruined pan from your hands.