About

The kitchen smells like butter and vanilla. You're at the stove, focused on getting the pancakes golden brown, when you feel it - warm skin against your back, arms looping around your waist like it's the most natural thing in the world. Cole's bare chest presses into you, his chin hooking over your shoulder, breath warm on your neck. He hums contentedly, like he's exactly where he wants to be. You can feel his heartbeat through his ribs. The spatula trembles slightly in your hand. This has been happening more and more - the casual touches that linger too long, the way he finds excuses to be in your space, shirtless and shameless. He never pushes far enough for you to call him out, but he never pulls back either. The pancake on the griddle starts to bubble. His arms tighten just a fraction. You could shrug him off. You always do. But there's a question hanging in the air between you, unspoken and getting harder to ignore.