I pick up my phone, figuring now’s as good a time as any to look up therapists, and feel my smile shift up a gear as I see the picture I already set as my wallpaper. It’s one I took of her when I woke up and left her in my bed, snoring, stretched like a starfish across the mattress, illuminated by the faintest dawn light seeping through the curtains.
While the pumpkin pancakes sizzle in the pan, I set down my coffee, text Curtis to let him know I’m taking a personal day, then google therapists in the area. The sizzle’s a little louder than I want, so I turn down the heat.
And then I hear footsteps thundering down the stairs.
I freeze when I see Kate turn the corner into the kitchen, a mountain of sheets in her arms, her eyes red-rimmed.
A thousand explanations run through my head and none of them are good.
She deeply regrets sleeping with me.
To the point that she stripped the bed to destroy the evidence.
She thinks I’m some pervert because I begged her last night to smother me with her vulva.
Three times.
“Hey,” I say quietly. Walking toward her carefully, the way I do with Puck when he’s caught in the rain, wet and pissed, and is about to bolt under the porch.
She doesn’t hiss. Worse, she peers past me, gets one look at the pumpkin pancakes, and bursts into tears.
“Oh, Jesus.” I close the distance between us and tug her into my arms, bedsheets squished between us. “Kate, honey, why are you out of bed? And crying? What’s wrong?”
A sob jumps out of her. “Y-you’re perfect.”
“I’m not and you know it. In fact, you’re the one who generally reminds me otherwise. What’s got you talking like this?”
She wipes her nose with the back of her hand. “You gave me eight orgasms last night—”
“Ten, actually.”
“—and you big spooned me all night even though I know I’m a nightmare to share a bed with. I kick in my sleep. Then I woke up to a note to stay in bed because you were making me p-pumpkin pancakes”—her lip wobbles, and God, when she cries, I feel like someone’s cutting out my heart—“and what did I do? I smothered you with my vulva twice—no, thrice—last night and woke up with my blood all over your sheets.”
“Ahhh.” I pull back enough to wipe her tears beneath her eyes, before I tuck her snugly back in my arms. “So that’s what’s got you all weepy.”
“I’m not weepy,” she weeps. “I’m overwhelmed. Because you . . . you did my laundry. You made the most incredible love to me all night and made me breakfast this morning and did my laundry and I bled all over your sheets—”
“Kate.” I tug the sheets out of her arms and toss them over my shoulder. “First, fuck the sheets.”
“They’re Egyptian cotton,” she whispers hoarsely, as I rub her back and she wraps her arms around me, smooshing her cheek against my chest. “One thousand thread count. I checked the tag.”
“And I have more up in the closet. They’re replaceable.”
“According to a cursory internet search on my phone, their market value is three hundred dollars. I just bled over three-hundred-dollar sheets,” she mutters tearily.
I laugh into her hair, earning her narrow-eyed glare. “I’m sorry, Katydid. I’m not laughing at you.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I just haven’t seen this side of you in a long time. You’re generally either ice-cold or fiery pissed, and this sweet, emotional side of you is very precious to me.”
“I’m not precious,” she grumbles.
“You are the most precious. Now, listen to me. I loved giving you those orgasms, not to mention receiving every orgasm you gave me. And while your cuddling may be a bit . . . active, I slept better holding you than I have in a very long time.”
“You did?”
“I did,” I tell her softly, kissing her. “So stop worrying about what’s not perfect and focus on what is, Katerina. This. Right here.”
She sinks into me, kissing me back, her hands tangling in my hair. But then she pulls away suddenly and sniffs the air. “Hey. Is something burning?”
I glance over my shoulder and see the pumpkin pancakes smoking in the pan. “Shit!”
* * *
—
“Okay.” Walking down the sidewalk toward her apartment, I hand Kate a pumpkin muffin covered in cream cheese frosting, freshly unearthed from the Nanette’s pastry box. “Pumpkin-based breakfast, take two.”