Catching Hearts

I woke up with my legs tangled up in my sheets. I couldn’t remember dreaming anything, but I guess it must have been a wild dream to make me have to forcibly extricate myself from my bedding. It could have been anything from a scary dream to one that was…erm…suggestive, for lack of a better word to describe it.

Once I was free of my blankets, I stretched and yawned, standing up and going to gather a change of clothes from my closet - a pair of jeans and a tank top (not to mention the undergarments) - before heading to my bathroom. I got ready to start the shower, then I paused, remembering that I was supposed to have a house guest. I went to my door and gently opened it, peeking out. The lights were still out - I glanced at my clock to see it was only about six thirty in the morning - and so I gingerly slid one foot out of my room. I crept to the couch, but I had heard what I was listening for long before I had reached it. Snoring.

Oliver lay spread-eagle across my lumpy sofa, mouth hanging slightly open and blankets dangling half on and half off. Since he was just wearing his jeans, I caught a glimpse of his absolutely perfect abs, and smiled softly. I had an urge to trace my finger across his chest playfully, but I caught my hand before I could and snuck back to my room. I still needed that shower, and while he was sound asleep was the perfect time for me to take it.

*

I was out of the shower twenty minutes later, letting my hair air dry after I had brushed it and stepping back out of my room. Oliver had barely shifted on the couch, so I walked past him into my kitchen and started breakfast. By now, it was about seven in the morning - a perfect time to be getting up, or getting ready to be woken up, as the case may be. If he didn’t wake up by seven thirty, I was going to forcefully prod him awake so he could eat. I was making pancakes, and I was a little better at them than I was at my eggs, which were just edible.

“Flour,” I said softly to myself, taking my ingredients out. I made pancakes from scratch every time, using my mother’s recipe for them.

Ten minutes later and I had the batter ready when a sleepy Oliver stepped into the room.

“Maddy…?” he said, the word slightly broken by his yawn at the end. I looked at him and giggled. His bed head was cute.

“Yeah?” I asked, turning back to pouring some batter onto my griddle to cook.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m cooking breakfast, Mum,” I told him, slightly mockingly - thought it was playfully mocking. “What about you, sleepyhead? How many pancakes do you want?”

“I’m not your mum,” Oliver rolled his tired eyes and, seeming to decide that I wouldn’t collapse, did so himself in one of my kitchen chairs. “And I don’t care. Just whatever.”

I laughed softly at the state of disarray my boyfriend seemed to be in the morning. It might sound unattractive, but it was really quite cute how flustered and exhausted he was when he first woke up. Though it couldn’t have been a good night’s sleep, laying on the lumpy, uncomfortable couch all night.

After I finished, we both ended up with three pancakes on a plate. I sat the syrup, powdered sugar, brown sugar, and butter on the table.

“I don’t know what you like on your pancakes,” I told him after I had prodded him back awake - he’d been dozing on my kitchen table, “so there’s a few choices. If you like peanut butter or jam, I can go grab some.”

“This is fine,” he shook his head, sprinkling just a teaspoon of powdered sugar over his pancakes and then putting syrup on top. He took a bite and paused before grinning and saying, “These are good! I thought you said you couldn’t cook?”

“I never said I couldn’t,” I retorted defensively. “I just said that I didn’t cook very well.”

He snorted, and I kind of grinned, shaking my head, as I helped myself to some butter, brown sugar, and syrup. I had a major sweet tooth this morning.

“So what are you planning on doing today?” he asked me a little later, as we just sat talking over coffee, empty plates forgotten on the table.

“Whatever you think is restful,” I said sarcastically, but I grinned at him. “I need to go grocery shopping. Do you want to come and carry my bags?”

I was just kidding, fluttering my eyelashes at him girlishly. He realized this, but rolled his eyes and told me, “If you need to get groceries, let’s go and get it done while it’s nice out.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really,” he grinned kind of softly at me now, and I smiled, taking his offered hand and standing.

*

“Oliver Wood,” I teased as we were walking back from the store, Oliver carrying my three bags of groceries, “you are whipped.”

He made a few sounds of indignation, but I just laughed and continued leading the way.