Pancakes

When he wakes, she is gone. He glances, blearily, around the bedroom, taking in the surroundings. It is not his bedroom, he knows. It is hers, and as he remembers what that means he hears her humming from down the hall. He rises from the bed and sees a pile of clothing on the floor - half hers, and half his. It brings a smile to his face, the sight of his shirt on top of hers, his pants abandoned with hers.

‘Teresa?’ he calls as he pulls on his pants.

‘In the kitchen!’ is her reply.
He finds her stood at the sideboard, roughly measuring ingredients into a bowl. She is wearing little more than sweats and a tee-shirt and it is all he can do to stop himself wrapping his arms around her and kissing her again.

‘Morning,’ he says instead, leaning on the counter next to her.

‘Morning, Jane,’ she replies, with a smile.

He raises an eyebrow. ‘Jane?’ he says. ‘After last night, you’re gonna go with Jane?’

‘Okay, good morning, Patrick,’ she says, putting an extra sarcastic emphasis on his name.
He smiles and watches as she pours milk into the bowl and begins to stir.

‘Whatcha making?’ he asks.

‘Pancakes,’ she replies. ’I’m told that’s what you’re supposed to make for breakfast the morning after.’

He can’t help it any more; her smile gets the better of him and he moves closer to her, sliding his arms round her waist and pulling her closer.

‘Patrick,’ she whispers. ‘I’m trying to make you breakfast.’

‘Breakfast can wait,’ he says, and leans in to kiss her. Her lips are soft and she tastes faintly of cinnamon and toothpaste. He feels her relax in his arms as she kisses him back, and her fingers dig in to the waistband of his pants.

‘Maybe,’ she breathes teasingly into his ear, ‘we should go back to bed.’

He lets her take his hand and lead him back down the hall.