Butt-Kick Pancakes

I wake up.  For a luxurious two seconds, I'm back to the world where Ryan isn't the only other person on Earth.

But as soon as the smell of something burning hits my nose and I remember he's in my house, I'm up and out of bed.  I rush down the stairs, nearly falling and skipping the last four steps completely.

Ryan looks pretty calm when I run into him at the kitchen door.  He's got a spatula in one hand and, stupidly enough, is wearing my dad's "Kiss the Cook" apron over the t-shirt and sweatpants I found him to wear to bed last night.

"Good morning, sunshine.  I see you slept well."  He's got a the dumbest grin on his face.

"Shut up, Ryan.  What's burning?"  I snap.  I am so not putting up with him right now.

He sniffs the air, "Toast.  But no worries.  I got it."

I sigh, "You are really nuts, you know that?  Now let me through."  I try to push past him into the kitchen, but he won't budge.  Stupid football player.

He grins, "Not a chance.  Breakfast is a suprise.  You can't see what I'm making."

I raise an eyebrow at him, "I doubt you can cook."

"I can do a lot of things.  Like drive.  You just don't know it."

"Just let me through, Ryan!" I try again, wishing I was wearing more than my little nightgown.

"Nope!" and he pushes me off, rushes into the kitchen, and I hear the little 'click' that means he locked the door.

"You're such a moron!" I yell at the door.  Then I storm upstairs to change into something a bit more covering.


I decide on jeans and a pink cameo shirt, and when I come back downstairs, Ryan has the table set for two.  He waves his arm over the table and says, "Take a seat, ma'am.  Your meal will be out in just a moment."

"You're an idiot..." I mutter, but sit down anyways.

He comes back in with a plate of toast on one hand and a plate of pancakes on the other.  He sets the pancake one in front of me, and says, "Bon appatite!"

I laugh out loud.  He actually made me a bunch of little pancakes, mickey-mouse-shaped, with vanilla ice-cream noses.  Little strips of bacon make frowns, and chocolate chips are the eyes.

"Wow, Ryan.  Why are they frowning?"  I grin up at him.

He smirks, "To look like you do about eighty percent of the time."

I ignore the comment and eat.  It's actually not half bad.  He's a good cook. Ryan eats with me, making jokes every once in a while.  He didn't do anything spectacular with his breakfast, just round pancakes with bacon and toast (burnt black).

But I want to kick myself afterwards.  Why?  I found myself enjoying Ryan's company way too much.

The End

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