Luke’s birthday was definitely one of your favourite times to spend with him. He didn’t like it – he always said he didn’t, anyway; never liked the fuss or being centre of attention, but every year the same little smirk graced his face like maybe he was having more fun than he let on. You loved it, though. Any excuse to remind him that his big, bad exterior didn’t make him exempt from dorky party hats and blowing out candles.
He always gave you a stern ‘no presents, Princess’ talk leading up to the day and you always promised to comply, but you never did. The first year you were together your present was just a recreation of the fort he once made you, a cake you’d spent all afternoon baking in the middle of all the blankets and pillows. He rolled his eyes when he walked in and found you there in his living room, cake between your legs, purple party hat atop your head and tiny streamers falling, tangled in his hair when you made your little party popper burst upon his arrival.
You woke up, slightly assisted by the sun peaking through your blinds and falling directly into your eyes.
On your side you feel the weight of the arm that pulled you in close last night, now just draped over you.
Ever so carefully, you lift the veiny hand off of you while you slide from underneath to get away. Next to the bed you find one of Dylan’s big t-shirts and throw it on.
You look at Dylan for a minute, taking in his messy hair, slightly agape mouth. Underneath those closed eyes you know there are beautiful, chocolatey brown eyes you melt into at a single glance. Little moles gracing his face, adding to his attractiveness.
You’re tempted to crawl back into bed, your heart aching to be next to him. But you decide against it, tip toeing out of the room before you wake him. So you go into the kitchen, planning to make breakfast. You get out the waffle maker and the mix.
Two perfectly made waffles later, you top them with butter right before drowning them in syrup. You grab two glasses and pour milk.
Luckily, you convinced Dylan awhile ago to get a tray, making this into one trip and much easier.
You slowly walk back into the bedroom, extremely cautious of the potential spillage of milk.
Dylan stirs slightly as you enter.
“Dyl babe, I made waffles,” you say in your sweetest, sing-songy voice.
“Waffles?” he questions, not entirely awake yet.
“Yeah, do you want some?”
“Mhm,” he mumbles.
“Well then you’re going to have to get up.”
“No come back into bed,” he whines.
You roll your eyes, but a small smile still forms on your mouth.
“Only for a minute.” You put the tray on the little corner table in the room and crawl back in bed.
Your face to face with Dylan, who still hasn’t opened his eyes. He feels you out and then pulls your waist so that you’re even closer to him.
He lifts his eyes open, still heavy from sleep.
“Hi Dylan, I made you breakfast.”
“Why would you leave me in here by myself?”
“To make your breakfast,” you repeat.
“Yes, but you can’t leave me in bed alone. You just can’t leave.”
Somehow, he hugs you tighter, planting a kiss on your forehead.
“Don’t leave me,” he whispers, almost desperately.
“Dylan,” you laugh slightly, “Hun, I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”
You aren’t sure where this sudden fear of his stemmed from, but you try to vanish it. You start by kissing each of those little moles on his face. He tries to return those kisses but he can’t land on your mouth.
He lifts you up on top of him. Willingly, you straddle him, finally letting him win and begin making out with him.
At first it is frantic, just hungry for contact. It quickly develops into a slow, passionate kiss, the kind that are prepared to never end.
But, like the tease you are, you stop and roll off of him.
You, devilishly smirking, “Alright, I’m ready for some waffles, what about you?”
“Why do you do this to me,” he moans.
“One,” you say, counting on your fingers, “because I love you. Two: because I’m a little evil. And three: because I’m really really hungry and I don’t want my waffles to get cold.“
"Okay, fair enough, but can we pick up with that later?”