His One Night Obsession

Fright Song

Florence's POV

The kitchen had good light in the morning.

That was one of the things I loved most about this place. The way the sun came through the window above the sink and spread itself across the countertops like it was making itself comfortable. I stood in it for a second after I hit the bottom of the stairs, just feeling it on my face.

Then I grabbed my phone, pulled up my playlist, and let the Bratz theme song fill the kitchen.

Yes. The Bratz theme song.

I'm not ashamed. I will never be ashamed. That was my childhood wrapped up in two minutes and forty seconds, and if that made me childish then fine. I was childish, and I was happy about it.

I grabbed the ingredients for waffles and lined everything up on the counter the way I liked. Organized but not fussy. I plugged in the waffle iron and let it heat while I whisked the batter together, my hips already moving, my mouth already running the words.

By the time Monster High's Fright Song came on, I was fully committed.

I was mid spin, spatula in hand, singing directly to the cabinet above the stove like it owed me something when my music cut out.

The silence was so sudden it stopped my feet.

I turned around.

Carter was standing at the counter, my phone face down in his hand. His expression carried all the warmth of a DMV waiting room at 4pm on a Friday.

"I was listening to that," I said, my voice flat.

He set the phone down and pulled out a barstool, dropping into it like the conversation was already beneath him.

"Stop listening to that kind of music," he muttered, his voice still rough from sleep, low and unbothered. "It's childish. And annoying."

He paused, settling in.

"And so damn loud," he added.

I looked at him for a moment.

Just looked.

There was a version of this morning where I said something back. Where I pointed out that it was my kitchen and my playlist and my penthouse with its perfect morning light. Where I reminded him that childish was a matter of perspective and that some people woke up grateful.

I didn't say any of that.

I turned back to the waffle iron.

This was Carter in the morning. This was Carter most mornings, if I was being honest with myself, which I tried not to be before I had my coffee. He had his moods and I had learned the shape of them. Learned when to step around them the way you learn where the squeaky floorboards are in an old house. You just stop stepping there. It becomes automatic.

I finished the last waffle and stacked everything on the counter. Then I grabbed my own plate, loaded it with three waffles, and reached for the maple syrup.

I didn't drizzle it.

I want to be clear about that. I soaked those waffles. I gave them what they deserved. The syrup pooled in every square and ran down the sides of the stack. I watched it happen with full satisfaction before I grabbed my already brewed coffee and picked up my plate.

"Hey," Carter called from behind me. "Where's mine?"

I stopped. Turned just enough to look at him over my shoulder, one eyebrow raised, and tilted my head toward the stack of waffles sitting on the counter between us. Waiting. Untouched.

"Right there," I said.

Then I took my plate and my coffee into the living room, settled onto the couch, and opened my laptop.

The sun was still good. The coffee was hot. My waffles were perfect and drowning the way God intended.

It was still a good day. I was keeping it that way.