Alistair refuses to get out of the bed next morning, unrelenting to my attempts to release me. I manage to wiggle out of his arms and use the rare opportunity to make him breakfast. I give Ruth’s banana pancakes a shot, and they surprisingly turn alright from another watch-and-learn episode. I seem to learn from those well.
Once I finish cooking, I set up the plates over the island, the maple syrup bottle, and align two barstools. Just as I shake a carton of orange juice from the fridge, Alistair trudges downstairs with his hair shooting in strangely captivating directions, a crumpled shirt, and sweatpants sagging down his waist.
I have a hard time moving my eyes from his body to his face. That is, until he crashes on a barstool, scoops up the knife and fork I so gracefully put on the co
