Page 157 of What We Break
"It's just sitting there," he says, already reaching across my kitchen table with his own fork. "You're not eating it."
I slap his hand away, laughing. "I'm savoring it. There's a difference."
"You cut it into tiny pieces and then stare at them. That's not savoring, that's hoarding."
"I am not hoarding my breakfast."
"Then you won't mind sharing." His fork darts toward my plate again.
I grab his wrist. "Touch my food and die."
"Wow. Violent. I like this side of you."
Reid's grinning at me across the table, hair still messy from sleep, wearing the same t-shirt he had on yesterday. Four months in and I'm still not used to how good he looks first thing in the morning. How easy this is. Saturday morning, nowhere to be, fighting over French toast like it's the most important thing in the world.
I kind of love that it feels like the most important thing in the world.
"I made you your own stack," I point out, gesturing to his empty plate. "A bigger stack, actually."
"I was hungrier than I thought."
"You're always hungrier than you think. It's like you have a bottomless pit for a stomach."
"Growing boy," Reid says solemnly, then lunges for my French toast again.
This time I'm ready. I grab my plate and hold it away from him, laughing as he tries to reach around me.
"Come on," he wheedles, stretching across the table. "Just one bite."
"Get your own."
"There's no more batter."
"Should have thought of that before you inhaled yours like a vacuum cleaner."
Reid stands and starts walking around the table toward me. That predatory smile on his face that means he's not giving up. That means I'm about to lose this battle and enjoy every second of it.
"Reid," I warn, clutching my plate to my chest. "I mean it."
"I just want a tiny piece. You won't even miss it."
"No way. This is my favorite part." I wave my fork at him. "The corner piece with all the syrup."
"Perfect. I love syrup."
I scramble out of my chair, plate in hand, backing toward the living room. "Stay back. I'm armed and dangerous."
"You're holding a fork and wearing my t-shirt. You're about as threatening as a kitten."
"This kitten has claws."
He feints left, then goes right, trying to corner me near the couch. I dodge away, laughing so hard I can barely breathe. This is ridiculous. We're ridiculous. I've never been this ridiculous with anyone in my life.
I've never wanted to be.
"This is insane," I gasp. "We're adults."
"Adults can't have fun?"
