The Boiling Point | ✔️

41 | breakfast

ASHTON

I've never had a place in the world that feels like home to me. I've never experienced homesickness, never longed to return somewhere I've lived, never looked at my house and seen anything more than a rundown structure that confines me and my dad together.

In the dead of night, hours after Summer has fallen asleep, I lay awake with my back turned to her. My heart is sedated, but it's still thrumming, keeping my nerves wired while I pace the edge of sleep. I'm not unsettled because I ended up here with her, it's more the way we ended up here. I'm having trouble comprehending it; that level of intimacy we reached. The closeness.

I thought that stuff was only played up for sappy romantic movies, but the realness of it is bending my mind. Usually I don't even like making eye contact with girls during sex, but with Summer, I couldn't get enough of her eyes. I never knew I was capable of being like that with someone. I never knew until her.

The blanket rustles as Summer stirs behind me, and then she places a single kiss on my shoulder blade before she nestles into my back. My mind eases, heart following. And for the first time in my nineteen years, for the first time living in this house, I fall asleep with the kind of warmth and comfort I know I've been missing up until this very moment.

The kind that feels like home.

❖❖❖

When I wake up inhaling the smell of cinnamon, I figure it must be Summer right next to me in bed, but I'm met with a cold empty space as soon as I reach out for her. I rub the sleep from my bleary eyes, pull on my boxers, and follow the wafting trail of cinnamon.

Taking in the surreal sight of her making breakfast in my kitchen has me a little dumbstruck. Seeing her just being in my house is surreal in itself. She's at the stove, flipping a sizzling slice of bread in a pan before she turns to a plate on the counter, taking a bite of French toast. I sneak up from behind and wind my arms around her waist, drawing her into me.

She gasps and gives a little jump. "God! Announce yourself, creeper."

I chuckle into the crook of her neck. "You're the one who crept out of my room."

"Creeping wasn't necessary," she says, cutting at the toast again. "You sleep like the dead."

"Can you blame me? Pretty sure you killed me last night."

I press my lips to the freckle at the base of her neck, trailing along the curve of her shoulder until I feel her relax against me, giving in to my diversion. That's when I swoop down and steal the bite of French toast she was about to take.

"Hey!"

"I gotta revive myself!" I laugh, stumbling back when she flaps me away. "Fuck me that's good."

I make a start for the plate, my mouth watering for more, but Summer holds up the spatula like a sword. "Mine," she warns. "You can have the next one."

I accept defeat and go to pour myself a cup of coffee from a pot she's already made, a white glare catching my eye through the window. "Is that your car?"

"Mm-hm," she hums as she chews, elaborating when she meets my confused expression. "I was really craving this when I woke up, but you didn't have any milk. Or eggs. Or cinnamon. So I figured I'd go to the store, but I had to grab my purse at Lola's first."

"You walked there?"

"I used your skateboard." She hesitates, watching my confusion shift into surprise. "Is that cool?"