Sunday arrived with a quiet hush in the air-gray skies, soft wind, and that slow rhythm only weekends could carry. Hriva woke late, tangled in blankets and thoughts of the man who now lived in her mind like a melody she couldn't stop humming.
She rolled over.
Buzz.
Jake: I made pancakes.Too many.Need help.Please save me from myself.
She smiled.
Hriva: You made that sound like a distress call.
Jake: It is a distress call. I may or may not have tried to get fancy with cinnamon.Results: questionable.
Hriva: On my way. Don't burn down your kitchen.
Twenty minutes later, she knocked.
The door opened fast.
Jake stood there in sweats and a faded band tee, barefoot, hair a little messy from clearly running his hands through it too many times.
He looked like trouble.
The kind you run to.
"God, you look too good for pancakes," he murmured, eyes sweeping over her.
She raised a brow. "This is me in weekend mode. Messy bun, no makeup, hoodie that's way too big....."
"That's mine again."
"Yes," she said, stepping in. "And I'm stealing it permanently."
"Fair trade," he said, voice dipping. "You steal the hoodie. I get you in my kitchen."
The apartment smelled like cinnamon and burnt sugar. The counters were covered in plates, batter drips, and one very sad-looking pan.
"I see the chaos," Hriva said, grinning. "You weren't joking."
Jake walked behind her, close enough that his heat brushed her spine. He leaned down, his breath just beside her ear.
"Told you I needed saving."
She turned slightly, catching the teasing flicker in his eyes. "You didn't just lure me here with pancakes, did you?"
His lips twitched. "What if I did?"
She looked up at him, chest tightening. "Then you're lucky I wanted to be lured."
There was a pause.
A moment.
One heartbeat, then two.
Then Jake reached for the plate of slightly burnt pancakes and said, "Let me redeem myself."
They ate on the couch, cross-legged and sharing one plate like they didn't know how to be apart. Jake watched her lick syrup from her finger at one point, and his jaw flexed-barely. But she saw it.
"You okay?" she teased.
Jake's voice was low. "You have no idea how not okay I am right now."
"Because of pancakes?"
"Because of you."
Her breath caught.
He set the plate aside and leaned back, one arm draped over the couch, the other reaching slowly-gently-to brush her hair behind her ear.
"You look like Sunday," he whispered.
She blinked. "What does that mean?"
He smiled faintly. "Warm. Soft. The kind of peace that makes you want to stay."
Hriva's heart thudded so loud, she swore he could hear it. "You say things that make it impossible to think straight."
Jake's hand trailed from her hair to her jawline, slow, testing. "Then don't think."
The kiss that followed wasn't sudden.
It was built on everything unspoken between them since that morning at the café, since the late-night texts, since the first time he saw her across a room and knew something in him had changed.
It started soft.
Mouths exploring with caution, reverence.
Then deeper-hungrier.
Jake pulled her into his lap without breaking the kiss. Her legs folded around him naturally, like muscle memory of something that hadn't happened yet but should've.
His hands moved under the hoodie, up her spine. Just warm, steady pressure. She arched into him, gasping when his lips found the curve of her neck.
"I should stop," he said, voice rough. "We're moving fast."
"But it doesn't feel fast," Hriva whispered.
He pulled back, looking at her-really looking.
"No," he agreed, his thumb brushing her lip. "It feels like we've been waiting for this since the beginning."
Their foreheads touched, breaths tangled. Neither of them pushed it further. Not yet.
But the fire had been lit.
And it was no longer just a spark.
It was a promise.
That when they did cross that line, it wouldn't be rushed.
It would be real.
Earned.
And unforgettable.