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“What?” he laughed.

“Nothing. Or, I guess, everything. I can't believe you really made me breakfast.”

“I said it was a deal.”

“Sure, but people say stuff like that all the time without being serious.”

“Not me,” he said, half smirking.

Unsure how to respond, I chopped at the pancakes with my fork. They were soft, cutting easily, chewing easier. I groaned as their subtle sweetness filled my mouth. “So good!”

“Please leave me a good review,” he said, laughing. As good as the pancakes were, the view of him adjusting on the chair, ink on his skin flexing, was better.

I devoured the two pancakes in a flash. “Those were seriously delicious, Conner.”

“Let me get you more.” He started to stand.

“No, no,” I said, waving my hands. “I couldn't. I want to, believe me.”

Sitting back down, Conner smiled like he knew something I didn't. It was cocky, but I liked it, and... he deserved to feel a little proud. He'd done an ace job. “Next time I'll make you waffles. I really do make the best ones.”

“I bet.” Scanning the skyline, I sighed out of relaxation. “Pity I have to run off to work. This view is stunning. I can't believe you live here.”

“Why?”

“It just seems like a lot for one person.”

His jaw tensed. “Mn. I've thought about getting a dog.”

“I like dogs.” He stared at me, and I thought about what I'd said. “I mean, not that it matters if I like dogs. I don't live here,” I laughed awkwardly. “You should do what you want. I've never had anything but fish.”

“Never? Not even when you were a kid?”

“I had cats. Or, well, my grandmother had cats. I spent a lot of time over at her house, so I felt like they were mine. My granddad couldn't stand them, though. They'd chase the birds that tried to live in the birdhouses he and I made. That was his favorite thing, making birdhouses with me. I loved it too.” I smiled softly at the memory. “He complained about those cats all the time. Up until she passed away. After that, he never said a bad word.”

Conner was silent, his chin on his fist as he listened to me. I started to squirm uneasily—had I overshared? Dammit. He'd made me pancakes, and I'd brought the mood down by talking about my dead grandmother. This was why I sucked at relationships, I could never read the mood of the men I was interested in.

He stood up, grabbing my hands, pulling me from my chair. “Let me show you something.”

Blinking, I followed him as he guided me down his balcony. It wrapped around the apartment, taking us to a side with a shoulder-high barrier that faced the rising sun. This was near his bedroom, I realized.

Conner pointed—I followed his finger, and gasped. “If I knew you liked birdhouses,” he said softly, standing close, “I would have moved the table to this side so we could eat here.”

Hanging from a high corner of the wall was a red and blue birdhouse. As I watched, a yellow finch darted inside, then out again, singing as it went. The sight of it was spiraling me back in time. I felt the weight of a hammer in my hand, the gentle scolding of my grandfather as he showed me how to hit a nail, how to not bend the heads, and how to fit the roof into place just right.

Rocked by an emotional wave, I slid my hand into Conner's. He held it tight, wordlessly holding me against his shoulder. When he kissed me, the flavor of pancakes still lingered on his lips.

It was the best thing I'd ever tasted.