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Lark

Late-Night Shenanigans

S omewhere between round two and me vowing to never wear clothes again, I realized I was starving. Like, could-eat-an-entire-moose starving.

“I’m making pancakes,” I announced, slipping on Axel’s shirt and trying to find the kitchen in the dark.

Axel groaned from the bed. “You just declared eternal love for my body and now you’re ditching me for pancakes?”

“Don’t make me choose, Axel. You’ll lose.”

I flicked on the cabin’s overhead light and immediately regretted it. My hair looked like it had wrestled a tornado and lost. Axel appeared in the doorway a second later—bare chest, tousled hair, and the kind of smirk that should be illegal.

“Don’t even think about judging me,” I said, opening the fridge. “You look like you just walked off a romance novel cover. I look like the raccoon that rejected me last week.”

“You know I like raccoons. Especially the sexy, pancake-making kind.” He leaned on the counter and raised an eyebrow. “Is this where I say, ‘Nice buns’ ?”

I flipped the spatula at him.

He dodged. Barely.

And then he grabbed me by the waist and hoisted me onto the counter like I weighed nothing. “You sure you’re ready for round three, Mrs. Martin?”

“I need carbs first,” I breathed. “And maybe an ice pack.”

He chuckled, stealing a kiss—and a slice of bacon while he was at it.