Page 125 of Surviving Slater

Slater stood in the doorway, watching me with a lazy smile. I felt like a child who had been caught with their hand in the cookie jar.

"I wanted to surprise you," I said, walking to the pancakes I had made him.

His eyes took in my golden brown pancakes.

"You made them?" He walked closer.

I nodded proudly. "Do you want to try them?"

"No one has ever made me pancakes," he said, still staring down at my proudest moment of cooking.

"Don't you like them?" I asked, feeling nervous about his reaction.

He looked up at me. He looked like he was somewhere else, his eyes glassy.

"Slater?"

He blinked and he smiled. "Just when I didn't think things could get any better, they do."

I felt like that all the time with him. The emotion bubbled inside of me, tightening my throat.

"I know that feeling," I said hoarsely.

His hand took mine and I gazed up at him.

"I'm starving," he said, eyeing his breakfast.

"Sit," I instructed.

We sat and ate the pancakes.

"And?" I asked, waiting for his verdict.

"They were great. I could get used to this."

I beamed, feeling so proud of myself. I got up and cleared the dishes.

"I think we could find another use for the whipped cream if you bring it to the bedroom," he said over his shoulder as he gave me a wink and strolled out of the kitchen.

He made me so damn happy.

I followed him with the whipped cream.

We had survived the misunderstandings and fears on the path to get to where we were, but now we weren't just surviving anymore—we were living.